Page 54 of Shattered In Darkness

A second message.

Close the curtains. You’re prettier when you’re scared.

My hands shake as I fumble for the curtain cord. I yank it down, cloth whipping against the glass. I want to scream, but I press my fist to my mouth and swallow it. Marcus will hear. Marcus will punish me.

I try to call Sophie. The line rings, rings, then goes to voicemail. I don't leave a message. I check every room again. Bathroom, kitchen, living room, hallway. Nothing. The silence is heavier now, as if the house is holding its breath.

I sleep with the lamp on and dream of hands around my throat, of eyes in the dark, of a voice whispering my name over and over. In the morning, I find a lock of my hair on the nightstand. Cut clean, wrapped in a black ribbon. I press my hand to my throat and count, desperate to feel alive.

I consider calling the police, but what would I say? “Someone is watching me. Someone is inside my house.” They’d ask for proof. I have none. Just a thousand tiny wounds, invisible and bleeding.

I text Sophie:

Are you awake? Something’s wrong. Please call me.

No reply. I try again. Nothing.

I shower with the door locked, the steam suffocating, my skin crawling. When I dry off, there’s a new message on my phone.

Red suits you. You should wear it more.

The only red I own is a dress, shoved in the back of my closet, too tight, too short; Marcus’s favorite. I stare at it with my hands shaking. I don’t wear it, opting to wear black jeans and a hoodie, and hope for invisibility.

Night falls slowly.

I sit in the living room, knees hugged to my chest, watching the windows. Every time a car passes, my muscles lock. Every time a branch scrapes the glass, I flinch. There’s a knock at the door and I freeze. It’s late, too late for visitors.

Another knock. Harder.

Tiptoeing to the peephole, my heart pounds in my throat. The porch is empty, no footsteps, no shadow. Just the wind shivering through the dark.

I back away, pulse racing. There’s a sound in the kitchen. A click. I grab the nearest thing; a heavy glass candleholder, and creep toward the noise. The back door is open, just a crack, but enough. I know I locked it. I know I did. I stare into the night, breath fogging the air. A shape moves in the garden. Tall, broad-shouldered, all darkness and threat. My skin goes cold.

“Who’s there?” My voice wavers.

I drop the candleholder, it lands with a dull thud. The shape is gone, the garden empty. The door swings wider in the wind, but I slam it shut, lock it, and jam a chair under the handle. My hands tremble so bad I can barely move. I stagger back to the living room, heart hammering wild. The phone buzzes.

You’re not safe. You never were.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to tear my skin off, to run, to disappear.

But there’s nowhere left to go.

I try to call Marcus. The line is dead. I try Sophie again. Still nothing. I drag a chair into my bedroom, and wedge it under the doorknob. I close the curtains, lock the window, turn the lamp on bright. Curling up in bed, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, shivering.

I stare at the door, waiting. I don’t sleep. I can’t. My thoughts spiral. Who is it? Why me? I replay every interaction from the past month, searching for clues. A man on the sidewalk, a face in a crowd, a laugh behind me at the grocery store.

It could be anyone. It could be everyone.

I count the hours until sunrise. The house is cold, silent, waiting. When the first light creeps through the curtains, I stagger to the bathroom. My face in the mirror is pale, eyes ringed with blue. I look haunted. I look hunted. I turn the shower on hot, steam filling the room. I scrub my skin until it burns, until I’m shaking.

When I step out, there’s a message written on the fogged-up mirror.

Soon.

My knees buckle. I sink to the floor, naked and shivering. I want my mother. I want Sophie. I want to wake up in a world where monsters only live in stories.

But I know better. In this world, monsters live next door. Sometimes they live in your house. Sometimes they live inside you.