I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Daniel's face—his throat torn open, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide with a terror he didn't have time to understand. And behind that image, layered like a cruel echo, was Mara's presence. Her voice. Her warning. The envelope burning against my palm.
I lay on my couch with all the lights on, but the brightness didn't help. Shadows still pooled in corners where they shouldn't. The house felt wrong—tilted, hungry. Every now and then, the air shifted in a way I couldn't explain, like something large moved silently beside me. Something without a body.
I told myself I was imagining it.
I knew I wasn't.
Around 3:18 a.m., I felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched. A cold prickle crawled across the back of my neck, spreading down my spine. My skin tightened. My breath caught.
I sat up slowly, afraid any sudden movement would provoke whatever lingered unseen.
The room was still.
Too still.
"Is someone there?" I whispered, hating how weak I sounded.
The air answered.
A faint rustle—soft, like fabric brushing the wall.
I froze.
That sound didn't come from inside me. It wasn't in my head. It occurred in the physical world, inches away.
My heartbeat pounded so loud it drowned out my thoughts. The shadows on the far wall stretched, lengthened, and then snapped back as though something invisible had moved through them.
I grabbed the throw blanket around my shoulders as if it could protect me, then forced myself off the couch. My legs trembled. The hardwood floor felt colder than it should, like ice had formed beneath the surface.
I wasn't imagining this.
Something was in my home.
Something unseen.
Something waiting.
I made my way down the hallway, flicking on every light I passed. They buzzed to life sluggishly, blinking like exhausted sentries. I checked the bathroom. Empty. The kitchen. Empty. My bedroom.
Not empty.
My breath caught.
The window was closed but the curtain swayed gently, drifting as though touched by a breeze. But there was no breeze. Not indoors. Not at this hour. Not with the air so still and heavy it felt like pressure against my lungs.
The curtain fluttered again.
No sound accompanied it. Just movement. Deliberate. Taunting.
I reached out a shaking hand, pulling the fabric aside.
There was nothing behind it.
Just the window.
Just the night.
But I still felt it—the presence. Watching. Observing. Memorizing me.
I backed out of the room, pulse racing, and shut the door quickly behind me. I didn't know what to do or where to stand. The entire apartment was wrong. Distorted. Breathing with something that wasn't human.
When I returned to the living room, the envelope lay on the coffee table where I had tossed it earlier.
Except… it wasn't lying the way I left it.
I had thrown it down carelessly when Mara left. But now, it sat perfectly centered on the table. Straightened. Neat.
Like someone had arranged it.
"This isn't happening," I whispered. But the words floated in the air, hollow and pointless.
I took a step toward the table—and the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then died.
Darkness swallowed everything.
A cold wind rushed through the room, and I could swear I heard breathing in the blackness. Slow. Heavy. Close.
Too close.
My hands fumbled for my phone. The screen finally lit, illuminating only a small circle around me. I held it up, scanning through the dark.
And that's when I saw them.
Footprints. Wet, dark, smeared across the floor.
Leading from the hallway.
Across the living room.
Stopping directly behind the couch where I had been lying.
I stumbled back, my legs giving out. The phone slipped from my grasp and hit the floor with a sharp clatter. Its light spun wildly across the room as it landed.
The footprints glistened in the reflection.
Not water.
Something thicker.
Darker.
Blood.
They were bloody footprints.
And they ended right behind me.
I felt the breath again—cold, moist, unnatural—against the back of my neck. I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking, too terrified to move.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the presence vanished.
The air stilled. The cold receded. And the lights flickered back on.
The footprints remained.
But the thing that made them… was gone.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night.
I barely breathed.
---
THE FLASHBACK
I didn't want to remember him. But the shock, the fear, the blood—it all dragged memories up from the depths I had buried them in.
The boy who broke me.
The one I thought I'd never see again.
I didn't think of him in soft tones. Not anymore. Not with longing. Not with regret.
But his presence in the supermarket two days before… it had opened something in me. Something cracked. Something dangerous.
The flashback didn't come softly. It hit like a wave.
I was sixteen again.
He was leaning against the old gate in front of my street, pretending he hadn't been waiting there for me. His smile too charming. His voice too smooth. His hands too gentle at first—for days, for weeks, until I trusted him.
The first memory came gentle, almost merciful—
the day I met him.
I was sitting on the steps outside the school, pretending to read, though my eyes kept drifting to the rain puddles forming on the ground. He walked up with that lopsided grin he wore like a signature.
"You look bored enough to set this place on fire," he said.
I had looked up, startled, and he had laughed—not mockingly, but like he already knew me, like he found my irritation amusing instead of off-putting.
He sat beside me without asking.
We talked for hours.
About books we never finished, teachers we didn't like, music we wished people understood. He listened like the world paused around us.
And I felt something shift—small, warm, frightening.
Another memory surfaced:
We were at the old playground, the one with peeling yellow swings.
He pushed me gently, letting the swing move back and forth.
"Higher," I told him.
"You'll fall," he said.
"Then catch me."
He did. Every time.
We laughed until it hurt.
I remembered the night he held my hand for the first time.
We were walking home, the streetlights flickering in uneven stretches.
He kept brushing his knuckles against mine, pretending it was an accident.
Finally, he whispered—
"Can I?"
I nodded, and he intertwined our fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I remember blushing.
I remember feeling chosen.
I remember believing, stupidly, that I was safe with him.
And the worst flashback of all—
the one that felt like a knife:
He showed up at my house late one evening, breathless, holding a melted, lopsided chocolate bar.
"It was supposed to be prettier," he had admitted, scratching his head,
"…but I thought of you and rushed."
I laughed then—really laughed.
And he hugged me, burying his face in my hair.
"Don't ever leave," he whispered into my neck.
And I whispered it back.
Those were the memories I hated the most.
Because the beginning was soft.
And the ending was violent.
And the middle was confusion—a kind of beautiful poison.