I dreamt of teeth.
Not just fangs. Teeth. Sharp, white, perfect—gripping my throat, pressing into skin that refused to scream. I dreamed of cold breath and eyes that glowed like dying stars. Of my name whispered in a voice I didn't know, but somehow recognized.
When I woke, I wasn't sure if I had ever really slept.
The handprints were still there.
Two this time. One on each windowpane. The right hand was smeared. Like it had dragged downward. Like it had wanted in.
I didn't touch them. I didn't clean them. I just pulled the curtains shut and backed away.
I told myself I was fine.
Ashwood looked brighter in the daylight, but it was a lie. The kind of brightness that felt forced, like makeup over a bruise. The streets were too quiet, too polished. People moved like they were being watched. Or like they were doing the watching.
I needed air. Motion. Anything to shake the feeling still clinging to my skin.
I walked into town.
It was small, the kind of place where you could see from one end to the other. Antique shops. A single café. A post office with ivy climbing its stone walls. It would have been beautiful if it didn't feel so haunted.
A man leaned against a lamppost outside the post office. Smoking something that wasn't a cigarette. His coat was long and dark. His eyes darker.
"You're the one with the blood," he muttered as I passed.
I stopped. Turned. "What did you say?"
He didn't look at me. Just took another drag and said, "The town remembers what it wants to forget. You should've never come."
And then he was gone.
I stood there for a long time after he disappeared. The wind picked up, rattling the street signs and sending a chill down my spine. I felt like I had stepped into a game I didn't know the rules to.
At The Hollow café, the red-haired barista from yesterday wasn't there. A girl with sleek black hair and too-bright gold earrings took his place. She smiled too hard when I walked in, like someone told her to expect me.
"Someone's been asking about you," she said.
I stiffened. "Who?"
Her smile twitched. "You'll know him when he wants you to."
I left without ordering.
I wandered into the old library, tucked between the bookstore and a florist's shop. The place smelled like dust and old paper. There was a woman behind the counter who didn't look up when I entered. Just muttered, "You smell like fire and blood."
I turned around and left.
By the time I made it back home, the sun had sunk behind the hills, casting long, gold shadows across my porch. The stillness had returned, thicker now. Pressing against my skin.
I tried to eat. Couldn't. I tried to watch something stupid on my laptop. Couldn't focus.
Around nine, I lit a candle and sat in bed, listening.
That was when I noticed it.
No owls. No wind. Not even the creak of the trees.
The silence had weight.
Something was coming.
I shut every window. Locked every door. Checked them twice.
But just before midnight, I felt him.
I didn't hear him. Didn't see him. But something inside me reacted—blood turning cold, skin prickling like frost.
He was close.
I crept to the window and slowly pulled back the curtain.
A man stood at the edge of the woods.
Far enough that I couldn't see his face. Close enough that I could feel him watching.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there—tall, still, and wrong.
The moon slid out from behind the clouds and lit the clearing.
His eyes glowed.
Not gold. Not silver.
Crimson.
I stared, frozen. My breath caught in my throat.
He lifted one hand.
Just one. Slowly. Like a promise.
Or a warning.
I dropped the curtain.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. My body shook, but the room was warm.
I curled up in bed, blanket pulled over my head like I was five again.
I didn't sleep.
But I could still feel his eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
Wanting.
And I knew then—I wasn't imagining things. Something had found me.
And it wasn't going to let go.