Elena barely slept that night.
The wine had dulled the edge of her thoughts, but it hadn't erased them. Damian Walsh's stare still lingered in her mind, slipping through the cracks of her resolve like smoke through a keyhole. She told herself it was nothing—just a passing glance, a moment that meant nothing.
And yet, deep down, she knew better.
Morning came slow and gray, the sky a dull sheet of silver that stretched endlessly over Willow Creek. The town always felt different in the daylight, as though the darkness of the night never truly happened. But Elena knew better than to trust appearances.
She stood by the window, cradling a mug of black coffee between her hands, watching as the town stirred to life. The streets were quiet, save for a few early risers moving through the morning mist. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
She exhaled.
It was just another day.
Or at least, it should have been.
A sharp knock at her door shattered the stillness.
Elena stiffened.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
Setting her mug down, she hesitated before making her way to the door, her heartbeat a steady drum against her ribs. She peeked through the peephole—then froze.
Damian Walsh.
A breath hitched in her throat. Up close, he was even more striking. Sharp-jawed, dark-eyed, with the kind of presence that made the world around him feel smaller. He stood there, calm, waiting, as if he already knew she was on the other side of the door.
For a moment, she considered ignoring him. Pretending she wasn't home.
But something told her that wouldn't work with a man like him.
Sighing, she unlocked the door and opened it just enough to meet his gaze.
"Elena Carter," he said smoothly, his voice deep, rich, a sound that lingered in the air.
She was shocked. "How do you know my name?"
The ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. "Small town."
She folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "And what exactly does a man like you want in a town like this?"
He studied her for a beat too long, as if debating how much to tell her. Then, he stepped slightly closer.
"You have something I need," he said.
She frowned. "I doubt that."
The words barely left her lips before a loud crash sounded from down the hall. A door slamming open. Shouting. Heavy footsteps.
Then—silence.
Elena's breath caught. A chill curled around her spine like a ghost's whisper.
"Stay here," Damian said firmly.
Before she could protest, he was already moving, his body tense with the precision of someone who had done this before.
She should have listened.
She should have stayed.
But curiosity was a wicked thing.
Taking a slow, careful step forward, she peered out into the dimly lit hallway. The door at the far end—Mrs. Whitmore's apartment—was wide open, the darkness inside yawning like a mouth about to swallow something whole.
A figure stood at the threshold.
Not Damian.
Not Mrs. Whitmore.
Someone else.
Elena's breath faltered.
And then, as if sensing her gaze, the figure slowly turned.
Their eyes locked.
Cold. Hollow.
A scream curled in Elena's throat, but no sound came.
The figure took a step forward.
Then another.
"Run," Damian's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
But Elena couldn't move.
Not as the figure smiled.
Not as the air around them seemed to shudder.
Not as the world, as she knew it, began to unravel.