Evelyn's POV
His shadow loomed over me again. My uncle's foul stench, that disgusting grin, the weight of him pressing me down. I screamed, thrashed, begged, "Leave me alone! Please, don't touch me!"
My fists struck his chest, but I was far too weak, my hands felt like feathers against stone. He only laughed, that sickening, guttural laugh that always made bile rise in my throat.
I tried to push him off, tried to claw his face, but my body refused me, my limbs sluggish, trembling, powerless. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I gasped for air. This couldn't be happening again.
And then, just as his rotten breath suddenly ceased and there was a flash. A swift, merciless flash. His head was cleanly severed from his body, tumbling to the ground with a grotesque thud. Blood erupted in a spray, warm and thick, splattering across my face, my hands, my bare chest. I gagged on the metallic taste that coated my lips.
But I couldn't see who had struck the blow. The figure remained shrouded in darkness, faceless and silent, holding a dripping blade.
"No!" I shrieked, choking on blood and terror. "No! Stay away!"
My scream ripped me awake.
I bolted upright, drenched in sweat. My hair clung to my face, plastered by the dampness, and my chest heaved as though I had been running for miles. My eyes darted around wildly, trying to make sense of where I was.
This wasn't the servants' quarters. I wasn't on the cold stone floor. I was lying on a large bed, softer than anything I had ever touched, the sheets swallowing me whole. The room smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, the air too heavy, too sterile.
And then I noticed them.
Men. Three of them, maybe four. Dressed in white garments, their movements brisk and precise. Doctors. At least, they looked like doctors. Their faces were tight with focus, their eyes glancing at me as if I were some fragile specimen about to shatter.
"What the hell…." My throat rasped like sandpaper. "What's going on? Where am I?"
One of them noticed my struggle and hurried closer, his footsteps deliberate, practiced. "You're awake," he said, almost in relief. His voice was calm but firm, like he'd been expecting this. "Don't strain yourself. Your body is still very weak. You're still feverish."
I shook my head, though even that tiny movement made my skull throb. "No. I.... I need answers. I can't...."
He didn't let me finish. His hand reached for the drip stand beside me, fingers working with steady efficiency. I looked down and, for the first time, realized a thin needle was buried into the back of my hand, feeding some liquid into my veins.
Panic surged. "Wait, what are you....?"
Before I could push him away, he injected something into the line. Cold liquid rushed through my arm, spreading fast, drowning me from the inside. My vision blurred almost instantly.
"No… don't…." My words slurred into nothing. My limbs grew heavy, impossible to move.
The ceiling tilted above me, the doctors' white figures doubling, then tripling, until they were nothing but a smear of pale ghosts floating over me.
And then, darkness.
I was gone again.
******
They came home staggered and loud, the kind of men who carried the night on drinking from club to club. Evelyn's uncle pushed open the door of his small house with the careless confidence of a man who believed the world owed him a debt. His companions tumbled in behind him, curses and laughter spilling out into the dim room. The lamp threw a weak circle of light, the rest of the house existed in softer shadow.
They sank into the worn couch like kings collapsing after a hunt. For a while they merely reveled in the warm, stupid pleasure of men who had spent the night buying cheap favors, dancing with girls and stealing whatever joys the hour offered. They talked of streets, of fights, of the girls who had been easy to get or not, their voices thick with drink and pride
"How is that niece of yours, Evelyn, right?" one of them asked, voice slurred but curious, leaning back with an elbow on the cushion. The name came out like a question tossed to the room to see who might catch it.
The uncle laughed, a gutteral, arrogant sound. "Should be fine," he said, flicking ash from his sleeve. "She's off to better things now."
"Should be?" the friend echoed, one eyebrow raising. "She not still here with you?"
The uncle's grin widened into something coarser. "Nah. I sold her to the wolves." He said it like a joke, like a prideful confession. "Paid my debts. Lucky for her, that was tge most useful thing that ever happened to her."
The others exchanged looks that were, not concern, not exactly, but an appetite edged by the memory of past liberties. "That's a shame," another murmured, voice carrying a predatory note. "I was actually looking forward to having a turn with her again. We had a nice time once with her, didn't we?" He chuckled at the memory
"You didn't expect me to keep her forever, did you?" the uncle said, shrugging. "Dead parents don't mean I carry her as a baggage for free. I've got debts." The explanation was half pride, half excuse, his companions nodded and spat out more drink, the conversation sliding into the kind of careless cruelty men like them live by.
Then the voice came from the dark.
It was a whisper at first, nothing more than air moving, but it stopped their laughter like a hand on a throat. "Say that again," said the voice. It was low, something that did not quite belong to the drunken room. The sound pulled attention to the shadows near the hearth in the living room
They looked to one another, suddenly sober enough to read the danger. The uncle stared into the dark, his smile evaporating. "Who's there?" he demanded, the question more brittle than brave. He rose, swaying, a hand curling around the bottle in his fist as if for comfort or weapon.
"Whoever it is," one of his friends began, trying to be brave, "show yourself....."
A swift sound cut him off, a noise like cloth slicing the air. It was over in a flicker. The man's word died in his throat as he sagged, collapsing to the floor with a sudden, terrible grace. There was a panic in the room now, not the drunken, loud sort but the raw animal fear that comes before the mind can make sense of what has happened.
The remaining men stared, faces bleaching. "What.... who....." another whispered, backing away toward the door. Before he could finish, the same quick sound, unseen, and he too fell, as if the air itself had turned to a traitor. The house narrowed to their beating hearts and the lamp's small glow.
The uncle scrambled back into the room's center. His breath came faster now, ragged, the bravery gone. He backed toward the door and yanked at the latch. It did not give. He yanked again. It stuck, immovable. He banged and kicked while panic sharpened his voice into something smaller, more vulnerable.
He turned in time to hear the sound that finished any hope he had left. Another soft, terrible cleave of air, and he watched his last friend crumple as if a puppet suddenly had its strings cut. Then the room's shadows stepped forward and filled with presence. A figure loomed at the threshold, big as a storm and still as a midnight cliff. He was enormous, broader than any man should have been, a silhouette carved from shadow and claws.
The uncle dropped to his knees, the motion clumsy and unsteady, the bottle slipping from his fingers to clatter empty against the floor. He stared up, eyes wide, the voice that came out of him thin and wet with fear. "W...who are you?" he stammered, each syllable trembling.
The figure's voice rolled from the dark like thunder rolling into the valley. It was a single, resonant line, and in it was not the imprecision of drunk men's boasts but the deep, cold certainty of something that had been walking a long time. "Me?" the figure growled, and the sound filled the tiny room. "I am the devil that has come to collect your soul."