Saturday sunlight slanted through the thin curtains of Elira's bedroom, striping the rumpled sheets in gold. She stirred awake to the soft ping-ping of her phone; last night's return drive had lulled her into a dreamless sleep, and for a moment she lay still, replaying the image of Aleksei's slate-gray eyes following every syllable of her story.
Another ping.
She groaned, reached over the nightstand, and blinked at the screen through a halo of morning fuzziness.
Dianna🦦 08:07
WAKE UP, story-witch! Coffee date in 53 minutes. Don't ghost me or I'll post your middle-school poetry online.
Elira laughed into her pillow—Dianna never missed an opportunity for melodrama. She thumb-typed a reply.
Elira 08:08
Getting up now. Promise. If I'm late, the world's weirdest new job is to blame.Forty-five minutes later she was out the door, curls corralled beneath a beanie, the crisp air smelling faintly of petrichor after the night's drizzle. Her favorite corner café—Bean & Quill—sat two blocks away, all painted bricks and mismatched planters. Inside, Edison bulbs cast a warm amber glow over worn leather chairs and a mural of ink-splattered ravens carrying coffee cups.
Dianna was already there, perched on a high stool like a neon-striped bird—lavender bob, sunflower-yellow coat, eyeliner so sharp it could slice. She waved a biscotti like a semaphore flag the second Elira walked in.
"Late by seven minutes, Miss Wells," she scolded, though her grin belied it. "I was about to trigger full dramatic-friend protocol."
Elira pretended to bow. "Forgive me, O Caffeine Queen. My carriage turned back into a pumpkin."
They ordered—hazelnut oat-milk latte for Elira, black Americano with two espresso shots for Dianna ("life is already sweet; coffee shouldn't be," she always said)—and claimed a small round table beneath the mural.As steam curled up between them, Dianna launched the inquisition.
"Okay, spill. Your text was cryptic. 'Weirdest new job'? Did the library give you the key to the underground catacombs or something?"
"Not quite." Elira wrapped chilled fingers around her mug. "Remember the spooky-story hour yesterday?"
"The one with the kids who worship you like you're folklore Beyoncé? Yes."
"Well…"—she lowered her voice—"there was a man listening in the back. Next morning I get an email from his assistant. He wants a private storyteller. Daily sessions. Strictly horror. No romance allowed; it's literally in the contract."
Dianna's espresso paused halfway to her lips. "That is either the start of a gothic fairy tale or a true-crime documentary. Pay?"
"Two-and-a-half thousand dollars. Per session."
Espresso went down the wrong pipe; Dianna coughed, eyes watering. "Tell me you're joking."
Elira shook her head, cheeks puffing in disbelief she still felt. "Yesterday was my first night. Picture security guards, weapon pat-downs, phone confiscated at the door. Mansion straight out of a Victorian fever dream. And the guy? Think stone statue brought to life, Russian accent, probably wrestles bears for cardio."
"Holy plot twist." Dianna stirred her coffee with unnecessary vigor. "Is he at least hot?"
"Terrifyingly so. The 'could-commit-arson-and-still-look-good' variety."
"Toxic but intriguing." Dianna leaned in, voice conspiratorial. "El, I adore your sense of adventure, but are you sure it's safe? High pay and zero personal details is, like, page one of How to Spot a Cult 101."
Elira nodded, having rehearsed the same worry loops all night. "I thought about that. But contract looks legit, payment was wired before I even started, and I had a ride back home, no shady detours. Plus—" she tapped her latte lid, "—I kept my location shared with my cousin. And I texted the license plate to my cloud notes."
Dianna exhaled, still doubtful but comforted by the precautions. "Okay, Nancy Drew. What did he actually do while you were reading?"
"Sat there like a marble gargoyle. Asked me mid-story why monsters pick kids. Then told me I 'understood the assignment' and scheduled me for tonight, same time."
"Just… listening?"
"Just listening. And listening hard." She mimicked his intense gaze and Dianna shivered dramatically.
Conversation drifted—updates on Dianna's graphic-design freelance nightmare, gossip about mutual acquaintances, a shared rant about rent—but it kept circling back to the mansion.
Finally, Dianna poked Elira's forearm. "Promise me two things. Number one: you text me before and after each session, or I'll unleash the Otter-Army." (Dianna's fandom for otters was a personality trait.)
"Done."
"Number two: if the guy ever asks you to read Romance ironically, you run. That means he's planning your funeral."
Elira laughed. "Deal."
They clinked cups—latte foam to espresso crema—sealing the pact.
Outside, sun finally parted the clouds, scattering light across damp pavement. Elira checked the time: noon. She had hours before the car would arrive again, hours that suddenly felt buoyant. Fear remained, but talking had distilled it into something clearer—an adventure with guardrails instead of a looming abyss.
They hugged at the café door, Dianna whispering, "Stay spooky, storyteller," into her ear.
"And you stay electric," Elira answered, stepping back onto the sidewalk with a warmth that had nothing to do with caffeine.
Tonight the mansion would loom once more—but right now, she had a city afternoon, a pocket full of dangerous tales, and a friend who'd sound the alarm if those tales ever swallowed her whole.
The day, like a blank page, waited for her next line.
---------
The day crept by slowly after Elira returned from her coffee date with Dianna. She'd half-expected to receive a cancellation message, a digital ghosting from the mysterious mansion, but no. At precisely 4:00 PM, another email from the same assistant arrived:
Session confirmed. 6:30 PM sharp. Same driver. You'll be reading to Mr. Volkov in his personal quarters.
Elira stared at the message for a long minute, rereading the words personal quarters.
She wasn't sure what was more jarring—that she would now be reading bedtime stories to a possibly murderous Russian man in his actual bedroom, or that her first thought had been: Well, that explains the extra pay.
She dressed carefully.
Black turtleneck, fitted without being suggestive. High-waisted jeans. No makeup beyond a touch of mascara and balm. She tied her curls back into a neat, loose bun and added small silver hoops. Not too polished, not too plain.
Just… readable.
At 6:00 PM, the familiar black car slid up the curb like a shadow unpeeling from the street. As usual, the driver said nothing when she entered—just offered a polite nod and began the ride.
The car's interior smelled faintly of leather and something expensive—cologne, maybe. The windows were tinted pitch black. She tried not to think about how this would look from the outside. A woman in a beanie and boots getting chauffeured into a compound every night to whisper horror stories to a man who looked like he'd done time in hell.
At the mansion gates, guards waited. Same stoic faces. Same brisk pat-down.
She raised her arms like it was a daily yoga pose and rolled her eyes playfully. "Careful. I might be hiding a grenade in my hair clip."
No reaction.
Her phone was taken again, stored in the small velvet-lined box they always used. This time, though, instead of leading her down the wide marble hall toward the study, the guard turned right, through a narrower corridor.
"This way," he said.
Her boots echoed against the floor. The walls were lined with old paintings—portraits with eyes that followed, forests darkened by dusk, ships being swallowed by black waves.
The bedroom door was massive. Dark oak, hand-carved, intimidating. The guard knocked once, then pushed it open.
Inside, the room was dim, warm with low firelight. Bookshelves flanked the stone hearth, and thick rugs blanketed the wooden floor. At the far end, a four-poster bed sat like a throne.
And in it, Aleksei Volkov lay reclined.
He wasn't shirtless—thank god—but wore a soft black henley and loose slacks. His bare feet were crossed at the ankle, and a book rested on his chest, closed.
His eyes opened at the sound of her steps. "You're on time."
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm a professional."
He gestured vaguely to the armchair at his bedside. "Read something terrifying. Until I fall asleep. If I don't, you keep going. There's a bonus for overtime."
She sat, smoothed her jeans, and reached into her bag for the story she'd written that morning. Something darker than the last. No children this time.
"This one's called The Open Door," she said, voice calm and low.
He folded his arms behind his head, watching her with the indifference of a wolf that's already eaten. "Go on."
---
The Open Door
"There was a woman named Claire. She lived alone in a tall, creaky house near the edge of town. She was not afraid of storms or spiders, not superstitious, not soft-hearted. She liked puzzles, unsweetened tea, and solitude."
"She sounds boring," Aleksei said immediately.
"She's realistic," Elira replied, without looking up. "You don't expect everyone to be knife-wielding psychopaths, do you?"
He didn't answer. She continued.
"One night, Claire heard a knock on her front door. It was late—well past midnight. Rain had begun to fall in thin, slicing sheets. She paused in the hallway, holding her breath. The knock came again. Deliberate. Slow.
She called out: 'Who is it?'
No answer.
She didn't open the door.
The next night, it happened again. Same time. Same knock.
She asked again. 'Who's there?'
Silence.
But when she woke the next morning, the door was open. Just a crack. Like someone had tested it. Or left."
---
Aleksei's voice, low and amused: "Why not call the police?"
"She did. They found nothing. No prints. No damage. They told her it was probably the wind."
He scoffed. "Stupid police."
"She thought so too."
---
"The next night, she locked the door tight. Bolted it. Added a chair under the handle.
At midnight, the knock came again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She didn't answer. Didn't move.
And this time… the sound didn't stop. Not for ten minutes. It kept going. Then silence.
In the morning, the door was open again. The chair tipped over. Bolt untouched.
She called a locksmith. Changed every lock in the house. Triple-bolted. Installed cameras. Motion sensors. Everything.
But that night, no knock came.
Just… breathing. On the other side.
Long, heavy, ragged breathing.
And when she woke up… her bedroom door was open."
---
Elira paused for breath. Aleksei hadn't moved, but she could see the tension in his jaw. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but his focus was razor-sharp.
"You ever get that?" she asked, voice softer now. "That feeling someone was in your room while you slept?"
He said nothing. But his hand shifted under the blanket. Almost like a reflex.
---
"Claire began staying up. She brewed strong coffee and sat in the hallway with a bat. Hours passed. No sounds. No visitors.
Then, on the seventh night, the lights flickered.
She heard the creak of a footstep upstairs.
But… she lived alone. And she was downstairs."
---
Aleksei's voice broke the silence. "If she goes up there, she's an idiot."
Elira smiled faintly. "She's a woman who's been scared for days. Paranoid. Tired. Angry."
"She's still an idiot."
---
"She crept up the stairs. Bat in hand. The hallway was dark. The door to the guest room… was ajar.
She pushed it open.
Empty. Nothing.
Then she turned around.
And the thing was there.
Not a man. Not a shadow. Just a shape. With arms too long and a head tilted the wrong way.
It smiled. Without lips. Without teeth.
And whispered: I never needed the door."
---
Elira sat back, her voice trailing off. "She didn't scream. Just… disappeared."
"That's the end?"
"She was never seen again."
A beat of silence.
Then:
"That's bullshit," Aleksei muttered. "She should've set fire to the house."
"She didn't know what she was dealing with."
He snorted. "No excuse. You hear breathing outside your door for a week, you call in a priest or burn it down."
"You'd do that?"
"If something came into my room without permission?" He glanced over. "Yes. I'd kill it."
Charming, Elira thought. But honest.
She reached for her water bottle, sipping slowly. "Did it help?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, with his eyes closed:
"You can go. Same time tomorrow."
She stood, packed her things. The room was silent now except for the ticking of the clock above the fireplace.
As she stepped out, the door clicked shut behind her.
---
And as always, the driver was waiting.
No words. Just shadows, quiet roads, and a girl who now told horror stories to the kind of man who could just as easily be one.