Chapter 5

five

Every corner of the house seemed to breathe with a life of its own, each creak and groan reverberating through the wooden frame like ghostly sighs. My new home was a place of secrets—dark, suffocating ones that wrapped around my chest and made it hard to breathe. I had come here seeking refuge, a fresh start, but Red Hallow had twisted that hope into something rotten and malignant. The town that should have been my sanctuary had become my prison, and I was nothing more than a haunted soul drifting through its cursed halls.

No matter how tightly I drew the curtains or how many locks I bolted, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was never alone. That every shadow was watching, that every silent, breathless moment was filled with something sinister lurking just out of sight. It was as if the very walls whispered behind my back, their breath brushing against my neck in a mockery of comfort.

I told myself it was just paranoia, the remnants of the terror that had shattered my life that night—the night when I had been broken and remade by the hands of a masked monster. But deep down, I knew better. It was him. I could feel his presence, a dark thread winding itself tighter around me with each passing day. And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, the first signs appeared.

The footprints. A crude, taunting outline in the dew-soaked earth outside my bedroom window, so clear they could have been etched there just moments before I looked. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, my heart pounding like a drum, trying to convince myself they were just animal tracks or some trick of the light. But they were human. Deliberate. A message written in the dirt just for me.

And then, the rustling in the bushes. It would come in the dead of night, when the house was a tomb of silence, each creak and groan amplified in the dark. The sound of something—or someone—moving just out of sight. I'd rush to the window, heart slamming against my ribs, only to find nothing but the empty, hollow wind. But I could sense him. The ghost of his laughter seemed to brush against my skin, as if he were savoring every second of my fear.

Each night, the air grew thicker with his presence, and my mind twisted with paranoia. I found myself barricading the doors and drawing the curtains tighter, living behind a shroud of fear. I stopped going into town. Stopped answering the door. Stopped living. The whispers of the locals followed me, taunting me with their cryptic warnings about the "Red Hallow Slasher," a legend they clung to like a security blanket—one that hid the true monster lurking in their midst.

I had witnessed a murder, seen death up close and personal, felt it seep into my bones. Yet, no news of the killing ever reached the papers. No reports. No investigations. Nothing. As if the world itself had conspired to erase the victim from existence. I was left with only the bruises on my skin and the raw ache between my thighs to prove that I hadn't imagined it all.

Every morning, I would stare at the demonic wooden statue I had found in the secret compartment, turning it over in my hands like some cursed relic. There was a story hidden in its grotesque form—a dark, twisted truth that seemed to call to me. Was it just a piece of sinister art, or was it a piece of the puzzle that held the key to the madness engulfing me?

The days bled into nights, each one more suffocating than the last. Sleep was a distant memory, a luxury I couldn't afford. Every time I closed my eyes, I was dragged back into the nightmare—his knife flashing in the moonlight, his body pinning mine to the cold, hard ground. I could still feel the ghost of his touch, the weight of him pressing me down, the dark hunger in his eyes.

But amidst the fear, something else began to take root. A flicker of defiance. I had been his victim, yes. But I refused to remain one. My fear turned to anger, and my anger to resolve. I armed myself with every blade I could find, stashing them under my pillow, hiding them in the pockets of my clothes. I memorized every inch of the house, planned escape routes, rehearsed scenarios in my head. I was preparing, waiting for the next time he dared to come close.

I spent hours combing through old newspaper clippings and my mother's cryptic notes, trying to untangle the web of lies and secrets that bound my family to this cursed place. Each discovery was like a needle, stitching together a horrifying tapestry that spanned generations—one in which I was just the latest, unwilling thread.

Then, on a night when the moon hung fat and swollen in the sky like a leering skull, I heard it—the sound I had been dreading. The unmistakable creak of the front porch step. The one that always groaned beneath the weight of an intruder. My breath froze in my lungs, and a cold sweat slicked my palms. My heart hammered wildly as I stood there, every muscle in my body poised to either fight or flee.

I held my breath, straining to hear over the thunder of my own heartbeat. The silence was a thick, suffocating thing, pressing in on me from all sides. And then—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the knife tighter, the blade a cold, lifeless comfort against my skin. I couldn't move. Couldn't think. It was as if the world had narrowed to that single, horrifying sound: the jingle of the doorknob rattling softly.

But the door didn't open. Instead, something thin and white slid beneath the gap—an envelope. My name, scrawled across the front in a jagged, unfamiliar handwriting, stared back at me like a threat.

I waited, listening for any sign that he was still there. But the night remained empty, save for the wind whispering through the trees. With trembling hands, I reached for the envelope, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I tore it open, bracing myself for whatever horrors it held.

A photograph slid out, fluttering to the floor. I froze, staring down at it, my blood turning to ice.

It was me. A picture of me, lying in bed, my face soft and peaceful in sleep. Taken from outside my window. On the back, a single line was scrawled in that same, jagged handwriting:

"Sleep tight, Carly."

The knife clattered to the floor as I staggered back, bile rising in my throat. He had been here. Watching me. Waiting. And I had never known.

Terror wrapped around me like a vice, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My gaze flickered to the window, half-expecting to see his face leering back at me through the glass.

But there was nothing. Just the dark, empty night.

He was gone.

For now.

But I knew, with a sickening certainty, that he would be back. And next time, I wouldn't be sleeping.