When Elira finally stepped back into her apartment, it was nearly ten-thirty. The quiet hum of the refrigerator greeted her like an old friend, and the air held that faint, ever-present scent of dust and citrus cleaning wipes. Her boots clicked against the hardwood floor as she shuffled inside, setting her bag down with a soft thud.
For a long moment, she just stood there in the center of her tiny living room, arms hanging limp by her sides. Then she slowly walked to the couch, collapsed onto it, and let out a long, theatrical groan.
She reached for her phone and sent a quick message to Dianna:
Elira: "Still alive. No weird symbols on my skin. No whispers in foreign tongues. No signs of cult activity. Also, no one offered me Kool-Aid. Disappointing."
It didn't take long for Dianna to reply.
Dianna: "LMAO. Good to know. Call me if they ask you to wear a cloak or burn sage. Bring me back a souvenir."
Elira smiled faintly, her fingers hovering above the keyboard.
Elira: "Seriously though. It's weird. But not... bad? Just strange. He listens. Pays attention. Pays well. So I'm going back tomorrow."
Dianna: "Still sounds like a Netflix docu-series waiting to happen, but okay. Live your gothic fairytale."
She dropped her phone on the couch and leaned her head back, closing her eyes.
Tomorrow, she'd have to come up with something even scarier. Aleksei Volkov was like a horror connoisseur—every twist she gave, he dissected like it was an autopsy. If she wasn't so disturbed by him, she'd almost be impressed.
But for now? Now she just wanted a shower and to not think about the man who used murder as a lullaby.
---
The next morning arrived like a yawn stretched too wide. Elira blinked herself awake slowly, the pale glow of daylight slipping in through her blinds. She felt... normal. Almost.
Her legs were sore from the long sits, and her head buzzed with the residue of too many ghosts. She lay still for a minute, savoring the quiet before dragging herself out of bed.
After a quick shower, she wrapped her hair in a towel and shuffled to the fridge. It greeted her with tragic emptiness.
"Right," she muttered. "Groceries. Food. Civilization."
She dressed in a hoodie and leggings, slipping on sneakers and stuffing her reusable bags into her tote. The weather was warm for this time of year—a deceptive sunlight stretching across the buildings like golden thread.
The grocery store was a short walk away, nestled between a laundromat and a psychic's storefront that had been 'temporarily closed for renovation' for two years. Elira grabbed a cart, pushed her way through the automatic doors, and inhaled deeply.
The scent of ripe produce and waxed tile floors.
God, she loved being alive.
She meandered through the aisles slowly, selecting fresh strawberries, pasta, a block of cheddar, and two pints of oat milk. She was contemplating which brand of granola bars to try this week when she heard a shrill voice behind her.
"Elira? Is that you?"
Elira froze.
There were only three people on Earth who could say her name in that exact pitch. And she had prayed she would never hear from any of them again.
She turned around slowly, plastering a polite smile on her face.
"Amber."
Amber Blackwell-Cranston stood before her like the final boss of every PTA meeting. Her face was frozen in a permanent expression of wide-eyed surprise—courtesy of either Botox or a lifetime of privilege. Her skin was unnaturally smooth, her lips slightly too plump, and her brows incapable of frowning.
"Elira!" she squealed, as if they hadn't once argued in front of their creative writing professor about who plagiarized who.
Amber air-hugged her, the smell of expensive perfume nearly making Elira choke.
"Oh my god, I haven't seen you since college! You look... so rustic."
"Thanks," Elira said, uncertain whether it was a compliment or a crime against fashion.
Amber stepped back, adjusting the strap of her Gucci handbag. "I heard you moved back here. What are you doing these days? Still writing little stories?"
Elira smiled politely. "Actually, I'm working freelance now. Horror stories, mostly. Got hired recently by a private client."
Amber's eyes widened in the most artificial way. "Horror? Ew. Isn't that a little dark?"
"Depends who's reading."
Amber laughed, a sound like glass clinking against teeth. "Oh, you haven't changed." She leaned in conspiratorially. "I heard rumors, you know. That you got hired by some super-rich guy? What's that all about?"
Elira shrugged. "He pays me to tell him scary stories until he falls asleep. That's really all there is to it."
Amber stared at her.
"You're joking."
"Nope."
"And nothing else happens?"
"Just the stories."
Amber frowned—finally. "That's... weird. Rich people are so eccentric."
Elira took the opportunity to look Amber over properly. Her workout set clung too tight, like she'd been squeezed into it with prayer and petroleum jelly. The neckline of her tank top dipped low, and Elira's eyes caught the edge of a deep bronze tan line just below the ring on her left hand.
"You look great," Elira said casually. "How's the husband?"
Amber's face twitched. Almost imperceptibly. "Oh, you know. Busy. Running the firm. Playing golf."
"And how's the garden boy?"
Silence.
Amber's smile faltered.
"I saw you last week," Elira said, dropping her box of granola bars into the cart. "At the florist. You and him were buying roses. Holding hands. Very... bold."
Amber's perfectly glossed lips parted slightly. "That wasn't—"
"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."
Elira wheeled her cart past her, adding casually, "I always did like that garden boy. Had good taste in flowers."
Amber stared after her, frozen.
And Elira, for the first time that week, felt entirely in control.
She paid for her groceries, stuffed them into her tote, and walked home with a bounce in her step. There was something satisfying about real-world horror—no ghosts, no shadows, no haunted mansions.
Just Botox, adultery, and really overpriced tulips.
Back at home, she unpacked slowly, putting things into their proper shelves. Her mind wandered back to Aleksei—his quiet stares, the way he dissected her stories like they were bodies on a table. There was something there. Not attraction. Not exactly.
But curiosity.
She made herself a quick sandwich, brewed some tea, and sat on the couch with her laptop. Time to write the next story.
-------
At exactly 6:00 PM, as if summoned by an invisible hand, the black car was parked outside her apartment building once again. The sleek body of the vehicle gleamed faintly beneath the fading rays of the sun, its windows as dark and impenetrable as ever. It never idled for long. It simply waited. Patient. Watchful.
Elira sighed as she adjusted the strap of her tote bag and locked the door behind her. She'd dressed in another neutral ensemble—a navy sweater, charcoal trousers, and a long gray coat. Her curls were pinned back neatly, and her lips had only the lightest stain of wine-colored gloss. It wasn't about impressing Aleksei. If anything, it was about matching the atmosphere of the mansion: timeless, monochromatic, steeped in secrets.
The driver gave her a curt nod as she slipped inside the back seat. He never spoke, never even glanced at her for longer than necessary. The ride, like always, was cloaked in a heavy, deliberate silence.
The road to the Volkov estate twisted through hills that seemed darker than they should be. Even the trees outside the window appeared to bend in unnatural directions as if whispering warnings to anyone who dared draw near. But Elira, for all her instincts, wasn't scared. Not anymore.
She was intrigued.
The moment the mansion's gates yawned open and swallowed the car, her pulse shifted—not in fear, but anticipation. Her nights had taken on a strange new rhythm, and as much as she hated to admit it… it was addictive.
The car pulled to a stop. As usual, two guards greeted her. The search was routine by now. She held her arms up without being asked, offered a sarcastic, "Still not hiding a dagger in my hair, but keep dreaming," and rolled her eyes when they confiscated her phone.
"You'll get it back after the session," one said in a flat tone.
"Oh, joy. I was so excited to live without memes for another hour."
No response. Not even a twitch.
This time, as the hallway turned right—again leading her away from the study and deeper into the estate—she didn't need to ask where she was being led. She already knew.
To the lion's den.
Aleksei Volkov's bedroom.
The grand door loomed like the entrance to a chapel made for nightmares, dark oak and iron accents catching the candlelight. The guard knocked once, received a barely audible grunt in return, and then opened it.
Elira stepped in.
The bedroom was still dim, though a few sconces had been lit on the walls, casting a warm amber glow across the room. The scent of firewood and something darker—cologne, maybe—hung in the air like memory. The hearth was still lit, and beside it, that massive four-poster bed remained the centerpiece of the room, draped in deep green and charcoal bedding.
Aleksei was already reclined in it.
Tonight, he wore a dark robe over his clothes, lounging as if he'd been expecting royalty rather than a glorified bedtime bard. His legs were stretched out beneath the covers, his arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded in observation.
"You're punctual."
"You're predictable."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Sit. Same rules as last night. You read until I sleep. Or until you bore me."
"And if I bore you?"
He looked at her, voice devoid of humor. "Then you'll have to try harder."
Elira took her seat in the chair beside his bed, crossed her legs, and pulled out the story she'd written that morning.
"Tonight's tale is called The Visitor."
"Let's hear it."
---
The Visitor
"There once was a woman named Mira who lived alone in a house her grandmother had left her. It was old, creaky, the wood worn with time and memory. But it was hers.
She didn't mind the loneliness. It came with silence, and silence came with peace.
That peace ended the night the doorbell rang.
She hadn't been expecting anyone. It was late—almost midnight. Rain pelted the windows in frantic rhythms, wind howling through the gutters.
But still, the bell rang again.
When she opened the door, no one was there.
Just a single, wet envelope on the doormat. It had her name on it. In handwriting she didn't recognize."
---
"She's dumb," Aleksei said immediately. "Why open the door?"
"She was curious."
"Curiosity kills."
"That's cats. Not women."
He huffed something like a laugh. She continued.
---
"Inside the envelope was a piece of parchment. It read: I'm coming to visit. Prepare a room.
No return address. No name.
Mira thought it was a joke. A mistake. A prank.
Until the next night, when she heard footsteps upstairs.
But she hadn't gone upstairs all day.
And she hadn't let anyone in."
---
Aleksei shifted beneath the blankets. His hand curled around the pillow, knuckles flexing.
"She called the police, of course," Elira continued. "They found no one. Not in the attic, not in the basement. No signs of a break-in.
But that night, when Mira went to bed… she found that the guest room was neatly made. Sheets tucked in. Pillows fluffed.
And a note on the nightstand.
Thank you. The room is perfect."
---
Aleksei let out a low hum. "Now that's creepy."
"It gets worse."
"Good."
---
"Over the next few days, Mira tried to pretend it hadn't happened. But small things changed. Her coffee cup would be cleaned when she forgot to wash it. Her laundry folded.
And always—notes.
Lovely weather today.
You should get new curtains.
I like your taste in music.
She never saw anyone. Never heard the door open. And yet… someone was there.
Living with her."
---
"Why doesn't she move out?" Aleksei murmured.
"Because the house is all she has left. It's not easy to abandon history. Even if history starts to stalk you."
---
"Then came the night she heard humming.
A soft, male voice, humming an unfamiliar lullaby. It came from the guest room.
When she opened the door, no one was there. But the mirror had a message scrawled in condensation:
Do you like my song?"
---
"This man is deranged," Aleksei muttered.
"Ghost, actually."
He raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
---
"The last straw came when Mira woke up with her hair braided.
She never braided her hair. And she slept alone.
The final note was different. Not polite. Not soft.
You're ungrateful. I made this a home again.
That night, the humming turned to whispers. The lights flickered. The air grew cold.
And the guest room door slammed shut on its own."
---
Elira let her voice drop into a whisper now.
"Mira gathered her things. She burned the notes. She locked every door. And she whispered into the dark:
'You are not welcome here.'
The humming stopped.
The next day, the house was quiet.
She thought she'd won.
Until she found one last note…
Ingrate. Now I'll make you a memory too."
---
Silence.
Aleksei's breathing was slower now. He didn't speak. He didn't move. His eyes were still open, but his gaze had softened.
Elira whispered, "The house was empty when the police arrived. Mira was never found. Only the guest room remained exactly as it was—made, neat, ready.
Waiting."
She closed her notebook and looked up.
He wasn't asleep. But he was close.
His eyes slid toward her. "That one was good."
"You say that like I've failed before."
"You haven't. Yet."
She stood, brushing invisible lint from her coat.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Yes."
His voice was softer. No sarcasm tonight. No growl.
Just the echo of the story, lingering in the room like a shadow that refused to leave.
---
The guard led her back through the winding hallways. Her phone was returned in silence. She stepped back into the black car, her pulse steady, her thoughts chaotic.