Chapter One
She should have been answering the phone and reassuring her sister that she hadn't just ended it all. But instead, Anne was renting a house in the Everglades, doing everything she could to reconnect with Eliza after Daisy's death. She was absolutely certain that the right path wasn't to distance herself from her sister. But that's exactly what she was doing.
It had been a long time since she'd spent more than a few hours outside her 26th-floor penthouse. Manhattan was ridiculously expensive, but she still hadn't mustered the courage to leave.
A few clothes were thrown into a suitcase on the bed when the name flashing on her phone screen changed.
"What are you doing, hun bun?" Dave's voice was the first thing she heard when she picked up. "Why aren't you at your mother's funeral, for God's sake?"
"Things got a bit out of hand…"
"Did you think that wouldn't happen? It's your mother, Anne. You can't just run away from her funeral." Dave was irritated, talking like he was scolding a ten-year-old.
"I'm not going back there. My mom died yesterday and wanted to be cremated. I'm not buying a ticket to this circus Samantha planned."
"There's no circus. People just want to say goodbye. Your mother was—"
"Someone who was completely rejected and forgotten by her own family and everyone around her for decades!" Anne nearly shouted, her voice trembling. "People waited for her to die to remember her? Give me a break, Dave… I don't have time for this crap, okay?"
"Where are you?"
"At home." Anne let out a tired sigh before pausing, staring at the booking screen. "I'm leaving, Dave."
"What?" The voice on the other end was filled with surprise. "What do you mean? To where? With whom?"
"Alone. To Florida. I…" Anne stopped speaking again. She was exhausted but not so much that she couldn't feel the suffocating weight of her confession. She needed to take responsibility for the first time. After all those terrible and precise words from Samantha, Anne needed to own up.
"I'm going to stop drinking, Dave."
There was a long silence on the other end, and she waited until finally said:
"Dave?"
"I'm here." His voice was hoarse. "Sorry. I'm just really happy, Anne. Really happy."
Alone in that enormous apartment, the writer smiled, trying to ignore the overwhelming urge to go to the kitchen for a shot of cognac.
(…)
The worst idea she'd ever had in her entire damn life.
Without a doubt.
Her hands pushed the shopping cart while a violent fatigue settled over her body.
It had been a terrible idea. A shitty idea.
Anne closed her eyes, on the verge of an anxiety attack. She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone four hours without a drink and doing it while trying to process her mother's death felt like suicide.
She looked at the cart she'd been pushing for twenty whole minutes, completely empty. If only she had the courage to follow through on what she'd planned in a desperate, prideful fury. But now, with the flames extinguished and Anne reduced to ashes, continuing seemed pointless.
But in the end, she had to.
Even if she had to use the ridiculous pretense that she was doing it for her dead mother's happiness, she needed to climb out of the incredibly deep hole she'd dug herself into.
Anne stopped in front of the frozen food section, her hands cold and sweaty, teeth beginning to grind. She opened the freezer door and grabbed a few single-serving meals, trying to ignore the fact that she'd have to catch a plane and then drive for hours.
How the hell would she do that in an already alarming fucked up state?
Maybe…
Maybe she should start after she got there.
Her eyes lit up with the idea. Yes, maybe it was a great idea.
But as quickly as it came, the smile died before the freezer door had fully closed.
Maybe it was a shitty idea, like all her recent ones. An endless cascade of shitty ideas.
Anne clenched her teeth.
She needed to ignore any romantic notion her mind was concocting and accept that the only way to get to that damn place alone would be under the influence of alcohol. She let go of the cart and started walking toward the wine section.
Anne almost ran.
Her heart pounded so hard she could barely believe it. She'd been drinking without restraint for so long that the thought of suddenly stopping was... desperately maddening.
She reached the wine aisle and quickly chose the one with the highest alcohol content, one of the few with a screw cap. Using her car key to break the seal, she opened the bottle right there, feeling the weight of stares on her back. Anne took five huge gulps and only stopped when she felt the wine start to trickle down the side of her mouth. She wiped her face, her heart racing like a locomotive. She drank again, downing half the bottle in a minute or two, rooted to the spot as if she needed to reach some limit before moving again.
And she did. After two or three more generous swigs, she felt capable of walking again.
Her hands had stopped shaking, and her whole body began to buzz with energy. Anne took a deep breath.
"Okay," she whispered to herself, staring at the woman watching her intently. "Here we go." She started walking again, leaving behind the creeping sense of defeat that slithered through her soul like a lingering shadow.
(…)
"I don't think this is a good idea," declared her younger sister, Eliza, who always acted like the older one. She already had two kids and, despite looking Anne in the eyes, couldn't believe what she was hearing. Anne Walch moving to another state, across the country, to live in a house isolated twenty miles from the nearest town? No way, right?
"I was expecting more of a 'I'm sure this will be good for you,'" Anne said, taking a drag from her cigarette, the lines of frustration deepening between her brown eyebrows.
Sitting on one of the many park benches, both of them wore heavy coats and tall boots.
"I can't keep coddling you," Eliza shrugged, one hand holding a disposable coffee cup and the other practically breaking her cigarette in half. "You've been unstable for like five years, Anne. Now you want to get away from everything and everyone you know? What's the next step? Finding your rotting body months later after no contact?"
"I want to get better…" Sunk into the bench, Anne watched the snow fall. There was an immeasurable weight on her shoulders she couldn't shake off.
"You can afford the best rehab clinics in New York. Why the fuck do you need to…" Eliza stopped talking abruptly, realizing she was once again pressuring Anne to do what she wanted.
Even though an intervention was clearly necessary, Eliza knew that pushing Anne too hard might mean losing her entirely. She took a drag from her cigarette, feeling restless.
"Maybe… that's why… Maybe I just need some time." Watching a particular snowflake fall, Anne wondered how she could make her life stop spiraling down the drain.
Eliza swallowed hard, looking at her sister's faded expression. It was as if Anne no longer existed. It was as if, somehow, alcoholism had drowned her within herself. Somewhere inside, the real Anne was trapped. Buried by years of neglect and alcohol.
This was just a shadow.
"It's going to be okay." Eliza's voice broke the intrusive thoughts echoing in both their minds. "Don't let yourself believe otherwise. Even though I don't think this move is a good idea, it might be, in the end… the best thing for you." She took a deep breath and continued, "Sam and Josh…"
"I know." Anne cut her off. "You're my only sister, Eliza. And it's okay."
"I'm sorry… that all this happened between you guys." Eliza's eyes burned, a lump forming in her throat every time this subject came up.
"Don't be. It's fine." Anne needed to leave. "I have to go." She stood up, taking one last drag before putting out the cigarette and looking at her sister, who still sat with her coffee and Marlboro, her eyes heavy with concern. "I mean it."
"I know you do. I'm looking right at you, and I don't know when I'll see you again." Eliza shrugged, standing up too. "I'm not letting you get on that plane before you give me the address and everything… And if you stop answering your phone, I swear…"
"Hey, I'll answer the phone." Anne gripped her sister's shoulder, pulling her close. "It's going to be okay. Right?"
"Right." They hugged in the cold New York silence, while deep down, their hearts screamed in opposite directions.
(…)
Anne took the night flight and arrived in Fort Myers close to one in the morning. After dragging herself through the terminal and grabbing her luggage, she reached the rental car counter, got the keys to a 4x4, and headed outside. It was raining, typical chaotic Florida weather.
With the ease of an alcoholic, she saw no problem in downing all the drinks she could on the plane, and nothing irritated her more than knowing that was not enough. She threw her bags in the trunk and pulled a cigarette from the pack before getting in the car. Her fingers tapped quickly on her smartphone screen, searching for a store to quench her thirst.
Anne started the car when she found one, just twelve minutes away.
Following the GPS, she pulled up in front of the liquor store at 1:23 a.m. She went in alone, ignoring the homeless people sleeping near the iron doors, and grabbing a blue basket, she walked through the aisles picking out several bottles.
The torrential rain had completely stopped by the time she left the store. She got back into the car, placing the three heavy bags on the passenger seat floor, and opened a bottle with her teeth. "One for the trip, the rest to settle in." Walch took three good swigs of whiskey.
"Jack, Jack, Jack." The brunette lit her cigarette, starting the 4x4. "Always by my side." Placing the bottle of Jack Daniels between her legs, she continued her journey.
The closer she got to the Everglades, the worse the weather became. What started as a few sprinkles turned into drizzle, and now it had transformed into heavy, relentless raindrops. It was almost three in the morning when she found herself on that dirt road. Drunk, completely alone, in the dead of the night, with torrential rain pouring down.
"This has to be the height of stupidity," she whispered to herself, trying to see something in the darkness that even the powerful headlights couldn't cut through. The last houses had faded into the night over half an hour ago. The internet signal was so weak that, on the GPS, her car appeared to be floating in the middle of a forest.
Anne reached for the control and switched the car into four-wheel drive as it began to slip in the mud. Her heart was pounding fast, so she took another sip. Nervous, she took enough gulps to make sure none of those factors bothered her anymore. Seeing three or four different roads, Anne knew the house she rented was the last one on the road. There was no other road or path after the supposed location, and that was the only thing keeping her going.
The end of the line hadn't come yet.
With both hands on the wheel, a cigarette in her mouth, and Taylor Swift blasting, the writer had already drunk half a bottle of whiskey when she felt the car suddenly stop.
The engine had died, and after two seconds of shock and confusion, she started it again. But the car didn't make it more than thirty seconds before it died again. She checked. Still half a tank of gas. No engine lights on.
The headlights, once so bright, started to flicker.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered directly to the car, trying to start it again.
This time, the sound was a frustrating, choking "nhe-nhe-nhe-nhe" that soon disappeared. She stared at the bottle of Jack Daniels, the weight of frustration pressing down on her chest. Her gaze shifted to the map on her phone, the directions blurring in her vision as a storm of anger brewed inside her. The boiling rage finally erupted—she pounded the steering wheel with both fists, unleashing all her pent-up fury. The car shook with the impact, and the horn, which had been sounding weak and off-pitch, gave one last feeble cry before falling silent forever. She kept pounding, as if each strike could somehow release her from the spiral of frustration and despair that had overtaken her.
She was exactly two minutes away from her destination. A third of a mile.
Taking the cigarette and lighting it with trembling hands, Anne took a drag, staring at the GPS intently. She was too drunk to call her insurance, or the police. She was too drunk to get any kind of help without throwing the rest of her dignity in the trash.
"It's fine," she sighed.
Of course, she could walk three hundred meters in a straight line in total darkness, having never been there before, in the fucking rain.
Of course she fucking could.
If there was one thing Anne was good at, it was making bad decisions.
She made bad decisions all the time!
And this was definitely one of those bad decisions.
"It's fine!" she repeated, grabbing the whiskey bottle, her phone, and the house key. All she needed was a place to shower and sleep. Naked, for all she cared, whatever. But under no circumstances would she sleep alone in that dead car in the middle of nowhere.
She grabbed a plastic bag and put her phone inside, turning on the flashlight without realizing she only had 5% battery left. With a thousand thoughts and a war of words and insults spinning in her drunken mind, she put the house key in the inner pocket of her jacket, grabbed the bottle, and took one last drag of the cigarette before opening the car door.
Immediately drenched, Anne began walking quickly. The phone's flashlight helped a little, but it was so minimal and ridiculously useless when you were as drunk as she was.
"You must really have something against me," she muttered to God. "You must've talked to my mom, and now you're trying to punish me!" The scream echoed through the Everglades Forest.
Stumbling and with her boots sinking into the mud of the road, Anne pointed the phone forward now and then, making sure she wasn't walking into a swamp or a fucking bog. She knew Florida was full of pythons and gators, and she didn't want to be eaten by either of them without first setting foot in that damn house.
But then, the battery died, and the flashlight's disappearance made Anne Walch's heart sink into her chest.
Just when she was thinking about snakes and gators.
"If you think you're gonna make me cry, forget it!" And as she started running, Anne tripped a few times before falling to her knees, having no idea how far she'd gone.
Drunk and sad as hell.
How do people get into situations like this? Or better yet… How did I manage to get myself into this mess? My God, Anne, how can you be so ridiculously… stupid!?
In the mud and under the torrential rain, Anne pulled the bottle from her jacket pocket and drank until she felt she was about to pass out. The gulps went down like acid in her throat. Hot and fast, entering her system at lightning speed.
"Everyone's rushing ahead, Mom… But all I want is to stop, to never move again… Please, Mommy… Please take me with you… Set the fucking appointment, Mommy!" The words trembled as tears welled up, drowning any remnants of strength.
Collapsing into the suffocating embrace of darkness, the weight of grief consumed her without restraint.
The world outside vanished, swallowed by a void that mirrored the emptiness within. Tears fell like a lost child's, each sob echoing in the silence, minutes stretching into an eternity of despair. The darkness offered no comfort, only a hollow space where agony spiraled endlessly, where time stood still, and the pain felt infinite, wrapping around her like cold, unforgiving chains.
The brink of unconsciousness loomed when a firm grip lifted her body off the ground. Shock rippled through the haze of drunkenness, but strength to resist was gone. A scream barely formed. Maybe the truth had been clear to everyone but her—how deep things had sunk. Warnings were ignored, preferring the intoxicating feeling of floating.
Gazing up, the heavy rain and total darkness obscured everything. Lifted off the ground with absurd ease, her face collided with a dry, warm, and strong chest. With a heart racing inside the chest, and legs that attempted to push down, Anne was sure that the last gulps of whiskey had drained every ounce of her energy.
(…)
When she woke up the next morning, her headache was so bad it almost sank her into the soft, warm upholstery she was lying on. The realization made the blue eyes fly open, and she jumped up to inspect the room.
The couch looked old, but not too old.
How did she get there?
The last thing she remembered was… driving in the rain.
Anne paused, trying to remember. She had no memory of opening the door. Of bringing in her bags. Taking a shower or changing clothes.
Staring at the clothes she was wearing at that moment a chill ran down her spine. She searched the entire house, which now, with the powerful daylight, revealed every shadow, every corner.
Alone.
Digging through her bag for headache medicine, the brunette struggled to piece together fragments of memory. Had she really arrived last night? Unloaded the car, put away the bottles and frozen food?
But making coffee? She hadn't bought any coffee. She was sure of it.
With furrowed brows, she stared at the cold coffee sitting in the glass carafe, a ghostly reminder of something she couldn't recall doing.
"I'm losing it… I need to stop drinking so much…" The words were barely a whisper, a desperate attempt to cling to the fraying edges of her sanity.
(…)
"I'm telling you, there's a town nearby." It had been six hours since she woke up there, not knowing exactly how, but that was a secret she would take to grave. Mentioning it to her sister would be like asking for an intervention.
"I believe you," the female voice replied sarcastically on the other end of the line.
The cell phone didn't work very well in those places. The house, or rather, the mansion, was a three-hundred-year-old structure with white walls stained with rust and dirt, and with weeds climbing the pillars and window curves of the facade.
Inside, it was spacious, and even older than it appeared from the outside. Old chandeliers filled with cobwebs and wallpaper destroyed by time. The house had been closed for a decade, or more, until now. It needed some urgent repairs, but she couldn't think too much about that since she was only renting it for a year.
In search of inspiration and, at the same time, redemption for herself.
"Aren't you scared of staying there alone?"
"Scared of what?"
"I don't know, shit, it's a three-hundred-year-old house! And from what I can see in the ad, very spooky…" Anne hadn't mentioned the second part. And she wasn't going to. She shifted in the armchair as her eyes fell on the bottle of cognac on the table.
"There's nothing wrong with the house, Eliza, it's just old, not spooky… Tomorrow the cleaning crew will fix everything. I'll take the opportunity to do some quick renovations and make it… more livable."
An uncomfortable silence followed that statement. It was as if she knew what was going through her sister's mind.
"I need to hang up," she said, before they got into that cycle again.
"Anne…"
"I'll call you tomorrow." She completely ignored Eliza's silent plea. "Make sure you stop working and go spend time with your kids."
And without waiting for even a sigh, Anne Walch hung up, staring at the bottle of cognac for at least ten seconds before grabbing it and taking a generous swig.
Her heart felt like it weighed a ton.
When would it be time?
When would she finally have the courage to just…
Win.
Win over the overwhelming urge… that only alcohol brought.
Yes, Samantha was right, the media, all her friends, the crazies writing in all caps in the comments on YouTube videos about her, and even the old gossipers who couldn't talk about anything else, they were all right. Everyone except her, because she was just a stupid alcoholic running from death and grief.
Running from herself.
Tears filled her eyes, and Anne Walch drank a few more gulps straight from the bottle.
What a huge, strangely comforting hole she had dug herself into. While those gulps locked her deeper and deeper into a dark, foul-smelling pit, they also blocked the effects and pains of life's blows. It was a dreadful buffer, but on many sleepless nights, a welcome one.
(…)
Anne Walch was a woman on the edge, teetering between moments of good humor and bouts of despair. She valued solitude above all, a true introvert with a skeptical nature, often finding herself more irritable than she cared to admit. A wary soul, venturing out only for essentials, avoiding unnecessary interactions or casual conversations. New friendships held no allure, and small talk was an annoyance best left untouched. Anne didn't want to go around traveling, meeting people, and seeing the world, no.
She wanted a quiet, silent place, the perfect spot to do the one thing she loved most: getting drunk.
Writing!
When she woke up the morning after talking to Eliza, Anne felt the real impact of being isolated. The first day had been chaotic and full of too many boxes for her to notice how quiet and still the place was.
Too quiet.
Too still.
She walked to the backyard and gazed at the morning sky for a few minutes. A deep headache settled in with each passing second outside, as if her body was ordering her to go back inside and drink something.
So that's what she did. Walch went back inside, and when she reached the kitchen, she stopped in front of the coffee maker with a deep frown.
"What the hell is this?"
The coffee, made and now cold in the glass carafe, looked strong.
And she didn't drink strong coffee. She didn't had any fucking coffee!
Lately, with her growing insomnia, she didn't drink coffee at all. Why the hell was she making coffee when she was too drunk to remember?
"No…" She clearly remembered blacking out in the library. "No way."
And as if she were being pulled in that direction, Walch stared at the cup sitting on the counter. Seeing it immediately made her walk over and pick it up, starting a deep examination.
But the sound of the doorbell made Anne jump, dropping the cup.
"Holy fucking shit!" She jumped back, trying to dodge the splash of coffee that the angle of impact caused. "Ugh! Damn it… now, besides not remembering making coffee, I have to clean…"
Anne crossed the room and opened the front door just as the cleaning company van pulled up. Standing before her was a woman with a warm, welcoming smile.
"Good morning, Ms. Walch," the woman greeted. "I'm Laura, and we're here to take care of the cleaning for you today."
(…)
After a heavy cleaning by a team of twenty people over the course of an entire day, the house looked much more livable, and for some reason, much more terrifying.
Night fell, and although she was a skeptic, Anne felt uneasy.
The thunder cracked like a beast roaring from within the walls, jolting Anne out of her spiraling thoughts. Her blue eyes flicked to the wall clock—2:40 a.m. Another night slipping away, claimed by the relentless grip of insomnia. The hours bled into each other, her mind a battlefield of intrusive thoughts that kept sleep at bay. The ceiling above, once a blank canvas, now loomed like a void, swallowing the little peace she had left.
No.
Anne preferred to spend her sleepless moments writing because writing came with whiskey, and whiskey made her sleep like an angel. Even if she needed to drink more each day to achieve that.
The sigh came to shake off the arrhythmia. She needed to close her eyes for a while, Anne knew that. She just didn't want to accept it. The brunette stretched her legs and, getting up, decided to go upstairs, for the first time, to the master suite.
Drunk, she leaned off the counter and took the bottle with her. Trying to ignore the boxes strewn across the hallway floor, she made her way upstairs. She hadn't unpacked much beyond the library, and she had lied to her sister when she said she was eating well.
Well, if she considered whiskey with fries and sausages a good meal, maybe she hadn't lied after all.
When she reached the bedroom, the light was off, and the sound of the rain seemed much more intense than downstairs. The pen holding her hair was pulled out, releasing the improvised bun as her free hand lightly tapped the switch. Warm and orange, the lamp illuminated the room, casting shadows in the darkest corners.
Her vision started to spin subtly, like a shift that offset one view from another, highlighting two frames and making each step very confusing.
She stopped, leaning against the doorframe.
An unusual tranquility hovered in that place. Despite its eerie appearance, Anne felt good there. Whatever energy circulated in that centenarian house seemed to resonate on the same frequency as hers. An unforgiving sadness and loneliness. Like being in the right place at the right time, about to create the right thing, which was to start trying to do something other than write the garbage she'd been writing. Something that was up to her great successes, and no matter how hard she tried, she felt that all that creativity would simply disappear the moment she stopped drinking. The exact moment she decided to get sober, her imagination… would dry up.
There was a bed there.
Anne stared at it with pragmatic eyes.
It was huge and, from there, very cozy.
The grieving daughter's body, exhausted and hollow from nearly 72 hours without sleep, collapsed onto the mattress with the weight of a soul drained dry. The bottle, her only companion, clinked softly as it met the bedside table. Anne blinked against the dizziness that washed over her, the ceiling above swirling like a dark vortex. The chandelier's shadows seemed to drip down the walls, thick and black like ink seeping into her mind.
Outside, the branches clawed at the window, synchronized with the rhythmic drum of raindrops and the mournful wail of the wind. A strange, almost sinister comfort enveloped her, as if the bed had transformed into a warm nest, coiling around her, whispering promises of rest that she hadn't felt in days. There was a pull, an invitation to surrender.
Tired.
That's what she kept repeating, desperately clinging to a fragile thread of denial. The growl of her empty stomach and the dryness in her throat were easily ignored.
The next breath she took filled her lungs with an eerie, unmistakable scent of lavender, a fragrance that felt too vivid, too intrusive. Teetering on the edge of sleep, a chill skittered across her skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms.
Anne squeezed her eyes shut, but the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, the air growing colder, more oppressive. Then, as if the darkness itself had cracked open, a scent invaded her senses—pine trees, wet earth, and the sharp tang of grass. It was overwhelming, suffocating in its intensity.
The wind began to howl, a distant sound at first, but growing closer, more insistent. Her turquoise eyes fluttered open, heavy with a reluctant awareness, as if something had forcibly yanked her from the bed and flung her into another world. The scene before her was as unreal as it was terrifyingly authentic.
She inhaled deeply, the fragrant air of a forest filling her lungs, and sat up abruptly, feeling the slickness of dew against her skin. The sensation was too real, too tangible for a dream.
What was this?
A nightmare? Or perhaps something darker, something that blurred the line between sleep and waking, dragging her into a reality where her mind no longer had control.
A lucid dream, perhaps. But then, why did it feel like something far worse? Usually, Anne wasn't able to have lucid dreams when she slept drunk, so she clearly hadn't experienced one in years. Her brown hair was loose, cascading in perfect curls down her back to her waist. The flannel pajamas she was wearing weren't suitable for the cold, but at that moment, Anne was in a dream. And even without understanding how, she knew perfectly well that this wasn't real. Her chest heaved. Standing up, her eyes scanned the forest of pine trees stretching in an apparent infinity of endless rows.
And then she saw it.
It was a silhouette, at least ten meters ahead. Her eyes fixed on the figure, and immediately her legs moved. Almost like a locomotive, at the same speed as the heartbeats that pounded like drums.
There was a genuine feeling there.
It was the innocence of sudden curiosity.
But before her third step, the figure disappeared, evaporating before her eyes as if it had never existed. Anne froze, her feet glued to the ground as her subconscious questioned what kind of dream or hallucination this was.
Her eardrums caught the sound of a branch snapping behind her, the cold wind tossing her hair, whistling through the forest like a wolf as every hair on her body stood on end.
She turned, distressed, the anxiety coursing through her gut. Her eyes met a broad chest, very, very close to her. Clad in a black flannel shirt. She barely had time to shift her gaze to what loomed over her when a strong hand grabbed her face and covered her eyes, while another wrapped around her waist.
She was frozen in place, her body trapped against the solid form of a man. Every breath came in short, rapid bursts, her hands instinctively gripping his wrist as her heart pounded so fiercely it drowned out everything—the wind, the rustling trees, every other sound.
Thud.
Thud.
It was all she could hear, the relentless rhythm echoing through her.
"Who…" The word barely escaped her lips before the air was stolen from her lungs, his long fingers sliding beneath her pajamas, searing her fair skin with a heat that felt like embers.
He lifted her effortlessly, as if her weight meant nothing, and the warmth of his breath ghosted across her face, igniting her flesh in a fire that consumed her.
His hand moved to cover half her face, silencing any attempt to speak. Her lips parted, but the soft, deliberate pressure against her mouth melted away all courage. The deep, almost feral growl that followed sent a shiver down her spine, a blend of fear and something dangerously intoxicating.
"You're an intruder…" he murmured against her lips, the words vibrating through her. "You're invading my land."
Every muscle, every nerve in her body seemed to dissolve into liquid heat, a primal mixture of terror and exhilaration coursing through her veins. For a moment, Anne questioned if this was truly a figment of her imagination or something far more sinister.
It's just a dream, she tried to convince herself, but the line between reality and nightmare was already blurred beyond recognition.
It was like sin itself had invaded her, winding through her veins, coiling around her spine, and igniting something primal in her mind. A surge of something dark and forbidden made her eyes widen, her breath catching in a harsh gasp. Anne bolted upright, shaken to her core. What the hell was that? She had never experienced anything so vividly real.
Never.
Her gaze flickered to the clock, the cold, indifferent face of time marking the witching hour. The room was heavy with silence, her heartbeat echoing in the stillness. Trembling, she let out a shuddering breath and lay back down, her body sinking into the mattress like it was pulling her into the abyss. Her eyes slipped shut, but deep inside, a desperate longing clawed at her—a dark, unspoken wish to return to that haunting dream, to be consumed by it once more. Out of everything, she was left with nothing.
Nothing but the sensation… And the taste… Embedded in her mouth like rust.
(…)
The sun bathed the gardens and forests surrounding the house when morning came. Birds perched along the wire fence that bordered her property, and the dew from the cold night was now transforming into a blanket of mist hovering just inches above the ground.
But Anne Walch hadn't slept after that dream. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't go back. And that led to an unbearable headache.
Was she dreaming?
Or hallucinating?
What kind of fucked-up dream was that?
She still felt her mouth throbbing as if the kiss had actually happened. Violent, abrupt. And that voice… whose was it? Who was he? Why… why did he call her an intruder?
She stared at the computer screen, and all she had managed to write was a short prologue about her recent dream. She was stunned, anxious, curious, wanting to dream more. It was as if the sunlight dimmed a bit of the sudden fear she felt upon waking.
That morning, despite the migraine, Anne went to the store and stocked the fridge for the first time. She had lunch on time, making herself some quick food with potatoes and a juicy steak, devouring it purely for survival. She didn't really know how to take care of herself, but she felt a bit weak that morning.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the excessive cognac. Maybe it was the dream. It was as if her skin still burned where she had been touched, something impressive and a bit frightening.
After all, how was this physically possible? How could she… feel on her skin something that happened inside a dream? As if her waist and face still burned and throbbed even after so many hours. She couldn't stop thinking about it.
And so she spent the rest of the day alone, in pure and complete silence, staring at the laptop screen and rereading the last words of the prologue over and over again.
"The taste of rust" they were.
And it was as if that same taste was still present, no matter what she ate, and every time she remembered, an electric shock surged through her muscles and forced her to stand up, in genuine fatigue. She spent the day drunk, with tangled hair and clothes far too large for her body, wandering around the house clutching a bottle of whiskey.
The hours dragged on until night fell, and Anne stuffed herself with cereal and milk before stripping naked and getting under the shower. Stumbling and tripping, she let the hot water push her blood pressure to its limit, sliding down the tiles until she was sitting on the floor of the bathtub.
The miserable drunk woman hugged her knees, trying to find, in that whirlwind of questions, the answer to her emptiness, to the pain, to all the weakness and incoherence. Unable to fight the intoxication and with that immense feeling of confusion, Anne lost consciousness, sprawled on the shower floor with hot water hitting the side of her body.
And so, at three in the morning, heavy boots landed on the attic floor and descended directly to the kitchen. Like magic, utensils materialized.
With deliberate, almost predatory motions, Charles prepared the coffee in under five minutes, the dark brew swirling into a cup that molded perfectly to his hand.
He brought the cup to his lips, pausing to inhale the rich, intoxicating aroma, savoring the moment, preferring the scent over the taste, at least for now. The kitchen around him was a wasteland of empty bottles and discarded food, remnants of a night that had spiraled into oblivion. His gaze, cold and calculating, swept over the scene before he moved silently up the stairs.
Each step was measured, echoing softly as he approached the bathroom. The faint sound of running water grew louder, the shower still spraying onto the tiled floor. His eyes fell upon the woman on the floor, her naked form sprawled in unconsciousness beneath the mist of the warm water. A dark frown deepened between his brows as he took in the sight, his eyes trailing over the curves of her body with a mix of curiosity and something darker, more primal.
He lingered, the air around him thick with unspoken tension, before setting the untouched coffee cup on the sink. The soft clink of porcelain was the only sound that marked his presence as he turned away, ascending to the attic, leaving the room steeped in the oppressive silence of his departure, the water still cascading over her.
Minutes later, Anne awoke, her body shivering despite the now-lukewarm water. Her head throbbed with the remnants of too much drink, and she struggled to her feet, turning off the shower before wrapping a towel around herself. Confusion and dread settled in her chest as she moved toward the bedroom, her brow furrowed deeply, and the bitter taste of fear lingering in her mouth like a warning she couldn't quite grasp. She stopped, just before leaving the bathroom.
The scent of lavender was thick in the air, unnaturally strong, like a perfumed warning from some malevolent force. It carried a heaviness that clung to her skin, sinking into her pores, setting off an alarm in her very bones.
Every hair on her body bristled in response, as if sensing the approach of something dark and inevitable. The sensation was unnerving, like being slowly dragged from the safety of the earth, impaled by an unseen force.
Compelled by a dread she couldn't explain, Anne turned ever so slowly, every movement a battle against the mounting terror that someone—or something—was lurking just behind her. Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat, as if the air itself had thickened to suffocate her. Veins bulged, pulsing with a frantic rhythm, each beat of her heart pounding louder, a drum of panic that echoed in her ears.
The anxiety seeped into her mind, filling every crevice with the cold, creeping dread, like a gas leak poisoning her from within. The woman leaned against the doorframe, her gaze falling on the cup, a bullseye that captured her attention for what felt like ten eternal seconds before she took the first and second steps, lifting her trembling hand to grasp the ceramic.
It was warm.
Anne almost dropped the cup. She set it back down in the same spot and left the bathroom for the bedroom, this time with her heart in her throat.
Shaking from head to toe, she grabbed the gun from the box and descended the stairs to the first floor, completely soaked and leaving wet footprints with every step. She crossed the house and searched every room, but there was absolutely no one.
Anne stepped into the yard, the wind clawing at her, but something sent her quickly back inside. As her gaze fixed on the staircase, she froze. A tall, shadowed figure with a low ponytail of reddish hair was ascending the stairs with unnerving silence, vanishing into the darkness of the second floor as if the shadows themselves had swallowed him whole.
"Hey!" she screamed, terrified.
Anne unlocked the gun with a clenched jaw of fear but ran up the stairs as if chasing the killer of a child. Anne was determined, and despite trembling with fear, the real driving force was courage. The purest, most visceral kind.
She reached the second floor, almost falling, slipping on the small wet footprints she had made while descending.
There was no one.
Hungover and with a terrible headache, Anne still remembered considering not taking a single sip of alcohol once she stepped into that house. However, what actually happened was that the amount she drank had increased since she arrived. Dealing with the grief of her mother's death, failure, alcoholism, and the known resentment her siblings felt, it was as if she were alone, sinking into a mill of seeds.
It had started raining, and after searching the entire house, she decided it had been a hallucination.
A scene fabricated by her mind.
And maybe, just maybe, she was making the coffee herself, as a sign that she should stop drinking so much. She got dressed and threw herself onto the bed, forcing her eyes shut and making herself sleep, even though it took hours to do so.
The next day, Anne changed the locks and added some latches to the windows. It didn't hurt to take precautions, after all, how would she know if what was happening was or wasn't a trick her mind was playing?
She went to bed early, lulled by sleeping pills, and for some reason, she didn't dream of anything at all. Instead, those almost fifteen hours of sleep did her so much good that when she woke up, Anne felt as if she had slept for an entire year and gone back in time.
Feeling energized and starving, she prepared herself a wonderful breakfast and ate while watching an episode of True Crime. Thinking about the recent events, the writer cleaned the kitchen, and between sips of whiskey and cigarettes, she unpacked some glasses and plates. Her mind buzzed with ideas, yet she couldn't put them into words.
It was past four in the afternoon when she sat on the first steps outside, noticing the garden of dead plants and the vegetation that had taken over the entire property around the house.
The tall grass, in some spots, almost her height. A slight sense of insecurity took hold of her, despite knowing that this was exactly what houses so deeply embedded in the woods looked like.
That night, she locked the bedroom door and slept with the bedside lamp on. The .38 caliber pistol rested on the nightstand. It was two-ten in the morning when her mind finally gave up fighting against the intoxication and mental exhaustion, and defeated, Anne fell asleep.
That night, she dreamed she was leaving that house. The moving truck carried the last boxes, and she got into her car, driving away for good. For some reason, a short and strange scene lasted the entire night because when she woke up at nine in the morning, Anne had the distinct impression she had only slept for thirty minutes.
Despite this, the day seemed short. She spent hours wandering the property, read a book at the base of a tree in the woods, and then tried to climb the branches, drunk. In the end, she slept in the old chair on the porch, waking up as the sun set on the horizon. Anne ate something quick for dinner since she no longer had enough coordination to even cut a steak, and turned on the TV to some random show, the only excuse to keep drinking and taking a few more sips before lighting a cigarette.
She pondered the recent events, questioning the boundary between reality and nightmare. With leaden limbs, she dragged herself upstairs, collapsing onto the mattress as if the weight of her thoughts was too much to bear. The clock had crept past two in the morning. As her eyes fluttered open, disoriented, she slowly realized she had been pulled into a dream. But this was no ordinary dream—it was a living, breathing illusion, woven from threads of dread and unease.
The house, once pristine and new, stood before her like a deceptive beacon of comfort. Its vibrant, gleaming white facade clashed grotesquely with the dark, brooding sky above. The garden, though lush with vivid flowers and green grass, seemed too perfect, too precise—an eerie mockery of life. The pillars were wrapped in creeping vines that, under the harsh glow of the lanterns, looked like twisted, skeletal fingers. The flames within the lanterns and chandeliers flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows that seemed to dance with malevolent intent on the walls.
Anne's gaze was drawn to the windows, their glass unnervingly pristine, almost too clean, reflecting not just the light but something else—something lurking just beyond the surface. The house was silent, but not with the peace of a quiet night. It was a silence heavy with anticipation, a silence that smothered, pressing against her like an invisible force.
Her shoulders hunched instinctively as she took a hesitant step forward, feeling the oppressive weight of the atmosphere settle over her like a shroud. The front door, painted a bright navy blue that now appeared almost black under the dim light, stood wide open, gaping like the mouth of a predator waiting to devour her.
A lump formed in her throat as she forced herself to move toward the porch. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of oak and pine, underscored by a cloying sweetness—apple and cinnamon, a scent that should have been comforting but now seemed sickly, as if masking something rotten.
As she crossed the threshold, Anne's skin prickled with a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. The interior was immaculate, the walls freshly painted, the floor polished to a gleam.
But there was something wrong, something deeply, disturbingly wrong. The house was too clean, too perfect, a pristine tomb waiting to trap its next victim.
Was this the past, or was it some twisted reflection of it? Anne's mind reeled as she tried to grasp the reality of what she was seeing. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn back, to run, but she was rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away from the malevolent beauty of the scene before her. The house seemed to pulse with a life of its own, breathing in the darkness, exhaling fear. A chill slithered down her spine as her hand clutched the doorknob, fingers trembling against the cold metal. The door was already open, but something held her back, as if the very air inside was warning her not to enter. The memory of the shadow she had pursued up the stairs that night clung to her, a lingering terror that made every creak and whisper in the house feel like a threat.
She wasn't sure what she was searching for—a cup of coffee, perhaps, or the source of the nightmare that had followed her out of sleep. But in the back of her mind, a gnawing doubt took hold. Was she losing her grip on reality? Had the drinks, the pills, and the sleepless nights finally pushed her over the edge? The thought festered like a wound.
Then, without warning, the scent hit her—sharp and overwhelming, the unmistakable aroma of freshly ground coffee. It was so vivid, so real, that it dragged her forward, forcing her into the house. The scent was an unyielding force, pulling her deeper into the darkness as if it held the answer to some terrible secret.
"Hello?" The word barely escaped her lips, a tremor of fear in the stillness. She didn't want an answer, didn't want to disturb whatever was lurking in the shadows.
All she wanted was to find a bottle of cognac, to drown herself in its warmth, to make these next steps less excruciating. But the house was silent, unnervingly perfect, as if it had been frozen in time, and Anne felt like nothing more than an intruder in this carefully preserved past.
Then, a scream tore through the silence, the kind of scream that comes from deep within, filled with a pain so profound it seemed to shake the very walls. Anne's heart lurched, and she turned to run, but barely had she moved when she saw it—a woman, no older than 30, flung down the stairs with a violence that defied reality. She didn't tumble or fall; she was thrown, as if by an unseen hand, crashing into the last steps with a sickening thud. Blood splattered the pristine walls and floor, the bright red a violent contrast against the white. The woman's body landed in a crumpled heap, lifeless and broken.
Anne's breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide, unable to tear them away from the horrifying scene. The world seemed to slow down, every second stretching into an eternity as she tried to convince herself that this was just a dream, a twisted creation of her mind.
"Claire!" The desperate cry of a man shattered the eerie silence, and Anne turned her head, spotting a tall figure at the top of the stairs. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock as he stared down at the bloodied body below.
It's just a dream. A dream, Anne. It's just a dream.
"Get out of my house." The voice growled, a low, menacing sound that reverberated through the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Anne's gaze shot back to the top of the stairs, where a shadow loomed behind the man, too dark and dense to be natural.
"You're trespassing." The words slithered through the darkness like a venomous whisper, curling around her, tightening with each breath. She was paralyzed, feet rooted to the spot as the pool of blood spread across the floor, inching closer to her. Then, without warning, a cold shock stabbed through her spine, snapping her back to reality.
With a jolt, Anne sat up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hand instinctively found the cold steel of the .38 on the bedside table. Gripping it tightly, she bolted from the room, the echo of that sinister voice still lingering in her ears.
At exactly three in the morning, she stepped out of the bedroom with the gun in hand. Walking down the hallway on the second floor, Anne turned on every light, illuminating her path in a systematic sweep.
She was about to step onto the first stair toward the attic when a loud, strong bang sounded, close, freezing her in place. Her blue eyes darted to the ceiling, where the sound had come from. She didn't move for at least five seconds, ready for the next bang.
Walch checked the bullets and, sweating courage, straightened her posture, pulling air into her lungs, which were contracting in genuine spasms of fear. If she wanted to live alone, she had to face everything, and that included a lunatic in the attic.
The staircase to the attic was tall and a bit long, and at the end of the steps, an old, heavy wooden door stood. She realized she had never entered there before. The only thing she knew about that attic was what the photos had shown her: spacious and bright.
A faint, almost imperceptible sound drifted from the darkness above as Anne reached the fourth step. She froze, breath catching in her throat.
Saliva slid down a parched throat, and the uncontrollable tremor in the right hand holding the pistol became impossible to ignore, the gun quivering as if possessed by the same fear gripping her.
Heat surged through the body, the adrenaline coursing through veins numbing any sense of cold, leaving only a feverish detachment from reality.
Glancing down at her dirt-caked feet, the question of reality arose. How much of this was real? How much of that bottle of cognac had been consumed in the last few hours? And what about the opioids? Were any of those pills from the bag, meant for emergencies, swallowed in desperation?
A sudden bang jolted her thoughts, a shockwave of fear rippling through muscles. The sound intensified, reverberating through the walls like an ominous heartbeat. Teeth gritted, attempting to steel against the rising tide of panic. Rain drummed relentlessly on the roof, but the noise inside was different, more sinister. Breath came in shallow gasps.
Courage, Anne! The thought pushed her feet up the remaining steps. The left hand found the doorknob, heart pounding violently, threatening to break free from the chest. The memory of that vivid, surreal dream taunted her mind as the knob turned.
The banging transformed into a relentless vibration, piercing eardrums, growing more intense with each passing second. It was a sound that burrowed into bones, sending shivers through the entire body. The door creaked open, and the light switch was hit, trembling hands struggling to steady the gun pointed into the room.
What appeared next made Anne's blood run cold.
Her wide eyes took in the sight before them—there, at the far end of the attic, stood a massive brown bear, breath coming in ragged, audible huffs. The light from the flickering bulb above cast eerie shadows on its fur, and those gleaming, predatory eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that turned the spine to ice.
The mind screamed to raise the gun, but paralysis gripped her every limb. Tears welled up, blurring vision, and when the violent crack of thunder echoed through the house, the bear let out a deafening roar, rearing up on its hind legs. It was a monstrous sight, towering, fur bristling with primal rage.
In sheer panic, the trigger was pulled. The gun bucked, shots scattering haphazardly around the room. Bullets tore through the roof, the walls, the floor—everything but the beast before her. The sound of glass shattering barely registered. The bear lunged, massive form hurtling forward with terrifying speed.
Stumbling back, a foot missed the last step, sending her body tumbling down the staircase. Landing hard on the back, rolling twice, the head struck the wooden floor with a sickening thud. The world spun in a dizzying whirl of pain and confusion. Lying there felt like an eternity, senses dulled, hearing reduced to a distant ringing.
Finally, forcing herself upright, leaning on the left arm, eyes stared up at the open door. Heart pounded with each beat echoing in ears.
Where was it? Where was the bear?
Breathing came in ragged gasps, struggling for control. Was it real? Was there truly a grizzly bear in the attic, or had her mind finally snapped, shooting at phantoms conjured by delirium?
Staggering to feet, Anne made a mad dash to the bedroom, the door slammed shut, the gun tossed onto the bed. Stumbling into the bathroom, the head throbbed with a vicious ache. Miraculously, no blood, no cuts, just a large bump forming on the back of the skull. Drinking greedily from the tap, cold water was splashed on the face in a futile attempt to clear the mind. But the sight of the cup still resting next to the soap filled the room with creeping unease.
Staring at the reflection in the mirror, it was clear Anne would need something stronger than willpower to get through this. The onset of a panic attack gripped the chest tightly, and with trembling hands, the bottle of pills beside the toothbrush was grabbed. Four tablets down the throat, their bitter taste offering a momentary distraction from the chaos.
Stumbling back to the bedroom, the door was locked, and the body collapsed onto the mattress. By then, the fast-acting pills had already slowed the heart to a dull beating. Eyelids grew heavy as the sensation of losing grip on reality faded into the background.
Sleep came swiftly, as if nothing wrong had just happened. As if the bullets fired in the attic hadn't pierced the wood between the floors, destroyed something between it, and lodged themselves into the floor beside the bed.
When we fight madness, many things slip under the radar.
It felt like only a second had passed, but Anne slept through the rest of the night and only woke up at eleven in the morning because the phone wouldn't stop ringing.
Without checking the name on the screen, she answered the call in the middle of a yawn.
"What is it?" Hoarse, she pulled the phone away from her ear to see who was calling. "Dave, just get to the point."
"I'm torn between vanilla or Black Forest."
"What?"
"For your cake. I know you love cake, and…"
"What the hell are you talking about, for God's sake…" She massaged her left temple, sitting up and stretching.
"For your birthday, you jerk. How about treating me better?"
"What birthday? I'm in the Everglades, and you guys…"
"I booked your flight for tonight; I think you can drag your drunk ass to the airport without causing a fatal car accident, right?"
"Why don't you go suck on a…"
"Anne Walch, I've spent too much time organizing this to cancel now, damn it!" he exclaimed. Dave was always very dramatic, but he seemed genuinely upset. "I shouldn't have even told you, but you did me the favor of moving to the other side of the country."
"Are you seriously suggesting I leave the comfort of my own home and travel all the way there just for some cake? Forget it, I'm not going to New York." Anne stood up, pacing toward the bathroom, her mind a tangled mess of thoughts, each one gnawing at every neuron, every flicker of logical thought she might have left. She was scared, but too curious to stop now.
"Wait for my resignation letter," came the enraged reply. "Patricia and I have been organizing everything for months, planning everything! I'm done with you, done with this crap, you arrogant drunk—"
"Fine." Stopping in front of the mirror, she glanced at the cup of old coffee and then at her own reflection. "Fine, you infernal bastard, I'll go."
"I'll see you at the airport, goodbye." And he simply hung up, irritated. Anne stared at the phone for a moment before closing her eyes, equally irritated.
Her birthday.
And so, she went. With a small suitcase of clothes and the feeling that she was somehow doing herself a favor by leaving that house. After nine days of dreaming and seeing things, it felt like she was slowly losing her grip on reality.
(...)
It was exhausting. Draining. Excruciating. But suddenly, she was back in her old penthouse in New York, savoring the delicious smell of steak and listening to Patricia's laughter while indulging in yet another sip of cognac.
Drunk for at least 40 minutes.
And despite the sorrowful looks from Dave, Anne didn't care, truly couldn't care less about what he thought or the expectations he had built around her.
She was a terrible friend.
The next day was supposed to be her "surprise birthday party," and she couldn't imagine what her longtime friend and Patricia had planned. It didn't even matter because, somehow, she felt stagnant, trapped in a situation where she wanted to be and didn't want to be at the same time.
She wanted to go back to the Everglades and learn more about those occurrences. But on the other hand, she'd give anything to stay right there, never go back, and not sink any further into that strange situation.
"Come on, do you really think he'd admit it if that's what he wanted?"
"Of course he would, the guy's a millionaire."
"Exactly!" Patricia laughed. "No one that rich would admit do something like that."
"They'll call him crazy for much less, so I don't think he cares."
Ignoring that insignificant conversation, Anne was systematically thinking about the sequence of events over the past nine days. The timeline, though clouded by alcohol, indicated that it always happened in the middle of the night. Between two and three in the morning, most of the time. And the voice, a man's voice, with firm and… enormous hands.
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard.
The image of those masculine hands tracing her body sent a chill ripping down her spine like a piece of paper. She clenched her teeth.
Why was she thinking about this? Why was she fantasizing about something that could, dangerously, be a product of her own insanity?
With her eyes closed, she let the cognac fill her mouth, holding it there, the natural contact of her tongue with the alcohol burning.
Her soul was in a precarious state, deteriorating with each sip.
With every carefree smile released by a brain completely drowned in a domino of chaotic events. The result was absolute and utter disorder.
Anne loved it.
The feeling of belonging, and then…
Losing herself.
(...)
The surprise party was indeed a party, with at least fifty people who knew her all too well. Clowns, wolves in sheep's clothing, systematic conspirators, and vultures. She couldn't decide; maybe it was all of those things at once, thrown into a blender.
The photographers, outside, camped out, waiting for her to stumble out completely drunk and do something outrageous enough to capture.
Anne downed a shot of tequila without any expression, surveying the chaos in the hall, while Taylor Swift blared from the speakers. It was ridiculous to think she'd rather be haunted by a real ghost than by living ones. All those people… they were there to celebrate with her, but they were haunting her in a way nothing else could.
"Alright…" Dave materialized by her side, as if conjured by sheer willpower, looking almost like a mirage. "I'm starting to think maybe this was a bad idea."
Anne glanced at him, then down at the half-empty bottle of tequila she was holding. "The intention was good…" she mused, throwing back another shot with a casual shrug. "Don't beat yourself up over it."
"Good intentions, paving the road to… you know," Dave quipped, his expression a mix of resignation and humor. "But honestly, what do you say we make a swift exit, Wall?"
Anne chuckled, a sound that was part amusement, part relief. "I couldn't be happier with that suggestion," she admitted, a smirk playing on her lips.
Dave tilted his head, feigning deep contemplation. "I mean, unless you want to stick around for another round of watching everyone here try to out-hipster each other. It's a real spectacle, like a parade of artisanal mustaches and ironic tattoos."
"Oh, the temptation," Anne drawled sarcastically, eyeing a nearby guy sporting a beard so meticulously groomed it could have been a work of art. "But I think I'll pass on the chance to discuss the merits of avocado toast with strangers."
Dave chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "What? You're not up for an intense debate about which cold brew is superior? Or perhaps a deep dive into the world of non-GMO, organic, gluten-free kale?"
Anne snorted. "I'd rather chew on my own foot."
"Now that's the spirit," Dave grinned, clapping his hands together. "Alright, let's make like a banana and split."
They both stood up, Dave offering a hand in a mock-gentlemanly manner. "Milady," he said with a wink, helping her to her feet.
Anne took his hand with exaggerated grace, then nearly tripped over her own feet, making both of them burst into laughter. "Smooth," she said, regaining her balance.
"Hey, we can't both be the graceful one," Dave teased, still holding her hand as they navigated through the crowd.
As they weaved their way out of the bar, Anne sighed dramatically. "I'm going to need about three days of solitude to recover from this place. Or, you know, a small island where I'm the only inhabitant."
Dave nodded sagely. "I'll bring the coconuts and a volleyball to be your only friend."
"Perfect," Anne laughed. "We can name it Wilson."
"Classic," Dave agreed, pushing open the door to the street. "You know, I'm pretty sure we're the only people here who've seen that movie. Everyone else is too busy pretending to enjoy abstract art or something."
Anne shot him a mock glare. "You're being unfair. I'm sure they also pretend to read obscure Russian literature."
(...)
It was past two in the morning when the alcohol dulled her consciousness. Dave had already passed out some time ago after being coldly coaxed into a shot competition.
That was her intention. To knock him out.
Because she could no longer maintain that calm and smiling facade. She needed to dismantle the tranquil expression. She needed to roar with the lions and scream with the giants.
Anne stared at the traffic below through the enormous windows, still sprawled on one of the sofas near the windows, in a spacious and cozy living room.
It was cold outside.
And inside her too.
(...)
When she returned to the Everglades, it was raining again. There weren't many reasons to go back there, except for the strange feeling that she needed to. As if that house was pulling her in and, more than that, kidnapping her thoughts like nothing else could.
Anne opened the door and immediately noticed that her welcome mat was missing. Her eyebrows arched, and feeling that peculiar sensation slithering inside her, she entered.
It was shocking to realize how everything… seemed different.
The kitchen was clean, no trash or debris, as she was sure she had left it. There were no cigarette butts or discarded bottles. With her heart racing, Anne reached the library, noticing that all the rugs in the house had disappeared. Her lips pressed into a tight line of apprehension.
"What the hell…" The library had also been organized and cleaned; and with an overwhelming urge to run, Anne darted upstairs, reaching the second floor, where she was certain she had left her bedroom in the most absolute chaos of clothes, utensils, and towels strewn across the bed.
She pushed open the slightly ajar door, revealing a sparkling suite.
Her breath caught in her throat.
What the fuck was going on?
She was sure the house was a mess, and where the hell were her rugs? She checked the locks on the windows and doors, and everything seemed intact. No one had broken in.
Then, Anne stopped walking.
This could only mean that whoever was messing with her mind wasn't invading.
"You're the one invading." The voice, deep and resonant, seemed to emerge from the very core of her mind, a sinister whisper that danced between fear and curiosity, leaving her breathless. Anne's fingers trembled as they found the hidden bottle of whiskey in the closet, and without a second thought, she locked herself in the room, drowning her terror in the burn of the alcohol.
The whiskey took her swiftly, pulling her down into its depths until the fear dulled, replaced by a heavy, intoxicating numbness. Her thoughts became a blur, her consciousness slipping away, only to be jolted back violently by the shrill blare of the alarm. The sound sliced through her fogged mind, dragging her back to reality with a force that made her gasp. Wide-eyed, she stared at the ceiling, the light still on, the relentless drumming of rain against the windows a constant reminder of the storm outside.
Instinctively, her arm stretched out, reaching to silence the alarm, but as she turned, the breath caught in her throat. There, at the foot of her bed, stood a man.
He loomed over her, eyes as black as voids, hair a wild blaze of red. His presence was suffocating, an oppressive force that sent icy tendrils of panic spiraling through her veins. Anne bolted upright, a scream tearing from her lips as she clutched the gun that had somehow materialized in her hand, the cold metal trembling in her grip. The alarm's relentless shriek filled the room, but all she could focus on was the towering figure before her.
The man's eyes, pools of darkness, bore into her, radiating a visceral intensity that made her heart pound louder than the storm raging outside. It was as if every fiber of her being was caught in a vice, squeezed until she could no longer breathe. Her mind screamed that this was just another nightmare, a twisted creation of her subconscious—but her body, paralyzed with terror, refused to believe it.
A dream. It had to be a dream.
But then, as if mocking her fragile grip on reality, the man's voice, low and guttural, cut through the chaos. "You," he growled, and the word echoed in the space between them, dripping with menace.
Anne's lips parted, but no sound came out. She was levitating, suspended a few inches off the ground, the realization hitting her like a cold wave. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat a frantic drum against her ribs.
"… me?" The word barely escaped her, a strangled whisper in the face of the impossible.
The man's voice, cold and sharp as a blade, sliced through her fear. "Why did you break my flask?" His face twisted with a fury that seemed to ripple through the air, yet beneath it, there was something else—a deep, conflicting emotion that sent a chill through her.
"This house is mine… you're trespassing."
Panic clawed at her throat, and with a dawning horror, Anne realized this wasn't a dream. This was real.
"What?" she stammered, her voice barely more than a breath.
"You shattered it," the man continued, his voice rising with anger. "Into a million pieces."
Her mind raced, trying to grasp his words. "How… what do you mean, 'your flask'?"
His eyes, black as pitch, bore into hers, and she felt as though her very soul was being crushed beneath their weight. "Do you have any idea… what you've done?" His teeth clenched, the fury in his gaze burning into her like hot coals.
"Who are you?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice trembling. "What are you doing in my house?"
"This is my house!" he roared, the sound like thunder crashing through the room. "And from three to four in the morning, it's even more mine."
The alarm suddenly cut off, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Anne's eyes darted to the clock—it was three-oh-five in the morning. Her heart thudded against her chest as the implications of his words sank in.
"A ghost?" Her voice quivered. "What do you mean, 'your flask'? That night… there was a bear…" The truth hovered on the edge of her consciousness, but she wasn't ready to accept it. She couldn't.
His next words sent a shiver down her spine. "I am the bear." The deep, almost primal tone of his voice resonated within her, filling her with a terror that made her blood run cold.
"And… why?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"What do you mean, why?"
The tone sharpened, and he took a step closer, his presence looming over her like a dark cloud.
"If I set this house on fire, will you understand?" His shout reverberated through the walls, the very air seeming to tremble in response. "You're trespassing!" he bellowed, and she shrank back, her shoulders curling in on themselves in sheer terror. The image of the woman tumbling down the stairs flashed through her mind.
"Please, don't do that…" It was all she could manage to say as he drew closer, his shadow engulfing her. Even levitating, he towered over her, a figure of overwhelming dread.
"If you plan to stay in this house…" His voice dropped, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. "You'd better know a few things. I live here… I'm the true owner of this place. And I will…"
"W-wait a second. What's your name?" Her voice was a shaky whisper, the question slipping out in a desperate bid to regain some control. His eyes, black and unforgiving, flicked to her, irritation flashing across his face.
"If you interrupt me again, I'll paint this house with your blood, pathetic creature."
"Right... I am trully very sorry, sir. Uhn, Mister." The words barely escaped her as she fought the overwhelming urge to flee. It felt like a knife was being driven slowly into the base of her spine, paralyzing her with fear. "And your name?" she asked again, through gritted teeth.
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He stepped back, visibly unsettled. "Charles."
"Well, I'm sorry, Charles…" Anne's voice was softer now, but the terror still gnawed at the edges of her calm. "I was scared of your bear… and I have no idea where your flask is, though I do remember hearing what sounded like glass breaking before I fell down the stairs to avoid being eaten by a four-hundred-pound animal."
Charles's gaze dropped, as if the weight of her words had struck him. "And that's why you shot it."
"What did you expect me to do?"
"I don't know… maybe leave my house and never come back?" His shout was sharp, slicing through the air.
"That's too vague an answer; try putting yourself in my shoes!" Her voice trembled with frustration, her attempt at calm slipping away. "I'm talking to a ghost. I still think this…"
"This is not a dream."
His words stopped her cold, the dark, intense stare locking her in place.
"And I am not a hallucination." His presence was overpowering, a dark aura that seemed to close in around her.
"My name is Anne," she whispered, the sound barely carrying in the oppressive silence. "I didn't mean to anger you, Charles."
"Just leave my house."
"I'm sorry. I paid for an entire year." Her voice shook, the reality of the situation pressing down on her. "And it's not like I have money to spare right now. This doesn't happen in real life; we don't just go around finding ghosts in attics. That only happens in movies, and I can't deal with any more changes. My mother died, my siblings hate me, and I'm trying to kick alcoholism, so please, just… ignore my presence."
"So… you're just a mediocre human, you know nothing about anything."
"Exactly. Try to pretend I'm not here, please. I'm sorry. I'll try to be the most…"
"Stop apologizing." His irritation was palpable as he turned away, the force that had held her aloft dissipating. Her body dropped to the floor, her legs weak beneath her.
She watched as he walked out of the room, her heart still pounding in her chest. When she finally mustered the courage to follow, she found only emptiness in the hallway. The door she had locked before going to sleep was wide open, but there was no sign of him. Nothing and no one, as if he had never been there at all. She still had a question.
What happens now that he no longer has the flask?
"I still have a question!" She gave voice to her thoughts, shouting into the empty hallway. "Charles!" In a loud, demanding tone, Anne only now realized how appealing his name sounded to her own ears at that moment, with the concrete and absolute certainty that she was talking to herself.
And when he simply materialized right next to her, that's when the writer nearly fainted, stifling a scream of shock as her eyes unconsciously began to notice the details the dim light in her room hadn't allowed.
Like, for example, the well-defined lines of his jaw, so sharply drawn that they created contrast even under a dense and very red beard.
"What do you want?" And to be honest, despite his extremely harsh and displeased demeanor, Charles wondered why on earth he had returned the second he heard her voice.
Calling his name.
But Anne was too absorbed, allowing her eyes to commit the wild absurdity of devouring him in silence. Measuring him from head to toe in decent light. Looking at him long enough to memorize some details. Enough to write at least a dozen pages.
"I…" Noticing the almost palpable anger that escaped his gaze, like laser beams piercing her concentration, Anne held her breath. "I'm sorry for destroying something that was valuable to you. I'll do whatever I can to make it right."
"This house was mine long before it ever became a house," the redhead whispered, impatient, as cold as a glacier, and his voice echoed demonically through the house. "If you stay here, you'll meet the same fate as all the others."
And that, clearly, had been a threat.