Unsurprisingly, I added another chapter to my sleepwalking saga. And I had the battle scars to prove it—broken fingernails. The uneven slivers were the tiny, tragic casualties of my subconscious’s architectural aspirations. Apparently, I’d developed a sudden, urgent desire to escape through the window. I must have tried the front door first—as the baby gate had been knocked haphazardly—but failed. I’d apparently channelled my inner cat, clawing and scratching at the frame with such ferocity that I’d splintered my nails and acquired a few bonus scratches. Thankfully, nothing a regular-sized adhesive bandage couldn’t cover up.
On the bright side, no new disturbing sketch materialized. However, I did discover a salt drawing—an abstract circle that looked more like a trapezoid—around my desk. There was a salty shape inside the wobbly circle, but it was too distorted. The empty salt shaker lay abandoned on my keyboard, leaving a trail of white sprinkles across my notes, a dusting of chaos in my pencil holder, and a generous scattering over the tangled cords beneath my desk. If only I cleaned in my sleep instead of redecorating with condiments.
There were also strange scratches on one of my desk drawers—the one housing the banished sketches. I examined my ruined fingernails, now resembling tiny, jagged cliffs. Had I forgotten how to operate a drawer while unconscious? The marks etched into the wood had chipped away the white paint, revealing the pale wood beneath. It looked like a velociraptor had tried to get at my hidden horror sketches.
The salt mess was far too much to handle at 6 AM. That was a to-do for tomorrow.
With The Daily Grind now officially a no-go zone, I ventured into the office. The normal putter and chatter, the comforting hum of corporate life, was a welcome distraction from the unwelcome disorder that had taken root in my apartment.
I’d been forced to file my nails down to the quick to hide the evidence of my nocturnal escapades, which meant I was constantly distracted by the alien sensation of my stubby fingers. Typing felt like performing surgery with mittens. My stylus grip, usually as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, was now as clumsy as a toddler’s crayon. I’d spent years perfecting the art of design with long nails, and now I was re-learning the basics.
One of my fellow low-level graphic designers—Becca with the good hair, a woman whose aesthetic sense was only rivalled by her ability to spot a design flaw from across the room—noticed my lack of nails and bandage jewelry during a meeting. I’d passed her an HDMI cable, and she hadn’t missed the state of my hands. Artists noticed details.
“Yikes, what happened there?” she asked. “Have a fight with a paper shredder?”
Becca and the only other room occupant—Jordan, our perpetually stressed project coordinator—stared at me, expecting a story. I had always been cordial, but I didn’t overshare, preferring to keep my personal life respectfully private. So, no one at the office knew about my sleepwalking. And this wasn’t how they’d find out, not in the narrow beige square of meeting room C.
“Just misadventures in crafting,” I lied, my voice a carefully crafted blend of nonchalance and joking distress. “Home decor 101 gone horribly wrong.”
“Glue gun?” Jordan asked worriedly, clearly thinking back to his own crafting misadventure—the time he’d tried to make a get-well card for a client. It was a glitter-bombed catastrophe that had left his apartment—and his clothes—sparkling for weeks. Becca had helped him retire that disastrous attempt and graciously introduced her own professional-looking card. She liked getting involved, like a design fairy godmother with a slight control issue.
“I was working on a desk,” I said, embellishing the truth with a hint of artistic flair. “Trying to leave my mark, make it my own—but I just ruined the sandpaper and the drawer.”
“That’s a guy job,” Becca suggested, naively full of confidence.
Jordan and I shared confused but very amused glances.
“Sorry, I’m being old-fashioned or whatever,” Becca admitted, a hint of sheepishness in her voice. “But seriously. Get a guy to do that. He does that rough part so you can save your nails. You always have such pretty nails.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I said with an eye roll, a playful dismissal of her unwanted advice. Still…I couldn’t help but wonder if Kay would be the handy type. Had his trust-fund-baby hands ever touched a screwdriver? No, definitely Corvus, the blue-eyed peacoat knight from my dreams, was better suited for the rough stuff. A strange feeling washed over me, a sudden, inexplicable image of him with a fine needle file, meticulously smoothing the edge of a silver pendant. I had a weird feeling that he liked working with his hands.
But I had to leave imaginary musings behind and focus fully on the real-world demands of my job. The afternoon was a blur of emails, resizing assets, and the nagging awareness I’d be going home to a salt-deficient apartment. I kept glancing at my phone, half expecting Heather to text me a grocery list of exorcism supplies after the update I’d sent her. Must remember to get more salt, I thought, mentally adding to my to-do list.
By the time 6:00 PM rolled around, I was a zombie. I packed up my things, my fingers still aching from their forced manicure, and headed for the train stop. The setting sun cast long, ominous shadows across the city streets, turning familiar landmarks into unsettling silhouettes.
The train station was a cacophony of noise and movement, a sea of tired commuters all vying for a spot on the crowded train. It was a relief, really. More witnesses meant more safety—a buffer between me and the unseen. I managed to slide into a window seat two rows from the door, and my seat partner was seemingly normal and unscented. I scanned for anything…unusual. No glowing red eyes. Just the usual assortment of weary travellers.
A stop later, my seat partner hurried off, leaving a vacant spot to claim beside me. I entertained the hope for a fleeting moment that I might be lucky enough to enjoy the last few stops solo, but, alas, no such luck. A dark figure slid into the seat beside me, his leg lightly leaning against mine. It was a subtle intrusion of my personal space that felt almost deliberate. I followed the unspoken rules of polite avoidance—not looking directly but examining my seatmate out of the corner of my eye. It was an artful surveillance technique honed over years of transit journeys.
But then I recognized him, the shock sending a jolt through me. I turned and gawked openly. Corvus the peacoat knight. He was looking at me, those piercing pale blue eyes holding mine captive, not hiding the fact that we were disturbingly familiar.
“It’s you,” I stammered, my voice a breathy whisper, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I yanked my earbuds out, the sudden silence amplifying the tension in the air. It was instantly too hot, a wave of heat washing over me, making me feel like I was trapped in a sauna. I felt sweat prickle on the back of my neck, my palms, and under every curve of my body. I plucked at my faux-leather collar, trying to create a flow of cool air, a desperate attempt to regain my composure. I touched my neck, smooth and unmarked, showing no signs of the attack. But if he was here, if Corvus was real, then it wasn’t a dream.
“I needed to see that you were recovered,” Corvus said, his tone even, like checking if I’d gotten his email instead of surviving a monster attack. It was an unsettling, casual indifference.
“Recovered?” I was too loud; I’d disturbed the train’s quiet hum. A few heads cautiously turned, their eyes lingering on us with a mixture of curiosity and unease, their gazes like prying fingers. I faced the window, my cheeks burning, and covered my mouth with my clammy palm, trying to muffle the rising panic.
He kept watching me, his pale blue eyes, like chips of glacial ice, reflected in the window. He was seemingly aware that I was waiting for our fellow commuters to lose interest—to return to their phones and playlists, to their own little worlds. I dropped my hand but kept facing the window—away from him—careful not to meet his eyes’ reflection.
“That was all real,” I said, a mix of question and accusation.
“Yes,” he answered, his voice a low, measured murmur. His expression was so serious—concerned.
“How is that possible?” I whispered in a strained voice, my eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.
He said nothing, his silence weighing my mind with impossible thoughts. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday—dressed in all black, plain, yet elegant in its simplicity. Except for the Oxford blue peacoat, a splash of muted colour, and a long black leather cord necklace with a small, silver hammer-textured locket—a subtle, secret detail.
I tugged at my jacket zipper, trying to create a sliver of cool air. I was still sweating, my skin clammy, my heart pounding against my ribs. And breathing heavy, my breath ragged and uneven. And mind racing, thoughts swirling like a windstorm. I probably looked like I was about to go berserk, a wild animal trapped in a cage. I looked at my window reflection. Mostly, I looked wired. Like I’d had twelve cups of coffee in the last hour.
“That goblin-like thing that attacked me—that was a redcap, right?” I asked, working really hard to whisper and sound even-toned, to project an illusion of sanity. It was hard with my heartbeat drumming in my ears.
He didn’t say a word, but his stern expression was a clear confirmation.
“So you knew what it was when you—you helped me?” I stared at him, slack-jawed.
“Yes,” he said. His even tone was starting to get irritating.
“Where did it come from?” I demanded, my voice rising slightly, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “How did you know it was there? It was like everyone disappeared—like I was in a fricking other dimension. So how did you get there? How did you launch the door open like it was made of tinfoil?”
Corvus let me create a string of questions, listening intently, his pale blue eyes watching me with an intensity that made me feel both seen and vulnerable.
I looked down at his coat, the smooth, dark fabric. “Do you always carry a sword?”
“Usually,” he said, his only answer, a cryptic response that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Is that going to happen again today?” I asked, a silent plea for reassurance.
“No,” he promised, his voice firm, unwavering. His eyes tightened, his expression cold—but that ice wasn’t directed at me, it was a silent promise of retribution against something else.
“You’re not just here to check up on me,” I guessed, my voice laced with a hint of suspicion. “You’re here to keep another one of those things from showing up, aren’t you?”
He breathed deeply, looking away, his jaw tightening, a silent acknowledgment of my suspicions. I watched him collect himself, his movements precise, controlled, a master of his own emotions. It was so small—for anyone else, it might appear like no emotion passing over him at all—but Corvus was someone who was reserved and disciplined—a creature of control. I wished I could relate—my expressions were usually too big, too obvious, a chaotic display of my inner turmoil. It was easy to guess when I felt anything. I had to work extra hard to train my expressions with coworkers and clients, to present a facade of calm, a mask that often slipped.
“Why is that thing after me—or was it…it can’t be a coincidence…?” I yanked my jacket loose, exposing more of my neck and my shoulders. I might die of panic before I died of another redcap ambush.
Hesitating, he placed his palm on my cheek. His hand was cool, refreshingly cool, a pleasant contrast to the heat that radiated from my skin. It didn’t stop my racing heart—actually, it sped up a frantic rhythm—but my thoughts froze. The vortex of panic momentarily stilled.
“Your hands are cold,” I said calmly.
His lips seemed to flinch into the shape of a smile, a fleeting expression that quickly faded, leaving me wanting more.
“Thanks,” I said. I placed my hand over his, attaching myself to more of the calming coolness, attempting to steal a moment of peace.
We stayed in that position for a moment. I forgot to be embarrassed—until the train stopped at another station, the screeching brakes shattering the fragile tranquility. I cleared my throat and gently turned my head, letting his hand slip away. The panic attack had paused, but the questions remained.
“Thank you—for that,” I mumbled again, my cheeks burning, a blush creeping up my neck.
“I can’t answer all your questions,” he said, his voice tight with a hint of regret, “but I may be able to answer some.”
“Why can’t you answer all of my questions?” I narrowed my eyes, my voice hardened with an unspoken accusation.
“It’s complicated,” he dodged, his gaze shifting away, a hint of unease in his eyes, “but I swear my silence is necessary for your safety.”
He seemed sincere—for someone I barely knew, someone who moved like a predator and carried a sword.
“Are you going to ride with me all the way?” I asked. I hoped it didn’t sound too hopeful.
“If you allow it,” he said, his pale blue eyes locking with mine.
“I’ll allow it,” I agreed, my voice sounding begrudging, but I was truthfully relieved, a sense of safety washing over me. It was good to have a sword-wielding, redcap-slaying dark knight. At least, I hoped he was a knight—not something even more dangerous waiting his turn to strike.
“A redcap can’t follow me home, can it?” I wondered.
He frowned, his brow furrowed, a hint of concern in his eyes. “It could. But protections have been placed over your home.”
I blanked, my mind reeling. My voice dropped to a whisper. “What?”
“After last night, we reasoned getting more involved was practical,” he explained, his voice laced with a hint of apology. “I promise it has no effect on your home other than preventing redcaps and similar creatures from entering your home uninvited—physically or otherwise.”
“So it can follow me, but it can’t get in,” I summarized, my voice devoid of emotion. A flat plastic cover hiding an organic mess of feelings.
He nodded, his gaze unwavering, his expression unreadable.
“Who’s ‘we’?” I demanded, my voice pulled tight with a hint of anger, a sense of betrayal creeping in.
He frowned, the most apparent expression he’d worn so far, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. Whatever I’d inadvertently asked, I’d struck a nerve, a hidden wound.
“Is that a question you can’t answer?” I asked bitterly.
“No,” he admitted, his jaw tightening.
“Then who’s ‘we’?” I insisted, my voice rising slightly.
He looked straight ahead, his nose wrinkling in irritation. Reluctantly, he said, “Kay.”
The blood drained from my face, the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless. Kay—my coffee shop meet-cute, the charming stranger who had bought my painting, the trust fund baby who thought magic was real—was in on this weird conspiracy.
My stomach knotted, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Oh God, how could I be so stupid? Kay hadn’t been flirting with me—he’d been keeping an eye on me. He’d probably bought my painting as an excuse to approach me. The charming smile, the playful banter, the lingering gazes—all carefully calculated moves. The realization was a chilling wave of betrayal drenching me.
“How long have you both been watching me?” I asked weakly.
His expression softened, a flicker of something like remorse in his pale blue eyes—but his jaw remained tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I can’t answer that.”
I felt sick. The betrayal left a bitter taste in my mouth. I wasn’t sure if Corvus being by my side was such a good thing after all. His presence was as much a comfort as a carefully constructed trap.
The train jerked with another stop. I steeled myself with a surge of adrenaline. I’d get off at the next stop. I’d walk fast—hopefully, avoid any more redcap encounters—and then I’d lock everything, doors and windows. I’d get more locks tomorrow, maybe even some medieval-style portcullises. Maybe a second salt circle—around my bed. But no way was I letting this guy walk me home—no way was I trusting him after this. I didn’t care that his co-conspirator, Kay, knew exactly where I lived. I would need to think about what to do about that problem tomorrow—after I’d barricaded myself with enough blankets to build a small fort.
“I think you should stay away from me,” I said, my voice cold, sharp, a desperate attempt to regain control. “You and Kay. Whatever you’re up to, I’m not interested. You can just pretend you never met me, and I’ll do the same, okay? We can go our separate ways, and you can go back to whatever secret society you came from.”
“That isn’t possible,” Corvus said, his voice firm, unwavering, a clear declaration of his intent.
All the sweat chilled, the heat cooled, leaving me with a feeling of icy dread. I glared at him, my eyes narrowed, my anger simmering beneath the surface. “What?”
“They know about you now,” he explained quietly, his tone even but urgent. “They won’t leave you alone. I—Kay and I—are the only two beings who want to keep you safe and are capable of protecting you from them.”
I knew it was true. It was a chilling certainty that I felt in my bones, a primal instinct screaming at me to trust him. But the betrayal was too fresh. I couldn’t trust him, not yet. I held tighter to my things—gripping my laptop bag like a lifeline—and leaned toward the window, creating a barrier of open space between us. Our legs still touched—he was too big for the seat—but at least our arms were apart, a small victory in a losing battle.
“I’m getting off at the next stop,” I said, eyes tracing the outline of his reflection in the window. “Let me out.”
“You don’t get off at this stop,” he said, his voice tinged with confusion and concern, his pale blue eyes searching mine as he tried to decipher my intentions. He knew where I lived and my route. I couldn’t pretend he—or they—hadn’t been watching me.
“I do today,” I said coldly. “Don’t follow me.”
His eyes widened with a flicker of genuine horror. “Please,” he begged, low and desperate. “Morgan, I need to protect you.”
The sound of my name, spoken in his low voice, sent a pang through me, a strange sense of familiarity—of longing. But it was also a reminder that he knew way more about me than I knew about him.
“I don’t allow it,” I said, panic making my voice a little too high. “Go away. Do whatever it is you do when you’re not busy being my personal stalker.”
The station was fast approaching, the lights growing brighter, the platform a beacon of escape. I stood, my muscles tense, and glared at him, a silent challenge. He was either going to let me go, respect my wishes, or prove all my worst instincts right, confirming my suspicions of his dangerous nature.
Corvus shook his head and exhaled sharply, frustrated. But he moved out of the way, standing back to let me out, a grudging concession. Some of my anger deflated—like air drifting out of a small hole in a tire.
“You won’t see me, but I’ll be nearby,” he said, a promise and a threat rolled into one. “You’ll be safe.”
I frowned, a blend of suspicion and unease hardening my expression. I thought about telling him off, but that redcap still scared me way more than my dark knight did. Instead, I ignored him, turning my back on his cryptic warning, and hurried to face the doors. I tapped the button the second the train stopped, the doors sliding open, and shoved through them, stepping onto the platform. I looked back once, just a quick glance, to see if he’d stayed on the train. But he wasn’t there. I looked around, scanning the platform, searching for any sign of him, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. He’d vanished. I halted, frozen by the thought, the unsettling possibility—he said I wouldn’t see him. Could he turn invisible?
I shook myself, trying to dispel the thought, to ground myself in reality. Now was not the time to entertain thoughts of magic, of invisible men and lurking monsters. I needed to get home, maybe barricade the door with my sofa, and wrap myself up with a really heavy blanket.
Getting off at an earlier stop, a tactical retreat born of pure, unadulterated panic, wasn’t exactly my best plan. But the chill air, a bracing slap of reality, did clear the mental fog slightly. It was a welcome, if temporary, reprieve from the train car’s suffocating tension.
My skin, no longer slick with the clammy sheen of terror, felt refreshingly cool. I even re-wrapped my scarf, the wool a flimsy barrier against the biting wind. The cooled sweat was making me shiver, or maybe that was the comedown from the adrenaline rush.
A hot bath, scalding enough to burn the fear away, was calling my name. And I’d probably need a gallon of chamomile tea, brewed with enough honey to sedate a bear, to get in the right headspace to sleep tonight, assuming sleep was even a possibility in my new reality.
The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows as I hurried down the deserted sidewalk. The only sounds were the rhythmic tap of my boots and the occasional rustle of empty branches, skeletal fingers making twisted shapes in shadows. Each siren wail, each skitter of fallen leaves, each bag tossed in a trash can with a sudden thud, sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, my nerves strung tighter than a cheap guitar string. My senses were on high alert, scanning street corners for brutal redcaps and devastatingly handsome stalkers.
My mid-rise apartment building, a concrete and brick block, loomed ahead, yet even its familiar facade couldn’t fully quell the unease that gnawed at me. I fumbled with my keys, the metal cold against my trembling fingers, and slipped into the dim, quiet lobby, the heavy door clicking shut behind me with a reassuring thud.
My small apartment, a sanctuary of curated chaos, felt cramped and claustrophobic. I gently tossed my laptop bag onto the worn sofa, the soft plop a small, unsatisfying release of tension. My reflection in the hallway mirror was a stranger, a wide-eyed ghost, skin pale and drawn, a mask of exhaustion and fear. I locked the door, engaged the deadlock, and double-checked the chain. I discarded keys on the kitchen bar counter, a clatter of metal against granite, and returned my outerwear and boots to the hall closet.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, the cool tile a welcome sensation under my bare feet. The porcelain tub, a gleaming white oasis, beckoned. I turned the hot water on full blast, the hiss and gurgle filling the narrow space. Steam curled upwards, blurring the edges of the room and distorting the mirror with a hazy film. I added a handful of lavender bath salts, the floral scent a soothing balm. As the tub filled, I stripped off my clothes, letting them drop on the bathroom floor, a rare act of rebellion against my meticulous nature. Normally, I was a stickler for putting things in their place—a necessity with a small apartment—but tonight, order was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
But even as I sank into the scalding water, the heat enveloping my tired muscles, the steam softening my skin, my mind refused to quiet. The anxious thoughts refused to be drowned. The redcap’s claws, the dark knight’s cryptic warnings, Kay’s shameless flirting—they swirled in my head like a relentless storm, a constant, nagging reminder that my world had irrevocably shifted.
⧫⧫⧫
When I finally emerged from the steamy sanctuary of the bath, my skin still tingling with the lingering warmth, I remembered the salt circle. I wondered how long I could realistically postpone its cleanup or if I could simply incorporate it into my apartment’s aesthetic. I opted for the path of least resistance, avoiding the salt-strewn crime scene of my desk by diving headfirst into dinner preparation. I dressed in my designated comfort armour, a loose Wicked sweater, and silky pyjama pants. I lazily tied up my apricot-blonde hair with a scrunchie, the dampness dulling its vibrant hue.
Procrastination was the priority, fueled by the nagging feeling that I wasn’t quite ready to banish the salt circle. I donned my noise-cancelling headphones, a Black Friday splurge purchased for their toe-curling depth of sound. I cranked up the volume on a Girl Power playlist, a sonic shield against the relentless mental onslaught of Kay and Corvus thoughts. It worked for all of one song; a brief respite before the siren call of graphite on paper lured me to unleash my angst on my sketchpad.
I drew Kay’s stupid black leather gloves, the very gloves that had held my hand with such unsettling tenderness. His stupid, charming smile—the dangerous curve of his lips that made my stomach do a chaotic tango. His stupidly handsome face—a sculpted masterpiece. I drew Corvus’ silver locket on the black leather cord, meticulously shading the hammered texture and the intricate shape that enclosed the piece. I shaded the dark cord over and over, wearing my pencil shorter with each sharpening, desperate to capture every detail. I erased and retraced the locket, fixated on getting those familiar details exactly as I remembered them, a compulsive need for accuracy. It bothered me—much more than it should have—that I felt I was forgetting something about that locket, a nagging sense of incompleteness, a missing piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.
With only one minute until midnight, I finally surrendered to exhaustion, my artistic fervour spent. My miniature gallery of half-finished smiles and eyes mocked me from the page. Their incomplete expressions mirrored the unresolved turmoil in my own head.
I washed my hands, scrubbing away the graphite dust that clung to my fingertips like tiny shadows. Untying my hair, I felt the odd pattern of ripples from the scrunchie, a physical record of my prolonged captivity in the land of artistic angst, now framing my face. I combed my fingers through the long strawberry-blonde strands, carefully teasing any knots, a slow, deliberate ritual that usually soothed me, but tonight felt like a prelude to unease.
I was reluctant to sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream of the tar-drenched landscape of my subconscious—but I knew I’d regret any further delay tomorrow when my alarm throttled me awake.
I scrolled through my social feed as I mindlessly completed my bedtime routine, the blue light casting a ghostly glow on every surface. I hadn’t absorbed any of the content, just lost my mind to memes and trends. My poor gums and teeth were brushed with anxiety-fueled pressure.
My eyes caught the hour change to midnight in the screen corner, the digital numbers a sharp reminder of the time I’d lost to my obsessive sketching. I’d wasted an evening trapped in a cycle of unanswered questions, a self-imposed purgatory of artistic frustration. And I had nothing to show for it. No answers. No decisions. Just pages of watchful eyes and silent lips, the unfinished faces were a tangible representation of the unresolved mysteries that haunted my waking hours.
There was no denying I’d been wide awake during my second train meeting with Corvus, his presence a tangible reality, a chilling confirmation of my fears. And that meant the first encounter—the redcap attack—was real, not a figment of my imagination. Where it left me—where it led—I didn’t have a clue, a terrifying blank space in my understanding.
But it felt dangerous. Like I was about to cross a point of no return.
A sharp rap at the door shattered the late-night silence. The sound echoed in my all-too-quiet apartment. I looked down at my phone, double-checking the time as if the digital clock could somehow be lying. Almost an hour past midnight.
No one I knew, no normal person, would be visiting at this ungodly hour. No one had texted, messaged, or sent a carrier pigeon announcing a surprise arrival. There was no earthly reason for anyone to be at my door.
Maybe I’d imagined the knock—just a creak in the hall settling, the old building sighing in its sleep. My nerves were frayed, stretched thin by…stress. Yes, stress. I’d go to bed. Maybe some food delivery at the wrong door, some bleary-eyed driver mistaking apartment numbers. They’d figure it out, eventually. It had to be something ordinary.
A second sharp rap at the door, louder this time, more insistent, a sound that vibrated through the floorboards and straight into the pit of my stomach. A feeling of dread, cold and unwelcome, sent a rush of pinpricks along my skin. I tried to reason with the creeping paranoia, to construct a rational explanation, brick by painstaking brick.
Maybe a neighbour had been locked out, a late-night casualty of misplaced keys and poor planning. I didn’t know my neighbours well, just the standard polite hellos and awkward small talk, the carefully choreographed dance of urban anonymity. Neither the aggressively normal family to my left, with their predictable seasonal door wreaths, nor the identical couple to my right, who seemed to share a single, synchronized brain and a disturbing lack of individuality, were late-night troublemakers. They were pleasantly boring, which was precisely why we’d coexisted in relative peace for the entire eight months I’d lived there. Mundane. Safe. Like my life should be.
I shuffled my feet closer to the door, my movements slow and deliberate. Every inch of my body begged me to stay back, to retreat into the safety of my apartment, to the familiar scent of pencil shavings and unscented laundry detergent. What if I curled up under the covers and pretended to sleep?
My brain battled to choose who was the saner voice—the one saying there was no such thing as monsters, a comforting lie I desperately wanted to believe, versus the one saying why would monsters knock? A chillingly logical question I didn’t want to consider.
I was an arm’s length from the door, close enough to feel the cold, unyielding surface beneath my fingertips, when the knock came again. I jumped, cursing at myself for being afraid, for letting the silence amplify the fear, for allowing the recent… unusual events to colour my perception of something as mundane as a knock.
The knock was a triple beat, small but insistent, a rhythmic intrusion that shattered the thin barrier between me and the hall. I held my breath—as if hearing me breathe would welcome disaster, as if silence could somehow make the impossible disappear—and lined my eye up with the peephole.
Nothing. The hall was empty, a sterile, featureless expanse of beige carpet and yellow fluorescent lights. For a moment, that seemed the more terrifying option, the absence of anything more unsettling than the presence of something. But then I let myself believe it. Nothing.
Maybe it had been a neighbour hoping I’d spare some salt for some midnight baking, a perfectly reasonable request in a city that never truly slept. They’d given up and assumed I was asleep, a reasonable assumption for an unreasonable hour.
Exhausted and paranoid. Classic Morgan. I mentally patted myself on the back for such astute self-diagnosis.
My fear was nothing more than sleep deprivation and an overactive imagination, a toxic cocktail brewed from ridiculously vivid dreams and that…unsettling incident on the train. Just because my life had taken a detour into the bizarre lately, just because a devastatingly handsome, blue-eyed stranger had murmured a cryptic warning—they won’t leave you alone now—didn’t mean the whole damn supernatural world had decided to use my life as its personal playground.
It had to be a coincidence. All of it. The unsettling whispers in the dark corners of my apartment, the prickling sensation of being watched—all just figments of a stressed-out mind. I was safe here. This was my sanctuary. It was just a late-night knock. Nothing more than a misplaced pizza delivery or a drunk neighbour mistaking my door for their own. Perfectly normal.
But the unease was a persistent itch I couldn’t scratch, a cold knot in my stomach that refused to loosen. I glued my eye to the peephole again, a desperate, almost pleading gaze. Show me normal. Show me a friendly face, a misplaced flyer, anything to banish the creeping tendrils of dread. Nothing. The hallway remained stubbornly, unnervingly empty. Who does that? The three-knock-and-vanish routine? It wasn’t a prank; it felt… deliberate.
Maybe just a quick peek. I needed proof that everything was normal. Because everything had to be normal.
My hand trembled slightly as I turned the lock, the metallic click sharp in the silence. My fingers wrapped around the cold handle, the smooth metal strangely slick. I was about to unlatch the bolt, to step back into the predictable world, when a wave of nausea hit me. My throat constricted, choked by a sudden, acrid stench—damp earth, the metallic tang of copper, and the sharp, unmistakable scent of sulfur. It was the smell of decay, of something…wrong.
I yanked my hand back as if I’d touched a hot stove, a reflexive recoil from the unseen horror that lurked just beyond the thin wood. As flimsy a barrier as the door was, a mere veneer of wood and metal, it was all I had, a pathetic shield against whatever unholy thing waited on the other side. And the terrifying truth, the one I’d been desperately trying to ignore, whispered in the sudden silence: this wasn’t a misplaced pizza. This wasn’t normal.
Another knock. This time, it was followed by a familiar voice, a strained, almost pleading whisper, “Morgan?”
I looked through the peephole, my eye glued to the tiny lens. It was my neighbour from two doors down the hall—Mrs. G…something. She and her husband were empty-nesters in their early 60s, known for their enthusiastic and often questionable guava experimentation gifted to the building’s younger residents. She was a small woman, and she looked extra thin and tiny through the peephole. Maybe I hadn’t seen her before because she was short and leaned out of the way.
A perfectly normal neighbour. Nothing unnatural here.
I turned the door handle, a sharp, inexplicable prick shot up my palm, a sensation I immediately dismissed as static. Just the dry air of the building. Mrs. G stood there in a pastel nightdress, her usually neat grey hair a tangled, limp mess.
“Morgan?” she whispered, her voice thin and reedy. She smiled, a wide, unsettling curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes, a disconnect that sent a shiver down my spine.
Something was wrong. Uncanny valley wrong. Like a poorly rendered digital face, almost human but deeply, disturbingly off. Her skin seemed stretched too taut across her bones, as if something too large was trying to escape from within, and her unfocused gaze… it slid right through me, a vacant stare that didn’t register my presence. My eyes are tired, I told myself firmly. I’m seeing things. Nothing to panic about. It’s just Mrs. G.
“Hi, uh, ma’am,” I stammered, forcing a smile that felt brittle and fake. “Is everything alright?”
“Let me in,” she said. The words were polite, almost a sing-song, but it wasn’t a request. It was a demand cloaked in paper-thin civility. She was unnerving still, like a wax manikin with a voicebox.
“Oh, I was just heading to bed,” I said, gesturing vaguely at my oversized sweater and pajama pants, evidence of how harmless and vulnerable I was. But everything is fine. And she probably needs sugar or something. “Did you need something?”
“Let me in,” she repeated, her voice gaining a hard edge, the polite mask fracturing, revealing something cold and insistent beneath. She still hadn’t moved—not a breath or a blink. She was unnaturally, inhumanly still.
“Really, it’s late,” I said, my voice starting to tremble despite my best efforts. “Is Mr.—your husband around? Maybe he needs something?” Keep it normal. Keep it neighbourly. Just a confused old lady.
Her smile widened, the corners pulling back too far—splitting—the lines around her mouth deepening into grotesque creases. It wasn’t a smile anymore. It was a baring of teeth, a predator’s grimace. My stomach lurched, the contents threatening to revolt. This wasn’t Mrs. G. Not anymore.
But the denial still clung, a desperate, fragile shield blocking the terrifying truth that clawed at my sanity. Maybe she was sick? Having a bad dream? Sleepwalking? Anything but… anything but what Corvus’s warning, the train, the hidden nightmare sketches screamed at me.
“Do you know where you are?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I stepped closer to peer around her to examine the hall—it took considerable effort, each inch felt like stepping to the edge of a diving board, the drop a terrifying unknown. Every muscle tightened, my shoulders hunched as I tried to make myself smaller, less of a target.
The hall was empty. The fluorescent lights, usually blinding at all hours, were out, leaving the hallway shrouded in a deep pocket of shadow.
Her eyes widened, twin voids of shiny black, reflecting no light, absorbing it all. I realized, with a jolt of terror that made my blood run cold, that her eyes were all black, pupil and iris indistinguishable, bottomless pits that stared into something ancient and terrible. Her gaze was fixed on me with a goosebump-inducing intensity as I toed the threshold.
I stepped back, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic, desperate rhythm. She hadn’t blinked. She hadn’t breathed. Her skin had a waxy pallor, an unsettling stillness. The realization brought bile to my throat, a burning, acrid taste. She wasn’t…alive.
Mrs. G’s jaw clenched, her skin stretched unnaturally, and her forehead furrows deepened, a mask of something inhuman. My gut was screaming at me, telling me that this sweet little old lady was hiding something—or she was something.
Mrs. G’s jaw clenched, her skin stretched unnaturally across sharp angles, and her forehead furrows deepened, a mask of something inhuman contorting her familiar features. My gut was screaming at me, a primal warning that this sweet little old lady was something more.
“Ma’am, are you feeling okay?” I asked, my voice a trembling whisper, a pathetic plea for normalcy in the face of something utterly bizarre. “Your eyes…don’t look okay.”
“Let me in,” she commanded, her voice a guttural rasp, not a trace of false politeness left in her tone. Her hand shot to the door frame, hitting the wall with a sickening crack, the sound of bone meeting drywall, a brutal, unnatural impact. The wall paint chipped, concave from her shove, revealing the raw plaster beneath. Red splatter. Her hands—long, bony fingers with jagged nails sharp enough to peel fruit or tear flesh—were slick with a dark, oily black-red, the viscous substance gleaming in shadowed hall. The forceful impact had jerked a few fingers into odd, broken angles.
The denial finally cracked, the fragile shield shattering into a million pieces. This was real. This was happening. And I was trapped.
“No, definitely no,” I stammered, my voice a broken whisper, the words catching in my throat. I shuffled one foot back, my body screaming at me to run, to retreat into the perceived safety of my apartment. For some reason, even with the door open, the possessed Mrs. G wasn’t stepping closer, her form held back by an unseen barrier, an invisible line I couldn’t cross without inviting her in.
Corvus had promised no redcap or similar creature could come in uninvited. Looks like I was already testing his word—and my life—in a very real, and very terrifying way.
“You can’t come in,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I was, my voice wavering slightly. “And I’m not interested in guests. So you should give up—go away. I’ll just close the door and go to sleep.”
Mrs. G smiled, a grotesque parody of a human expression, the corner splitting further, the tear widening into a ragged gash that revealed the unnatural blackness beneath. A thick, viscous fluid, like congealed tar, oozed from the unnatural split, tracing a slick path down her distorted cheek. Her tongue—coated in the same dark, shimmering liquid, a substance that smelled not just of decay, but of something ancient and sulfurous, something that prickled the hairs in my nostrils—swirled forward, spreading the viscous ooze and staining her teeth a disturbing, light-absorbing black.
“Yes, sleep,” she said in a voice deep and raspy, a chillingly intimate promise. “Go to the realm of dreams where our allies can slip into your head, wear you like a pretty dress, and walk through the door—to me.”
Bile rose in my throat, a searing wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm me, the acrid taste coating my tongue. Had she just implied…I was sleepwalking because someone was wearing me? That it wasn’t my subconscious steering my actions, but a malevolent puppeteer pulling the strings of my flesh?
I couldn’t process that yet, couldn’t wrap my mind around the violating horror of her words. I inhaled deeply, a shuddering breath that did little to steady my racing heart, a desperate attempt to regain control over my trembling limbs. “Fine. I’ve got coffee. I’ll stay up. And you’ll still be stuck out there. And I’ll be safe in here.” I pressed on a thin, taunting grin, a fragile mask of defiance that felt like it would shatter at the slightest pressure. My hands, however, betrayed my bravado, shaking so violently I had to clench them into fists to still their tremor.
Mrs. G traced a long, jagged nail, black and sharp as obsidian, along the door trim, the sound scraping against the wood like bone on stone, sending splinters dancing in the dim light. Jagged shards from the broken wall had embedded themselves in her pale, stretched skin, each sliver weeping more of that viscous black fluid—old blood mixed with something that pulsed with an unnatural darkness.
“Safe for you,” she agreed, her voice a low, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards beneath my feet. “But I’ll be lonely waiting. Maybe someone else will invite me in.” Her black eyes, those bottomless pits, flickered to the door to my right, her gaze lingering on the thin barrier, gleaming with a predatory anticipation that made my blood run cold. “I hear the children sleeping. Their innocent minds are so…open. They won’t hear me creep in. But they will see me.”
Every muscle tightened, a vise around my chest, and my stomach flipped. A wave of icy dread washed over me, leaving me breathless. “Don’t you dare,” I said, my voice more breath than sound.
She laughed, a high-pitched staccato sound, like a hyena on the prowl. “Or maybe the sweet couple next door,” she suggested, gesturing with her clawed hand, her fingers twitching with a sickening eagerness. She eyed the splinters embedded in her flesh, turning her hand to examine the gruesome damage with a detached curiosity. “Only one of them, I promise—so the other can understand how lonely I am.”
She raised her hand to her lips, bringing a particularly large, jagged splinter, thick as my pinky finger and coated in black ichor, to her torn mouth. Her lips, split and peeling, closed around the splinter—and the tip of her finger—and I heard a sickening crunch, the sound of bone and wood splintering. Her lips curled back in a grotesque smile as her blackened teeth dug into the damaged finger, tearing at the flesh with a wet, ripping sound. The splinter came out, dragging strips of skin and glistening tissue with it. She spat the splinter—and the mangled blood and flesh—onto the hall floor with a wet thud. Now, the bone of her finger protruded from the torn flesh. Dark, thick blood dripped steadily from her mangled hand, splattering onto the beige carpet.
“W-why don’t you go m-make friends with someone else?” I asked, my voice a strained whisper, barely audible over the frantic pounding of my heart. My eyes were glued to the grotesque display of self-mutilation, a wave of nausea churning in my gut.
My fists clenched, my nubby fingertips pressed into my palm as my knuckles whitened, digging into my palm. I was angry, sickened, and utterly terrified, trapped in this macabre standoff with a creature that wore the skin of my neighbour. “Isn’t that redcap I met your friend?”
Her black, bulbous eyes widened, the pupils dilating until they swallowed the last vestiges of white, a flicker of something akin to disdain crossing her inhuman features. “A friend? Hardly. We have the same queen. Nothing more..” She shuffled back, her movements jerky and unnatural, her hands raised in a gesture that was both threatening and oddly theatrical, like a grotesque mime. The black ooze had dribbled over her lips, onto her chin, a slick, viscous trail that glistened in the dim light. “I need someone to have fun with.”
“No one here is—fun,” I said awkwardly, laced with a desperate sarcasm that felt hollow even to my own ears. My gaze flickered to the mangled finger, the exposed bone a stark white against the blackening flesh. “Maybe go see…Corvus. He seems to have time to kill.” It was a dangerous gamble, a desperate throw of the dice, but the image of Corvus’s intense eyes flashed in my mind, a flicker of a strange, unsettling hope.
Her head snapped to a sideways tilt, her neck cracking with an unnatural pop that made me flinch. “So he placed this protection.”
“Yeah, and he’s probably coming home soon,” I lied, my voice wavering slightly, a desperate attempt to bluff and buy myself precious time, picturing his shadowed peacoat, the glint of steel at his hip. “And he always carries his sword.”
Mrs. G’s high-pitched laugh rang again, a piercing, staccato sound that clawed at my eardrums, a chilling echo through the silent hallway. She leaned back against the wall, adjacent to my across-the-hall neighbour’s door. Her form was unnaturally relaxed, her black eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement, like a predator savoring its trapped prey. “Silly girl,” she teased, her voice a low, guttural purr that seemed to slither into my very thoughts. “You’re just one of many.”
“Maybe,” I said, not giving myself a second to dwell on the frustrating implication of that statement, “but he still killed that redcap for me.” I crossed my arms, trying to feign swagger, to project a confidence I couldn’t feel, my knuckles white beneath the strained skin. “I wouldn’t want to piss him off. And he doesn’t like when I make new friends.” A dangerous admission, a desperate attempt to leverage the strange possessiveness I’d sensed in Corvus.
“You’ve spoken—more than once?” she asked curiously, her black eyes narrowing, tightening with a sudden, keen interest that sent a fresh wave of terror through me. She leaned away from the wall, her long, clawed fingers straining into wide, skeletal fans. “You know him?”
“Yeah, I know him,” I bragged, my voice a strained attempt at casualness that cracked under the weight of my fear. I didn’t miss the subtle shift in her demeanor, the flicker of surprise that raised her eyebrows, and the dawning realization that knowing his name and truly knowing him were two very different things. But I hoped I could act well enough to fool her, to play this dangerous game of deception. If I could pull this off, maybe, just maybe, I’d survive this night, and perhaps, inexplicably, understand the strange, unsettling pull I felt towards the half-sketched faces who haunted my nightmares and now, potentially, my reality.
“You know his name,” she corrected, growling, “nothing more. “ She was trying to trick me into giving something away, to reveal how little I knew. She eyed my neighbour’s doors, her gaze flickering back and forth, a predatory scan that sent shivers down my spine. Each glance an obvious threat—her reminder of what was at stake.
I had to take a chance, roll the dice, and hope for a lucky number. It was do something and risk failure or do nothing and risk my neighbour’s lives, a choice that weighed heavily on my conscience. I thought of Corvus, what details had my artist’s eyes picked up? The silver locket. It was the only thing that stood out. And it had been in my nightmare—one of the many scattered belongings drowned in the tar pit beside me.
With only instinct and a high school improv class guiding me, I said, “I know who he made that locket for.”
She recoiled, her inhuman features twisting in a mask of surprise and genuine fear. Somehow, my lie had struck close enough to the truth that it startled her, a lucky guess that made my heart pound in my chest.
“You can’t know that,” she snarled. She lurched forward, her movements jerky and unnatural, hands braced on either side of the door, her long, clawed fingers digging deeper into the already damaged wood, splintering it further. She was unable to take a step further, the invisible barrier holding her captive. Her tongue, slick with more of that viscous black ooze, snaked out, licking along her split lip, releasing a venomous hiss that scraped against my eardrums, a sound that promised pain and violation.
“But somehow I can,” I smirked, a fragile, desperate bravado that felt like a tightrope walk over a bottomless abyss. My voice was surprisingly steady. But I felt sweat trickle down my back, icy and cold. I was shivering and hot all at once, a terrifying mix of fear and adrenaline, my senses heightened to an unbearable degree. I wondered if my clammy palms and the sheen of sweat on my upper lip would betray my carefully constructed lie.
“It wasn’t easy to get that story out of him,” I added, embellishing the lie with a hint of fabricated intimacy, a dangerous lure. “He’s not much of a talker. I guess that means I’m important to him.” Another dangerous claim, a desperate throw of the dice, but it was all I had.
Mrs. G’s buggy eyes narrowed, the all-consuming blackness intensifying, her intense gaze searching. She was weighing my words, trying to figure out if I was capable of lying well enough to fool her. I knew the more I kept talking, the more likely I’d stumble, say something that didn’t add up, something that would expose my bluff and unleash her full fury. I hadn’t convinced her, but the flicker of doubt in her gaze was enough to buy me a precious sliver of time.
“If you know all this, then why are you still here?” she asked, her voice laced with a chilling curiosity. She stretched her neck up, the vertebrae cracking audibly, her chin jutted out at an unnatural angle, her gaze piercing.
Not a good question. My mind went blank. I had no idea how to answer without revealing the truth of my ignorance. Where else would I go if I knew the real truth? A magic cult headquarters? An underground, shadowy academy for monster hunters?
“I didn’t want to go,” I said—a clipped whisper, the words catching in my dry throat.
“And why not?” she hissed, her patience wearing thin, a dangerous edge returning to her voice.
She definitely suspected I was bluffing, her black eyes boring into mine. I stepped forward, drawn by a morbid curiosity and a reckless desperation, close enough that I could smell the coppery tang of her corrupted blood, close enough that she could grab me if only she could get by that invisible barrier. The dangerous proximity made my skin crawl with a thousand icy prickles, each hair on my arms standing on end.
I smiled, a fragile mask of defiance that felt like it might shatter into a million pieces at the slightest tremor, rolled the die, and whispered, “Kay,” the single syllable hanging in the tense, suffocating air.
Her oozing jaw dropped open, the split widening with threads of skin stretched over muscle, her inhuman features twisting in genuine surprise. Her claws crunched through the drywall with a thundering rip, leaving deep, ragged gouges in the plaster, showering dust and debris that stung my eyes. The light inside my apartment flickered erratically.
“You know them both in this life?” she screeched, her voice a high-pitched, grating sound that made my teeth ache. “So soon?”
“This life?” I couldn’t stop myself, the words slipping out before I could stop them, a fatal crack in my carefully constructed facade. It was my doom, a moment of weakness that exposed the terrifying truth of my ignorance.
Her expression relaxed, the predatory amusement returning, a cruel smile spreading across her disfigured face. She tilted her head—left…then right…and finally, ducked her chin and laughed, a chilling, unnatural sound that echoed through the hallway. She straightened up, her hyena cackle continuing as she crossed the hall to my neighbour’s door, her movements fluid and unsettlingly graceful despite her monstrous form. I pressed myself close to the door frame, peeking without going over the line that marked the border of the hallway carpet and my hardwood floor.
“Almost,” she said. “Well played, mortal.” She tapped on my neighbour’s door, a light, almost playful touch that belied the horror of her intentions. “Now we’ll play my game.” She knocked again, the triple-beat echoing through the silent hall. “You can let me in…or they can.” She wiped her oozy mouth on her arm, leaving a thick, black smear, a casual gesture that sent shivers down my spine. She didn’t look normal, but in the dark hallway, my neighbours, groggy with sleep, might not look too closely at a seemingly lost, confused old woman. She knocked a third time, a final, decisive rap that resonated with an ominous finality. “I hear them stirring. The man has stopped snoring. The woman is rolling over to check the time.”
“Don’t hurt them,” I pleaded. My eyes stung with sudden tears, blurring my vision. Behind my eyes throbbed with pressure.
“I promise to leave them unharmed—if you invite me in,” Mrs. G proposed, her voice sickeningly sweet, a venomous honey. “This is the game of choice. So choose. Save yourself. Save them.”
I’d be lying if my first instinct wasn’t to do nothing—to remain a statue of indecision. My body was locked in a jittery paralysis, my limbs heavy as lead, my mind a chaotic battlefield of conflicting impulses. I was desperate for someone else to decide—someone better, wiser, more capable. Whoever made decisions for the universe. Fate. Destiny. God. Anything so I wouldn’t have to make that choice, to bear the crushing weight of the consequences. Because I was sure, with a sickening certainty, that I’d make the choice I was ashamed to make, the choice that screamed of self-preservation, to save my own skin at the expense of innocent lives.
Down the hall, a door creaked open, its hinges groaning in protest like a tortured beast. I couldn’t see who, but a voice, thick with sleep and irritation, a low, rumbling growl, grumbled, “Shut up out there, some of us are trying to sleep.”
Mrs. G grinned, a wide, grotesque display of teeth that gleamed in the dim light. She turned toward the open door, her movements unnaturally swift, a blur of motion that defied human limitations.
“Mrs. Girard?” the person asked, his voice laced with confusion and a growing tendril of concern. “Is that—are you okay?”
Mrs. G said nothing, her all-black eyes fixed on the figure in the doorway. She nodded back at me, a slow, deliberate movement that included me in some horrific understanding, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps rippling across my skin. Then, with a ghostly grace, she ran down the hall, her pastel nightgown billowing around her like a shroud.
I don’t know who screamed first—me or my neighbour. But two screams, raw and terrified, tore through the hallway, echoing through the building’s concrete and steel. I heard a door slam open with a sickening thud as the unwanted terror entered my neighbour’s home. I heard someone gasping for air, a choked, ragged sound that sent ice shards down my spine.
“Come in!” I shouted, a pleading, broken cry that tore from my throat. “You can come in!”
The screaming stopped abruptly, replaced by an unsettling silence that hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken dread. The whole building seemed to take a collective breath, to inhale and hold it, a moment of terrified stillness. Then, the lights went out, plunging my apartment into a suffocating darkness.
All I could hear was my pounding heart.
Moving in the suffocating darkness, I heard a wet crunch, the sound of something heavy and limp being thrown onto the carpet. Another sickening pop and crunch, the shearing of fabric, tearing with a horrifying finality. Then, I heard something tapping along the hall wall, a slow, deliberate tap…tap…tap. Closer. Coming closer. My shaking hands rose to my mouth, clamping down on a whimper, heavy breaths, and a dizzying wave of nausea threatening to pull me down into a deeper darkness.
The floor creaked directly outside my door, groaning under immense, unnatural weight, and something stepped into the doorframe. A dark, hulking outline filled the space, a monstrous silhouette that eclipsed the faint green glow of the hall’s emergency exit sign. She didn’t look a thing like Mrs. G now.
The creature had doubled, maybe tripled in size, its form swollen and grotesque, bulging in places that shouldn’t bulge. Her limbs lengthened, stretched unnaturally into spindly, clawed appendages that scraped into the doorframe, gouging a greater chunk from the wood. Her back hunched, forming a nightmarish, distorted shape.
Her sharp, pointed teeth grinned at me from the darkness, a terrifying rictus of pure malice that stretched her mouth. A long, skeletal hand, the jagged nails dripping with thick, black ichor that steamed faintly in the cool air, snaked through the open door. Corvus’ promised barrier, my fragile sanctuary, was gone. She could enter freely now.
I stumbled back, my legs tangling in the darkness, a strangled cry escaping my lips. I only stopped when I slammed into my desk, the sudden collision sending a jolt of pain through my spine. My desk chair rattled, jerking as I shoved into it, the metal legs screeching against the hardwood floor. My toe touched something gritty, a rough, granular texture—the scattered salt circle.
I’d seen more than my fair share of horror films. The rules always changed—to avoid the cliche, or maybe because it felt more thrilling when the familiar became terrifyingly unpredictable. Whatever the reason, I did know a few rules, gleaned from countless hours of cinematic terror. And a circle of salt meant a slim chance of protection.
I squinted in the dark, my eyes straining to discern any gaps in my salt circle—trapezoid, the crude, uneven shape that might ruin my only defense—and spied a split, a gaping chasm in the line where my desk chair had rolled. A whimper escaped my lips. I collapsed to the floor, my movements frantic, desperate, a pathetic scramble for survival, darting for the open spot, sweeping the wayward grains with trembling fingers to complete an unbroken line, my nails scraping against the hardwood floor.
I heard thumping, the heavy, uneven pounding of Mrs. G’s footsteps, a relentless approach that vibrated through the floorboards, each impact sending grains of salt skittering like frantic insects. I curled tighter into a ball inside the hastily repaired circle—a space so small my knees dug into my chest, my arms wrapped so tightly around my legs they ached, my chin pressed against my kneecaps in a desperate attempt to disappear. I shivered uncontrollably, my teeth chattering, as I held my fetal position of terror.
But the thundering footsteps stopped, the rhythmic pounding ceased abruptly, leaving only the oppressive silence.
Mrs. G—or the grotesque mockery of what had once been Mrs. G—stood at the very edge of my precarious salt trapezoid, her monstrous form a looming shadow back-lit in green. The smell of damp earth, rust, copper, and decay made my stomach churn, and bile rise in my throat, my eyes stinging with the acrid stench.
Sludge dripped from her skin, tiny droplets of black fluid that hissed and sputtered like acid as they touched the salt barrier, vanishing into smoky wisps that smelled of burnt hair. Her eyes gleamed in the dark, unfocused reflections of the faint green light, twin obsidian pools that traced the uneven salt line with a predatory intelligence.
The cliche was a success. Saved, for now, by my late-night salt fiasco, my sleep-deprived attempt at supernatural pest control.
Her long claws cracked and clicked as her fingers twitched with restless, predatory movement. She patrolled the salt line, her hulking form shifting and swaying, moving deeper into my apartment, her shadow stretching and contorting across the walls. She searched for an angle, a weakness, an opening to invade my sanctuary. But, somehow, my sleepwalking had saved my life. It was almost like…I’d prepared for this.
“Clever,” Mrs. G said, her voice less human than before—a guttural rasp that sounded nothing like the sweet old lady who’d brought me guava jam and more like a malfunctioning garburator, grinding bones and metal with a wet, sickening churn. “But we go back to the same game. You come out, or I paint the hall with your neighbour’s insides.”
The monster was right. Once again, the choice was a cruel, impossible one: saving myself or condemning innocent lives to unimaginable horror. And there were no more Hail Marys waiting. No more nightmare premonitions to guide me. I was alone, trapped between a monster and the horrifying consequences of my inaction.
“Why are you after me?” I demanded, a trembling squeak. If this was going to end—one way or another—I wanted to know there was a damn good reason for the terror that had invaded my life.
“Because my terrible lady wants war,” she snarled, a menacing growl that echoed through the small apartment. “And your suffering brings them suffering.”
“Them who?” I asked shakily, my throat dry and painful as I swallowed.
“The Lords of Dusk and Dawn,” she answered, eyes gleaming with malevolent triumph.
A subtle scraping sound drew both our eyes to the battered doorway. Another large shadow filled the space—but not for long. The man barely paused to look, his blue eyes locking onto mine for a fleeting, intense second, before he moved with a terrifyingly controlled fury. He moved swiftly with his unsheathed blade, a flash of cold steel in the dark. His brutal strike, a dance of lethal grace, penetrated her chest with a sickening thunk. The force of the blow rocked her monstrous form back. Sludge splattered, the slimy black fluid erupting from the wound like a geyser, somehow bouncing off the invisible barrier of my salt trapezoid, landing on surfaces around my apartment with a sizzling hiss that smelled of burnt flesh and vinegar. The corrosive substance immediately began to eat into the polished hardwood floor, leaving smoking trails.
Mrs. G let out a howl, a choking, raspy sound that filled the apartment with a wave of raw, animalistic pain. She lashed out with a clawed hand, her long, jagged nails tearing through the air with a whistling sound—but the broad-shouldered man moved with impossible speed, a blur of dark leather and lethal intent, grabbing her wrist with a sickening snap that made me flinch. Her too-long arm bent at an unnatural angle where he gripped. She howled again, a guttural scream of pure agony. He ripped the sword from her chest, the blade slick with black sludge that dripped onto the floor in thick, viscous globs, and kicked her oozing body to the floor with a brutal, decisive movement that sent a tremor through the floorboards.
Swiftly, with precisely controlled motion that spoke of deadly expertise, he stomped on her wounded chest, crushing the monstrous form beneath his heavy boot. He raised his sword again, the blade gleaming with a neon green hue, a promise of swift, merciless justice. Without hesitation, he decapitated the monster, the sharp steel slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening thud. The head rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of black sludge, its lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Corvus sharply shook off his sword, sending a few slick droplets of black to the floor where they hissed and dissolved, then he sheathed his sword in the shadow of his peacoat. He kneeled at the edge of my salt trapezoid, his blue eyes, bright and unwavering, locking onto mine once more. “Are you alright?”
I couldn’t make a sound, my throat tight with a knot of fear and a strange, unfamiliar stirring in my chest. I think I turned my head—a small, almost imperceptible movement, not quite an answer, but the raw intensity of his gaze held me captive, and the slight tremor in my response was enough to make him exhale, a soft, relieved sound that somehow eased the suffocating tension in the room.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know the creature was here until you let her in.”
My lip trembled. He’d placed the protection on my apartment, so it made sense he was alerted when it came down.
“It isn’t safe to stay here,” he warned me, his voice apologetic and reluctant, a hint of steel beneath the soft words.
I nodded—I definitely nodded that time, a jerky and rigid movement.
He continued to kneel in silence, his blue eyes still locked on mine, a silent conversation passing between us in the aftermath of the brutal violence. Stiffly, my gaze drifted to the detached head, its lifeless eyes, black and vacant, staring up at the ceiling, a grotesque decoration that had rolled into my living room, a macabre centerpiece in my already cluttered space. It wasn’t hard to imagine its trajectory, the sickening thud as it landed, in the awkwardly shaped oblong that served as my entryway, kitchen, and living room. The monster corpse on the floor, oozing black sludge that smelled of death and something anciently foul, made the small space feel extra claustrophobic.
“I can’t cross the salt,” Corvus said, his voice low with a hint of regret, a shadow of self-reproach that tugged at something unexpected within me. It was a strange contrast to the terrifying display of power I’d just witnessed, the brutal efficiency with which he’d dispatched the creature. He’d swooped in like a knight for the second time in my life—a dark, brooding knight with a sword dripping with monster ichor—yet he seemed to perceive a failing in his inability to breach the fragile barrier, a vulnerability that strangely mirrored my own.
I kicked my heel an inch, a deliberate act to break the salt line, a fragile gesture of trust, an unspoken invitation. It was all I could manage at that moment, my body still trembling with the aftershocks of terror.
“May I touch you?” he asked quietly, an intimate murmur that warmed me from the tips of my frozen toes to the sudden flutter in my stomach. His gaze was intense, possessive, and held a strange, magnetic pull.
“Mhm.” My throat was tight, constricted by a knot of fear and a burgeoning, unfamiliar emotion. My eyes stung with unshed tears, a fragile combination of lingering terror and a burgeoning sense of safety in his presence. I was not holding it together.
Corvus reached out, his strong, cold hand, still faintly slick with the monster’s blood, gently touched my arm. The contact sent a shiver through me, a jolt both startling and comforting, grounding me in the reality of the moment. An undignified, choked sob escaped my trembling lips, a release of pent-up fear and a desperate need for solace. Corvus leaned closer, his dark hair brushing against my temple, and kissed the top of my head, a gentle, possessive gesture that sent a strange warmth spreading through me.
“You’re safe,” he whispered, his breath warm against my scalp. “Nothing can hurt you while I’m here. I swear it.” The intensity in his voice, the unwavering conviction in his blue eyes, was a powerful balm that banished the lingering terror.
I relaxed—or collapsed—and let him put his arms around me. I hid my tear-streaked face against his broad chest, the rough texture of his peacoat contrasting with the surprising softness of the silken shirt beneath. My hand clutched at his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. He scooped me up with effortless strength, a classic princess carry that felt strangely intimate, his arms strong and sure, like I weighed nothing at all.
“I’m going to take you somewhere safe for the night,” he explained, his tone soothing, a low rumble against my ear, his warm breath tickling my skin. “I promise, if you wish to, you can leave in the morning. But, for now, please try not to worry if you don’t…recognize it.” His words unsettled me, a hint of some strangeness soon to come, a possibility that both intrigued and unnerved me. But the safety of his arms, the intoxicating scent of leather and autumn spices that clung to him, overshadowed my apprehension. I just wanted to feel safe and protected—and his arms and broad chest were doing all that and more.
Corvus carried me out of my apartment, crossing the threshold like I was a tear-stained bride carried away from the scene of a truly dangerous wedding reception. Peering over his shoulder, I could see doors creaking open down the hall. Neighbours in nightclothes, their faces pale and etched with a dawning horror, had plucked up the courage to witness the aftermath of the screaming, scraping, and banging.
The fluorescent lights were flickering erratically, casting long, unsteady shadows across the walls. It was enough light to make out the slumped, broken body of one of my neighbours—limbs contorted at impossible angles, a dark stain blooming on the carpet beneath—and the wrecked door lying flat on the ground. The sight sent a fresh wave of nausea churning in my stomach, a reminder of what Corvus had saved me from.
I wasn’t surprised when he chose the stairs. With the hall lights still flickering, the elevator felt like a deathtrap waiting to happen. But I wasn’t sure how long I’d feel like a feather in his arms after three flights of stairs.
Still, he descended the steps with no hint of slowing, no change in the steady rhythm of his breath. His even steps were a reliable, calming counterpoint to the hushed whispers and terrified whimpers that filtered through the stairwell.
He reached the ground floor and carried me out to the street. The night air was brisk, refreshing compared to the stagnant, fear-tinged atmosphere of the building. The city lights, usually a vibrant pulse, felt too bright, intrusive, a harsh contrast to the darkness we’d just escaped.
Yet, even as a shiver traced its way down my spine, his warmth seeped through my thin pajamas, a comforting heat that chased away the chill. I found myself instinctively tightening my grip around his neck, not just for balance, but an inexplicable need to be closer, to anchor myself to his strength in the face of my unraveling world.
I heard the distant whine of sirens, navigating closer through the busy city streets, the herald of a reality I wasn’t ready to face. My mind raced, trying to piece together a plausible explanation for the carnage, a narrative that wouldn’t land me in a jail cell or a psychiatric ward. Two bodies. One in my apartment building, the other down the hall, both victims of something…unnatural.
My phone lay abandoned on my nightstand. Heather would be frantic, her texts already composing themselves in my imagination, each one punctuated with increasingly dramatic emojis.
“We don’t have to take the train, do we?” I asked. The thought of public transport felt unbearable.
A small, almost imperceptible smile warmed his expression, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. The hint of amusement sent a strange warmth blooming in my chest. “No,” he promised. “I rarely use human transportation.”
A wave of relief washed over me, the thought of facing a train full of bewildered commuters in my pajamas and tear-stained face unbearable. But his phrasing struck me as odd, a subtle othering that I couldn’t ignore. And it wasn’t the first time he’d said something that implied a distinct separation between him and humankind.
“You say that like…like you’re not human,” I said, my arm still looped around his neck, my fingers tangling in the soft fall of his dark hair, the nearness of him strangely intoxicating.
He didn’t answer. Which, in its own way, was the only answer I needed.
“You’re not human,” I repeated quietly. It was a strange realization. The confirmation should’ve been unsettling, terrifying even. But instead, it felt…almost expected. Like finally learning the real lyrics to a song you’ve always loved but never quite knew all the words.
Corvus wasn’t human, but, honestly, he’d never truly felt human. It was…other things…the intensity in his piercing blue eyes, the way he moved with a predatory grace, the almost reverent respect with which he treated me despite his obvious power…those were the things that drew me to him, a moth inexplicably drawn to a dark flame.
“So where are we going?” I asked, a breathless whisper against his chest.
“My home,” he said. He left the side street and walked toward the tiny stretch of green, a common spot for pet owners in my building to take their furry companions for midnight relief, a grassy island in the sea of concrete.
“Is it far?” I felt a little guilty, a sudden awareness of the burden I might be.
“It will take a moment,” he said, his gaze dropping to the small patch of earth. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused, fixed on an invasive mushroom, a pale cap somehow missed by the building’s caretaker. Then, impossibly, another mushroom sprouted beside it, followed by another, their caps unfurling with unnatural speed until a large, perfect ring had formed on the damp earth.
Corvus carried me to the edge of this sudden, impossible circle, his eyes meeting mine with an unspoken intensity. He spoke a brief, melodic phrase in a language I didn’t understand, the words resonating with an ancient power that hummed in the air around us, and then, without hesitation, he stepped into the mushroom circle, carrying me with him.
And then everything familiar was gone.