Chapter 8

Hazel

Someone's watching me

What? How do you know?

It's just a feeling.

You're not writing something dark that you're not supposed to be, are you?

My fingers freeze on my keyboard. How does she always know when I'm doing something I shouldn't?

I fucking knew it! Will you behave and write what you're supposed to? A small-town romance won't make you scared of your own damned shadow, Haze!

I smirk.

I have started the chapters for you. But yes, I'm writing what I want on the side. After all, I have no distractions here.

Except for your imaginary stalker.

I roll my eyes and throw my phone onto the bed. Entering the office, I set my tea down and forget all about the notion someone could be watching me. I'd found a strange hole in the wall in the bathroom, and when I stuck my eye to it, I found an empty space behind the wall. Almost like the hole is specifically there to watch people.

Now, I'm not a horror movie enthusiast, but I do know that most psychos would love a house with secret passageways and holes to peep through on unsuspecting prey. I had searched the rest of the house, but only found two more. That put a pin in my theory that this house was built by a killer. But, it's still strange. I covered over them with duct tape I found in the kitchen drawer and then made myself tea.

I have to admit, the vibe in this house and in my imagination are boding well for my novel. The one I'm not supposed to be writing.

Last night, I'd awoken again from a nightmare. I swore I heard something that startled me from sleep, but after I sat up, nothing was there. I'd slipped into a robe and written until dawn crested. Only breaking to make breakfast and tea for myself.

Setting a timer has become routine here. That way, I don't spend too much time hyper-fixated in a world that isn't my own. And I remember to eat.

I've heard no more noises from within the walls, but the outside of the house creaks with every new inch of snow. When I went out this morning, the snow was up to the top step on the porch, and I couldn't see my car.

Snowed in.

With a stalker.

What a life choice I made in coming here.

I don't know if there's a stalker, but letting myself believe the notion has given the house an even spookier vibe. One that I've been able to draw on for my work. I can't deny it helps.

The sound of a snowplow greets my ears, and I stand up and find it stopped in the middle of the street. A tall, dark-haired man is shoveling my car free.

Sliding my feet into my slippers, I make my way to the porch. "There's no need to do that. I've nowhere to go, and there are steps that are buried leading down from the porch!" I shout down at him.

He looks up at me. "I know! We were going to uncover those next!"

We?

I look around and find another man clearing the mailbox free of snow. Someone told them I'm up here alone and set them to working.

"Like I said, it's unnecessary! I don't plan on leaving!"

He nods. "We just thought Mr. Augustine might want to have a way to get in and out, Miss."

Mr. Augustine?

"Who?" I ask. I feel silly shouting, but my car is downhill from the porch, and it's the only way to talk to him.

"The owner of the house?" Even from here, his concerned tone is discernible.

I shrug. I didn't know there was an owner. Karen made it seem like it was cared for by the historical society in town. Maybe that was a front? But why hide the fact of the owner? I find it super odd and off-putting.

"He hasn't come by yet? He always greets his guests on arrival!" the man shouts up at me. The other one has stopped working, and is leaning on his shovel with intrigue written on his features.

I shake my head. "No. No one's come here since I arrived."

The memory of cologne and the light shutting off smack my cortex, but I shake them away.

"That's odd. He's always very involved in keeping his tenants comfortable. Herb, don't you find that odd?"

The absurdity of the shouted conversation this early in the morning is all I find odd. I'm in my bathrobe and fuzzy turtle slippers, for fuck's sake.

Herb nods. Unease spreads through me like ice splintering under weight.

"Well, carry on then. But be careful not to get too cold!" I shout at both of them.

They both nod. Herb inclines his head, touching his hardhat in farewell. I close the door behind me and let the warmth of the house seep through me.

They both seemed very confused that the caretaker and owner of the house hadn't come to see me safe and comfortable. And to be honest, it would've been nice to have someone to confide in about the moans and groans of every part of this house. But maybe the weather has kept him away. That's all I can figure.

Sitting back down at the desk, I sip my tea and push away thoughts of stalkers and enigmatic, creepy homeowners. So I can get words down and the juices flowing.

* * *

He's here.

I don't care what Cam said, and I don't care what my rational brain thinks. He's here in my room. Another round of nightmares had roused me abruptly. Nausea had me running for the bathroom afterward. But while brushing my teeth, my brain realized that when I'd run in here, I'd pushed past a man standing next to my bed to get into the bathroom.

Now, I'm shaking.

I can't grow the balls enough to open the fucking door that leads back into the bedroom. What if he's still there?

What if he's got a weapon?

My butcher knife is in the kitchen, and I don't know why I hadn't thought to bring it with me. Especially with my crazy brain conjuring demons and ghosts since I got here.

Hand on the knob, I take a deep breath, my entire body vibrating as I do.

Counting backward internally, I get to one and tug the door open wide, jumping out of it in surprise to catch him unawares.

I'm in my panties and silk top. I don't know what kind of martial arts I think I can use to defend myself, but I've landed in a ridiculous pose. Both hands are raised before me in fists.

The room is empty.

Looking around, some of the tension in my body leaves it.

No, he'd been right there.

He was standing right beside my bed. I swear it.

But nightmares have been said to linger before, hang on to the unconscious image of the darkness inside the dream you'd woken from. That has to be what this is, right?

"I know you're in here! Don't make me think I'm crazy! Come out!" I scream. I've got to be losing my fucking mind. Even if the man is real, shouting at him is probably not the best idea.

Especially because he could be a murderous lunatic.

I sigh when the house remains still, bringing my hands up to cover my face as a tear of frustration and anger makes its way out of me.

I'm done.

I can't do it anymore.

He's got what he wanted. First thing in the morning, I'm leaving this godforsaken place. I can't take it. If I stay another two and a half weeks, I'll lose my fucking mind.

As I drop my arms to grab for my phone off the desk to text Cam, my wrists are grasped behind me by a massive hand. My body flies backward into the chest of a gigantic man. A scream curdles out of my mouth as something covers it.

"Don't scream. Even though I like to hear you cry out, the winter air is thin. Someone might hear you. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

My brain argues with him. There's no one else on this road. Save for the house at the very end where I turn onto Route 20, I'm alone. Utterly alone.

And I'm going to die that way, too.

Cam won't know where to find my body.

I'll probably end up in the fucking walls of this place. Maybe that's why the owner built them. The passages with the peep holes.

"I didn't mean for you to meet me so soon, little ember. But those nightmares of yours are something else. They were hellbent on bringing us together."

Little ember?

I swallow, trying to think of a way to get free. I wriggle against his hold, but his one hand holds my wrists tightly. His other leaves my mouth, finding my stomach and splaying against it. He presses me into him, and I fight a whimper as a tear treks down my cheek again. This time it's filled with fear.

They say the DNA of a tear changes with the emotion within it. This scenario has me wondering if that's true.

That is not what we need to focus on right now, Hazel. Get free. Call the police!

His splayed hand on my stomach presses in deeper, and I'm shocked when my body calms some. Like it knows him already.

How fucked up am I that I want to turn around and see his face more than I want to escape?

"Who's Cherry?" he asks me, and it catches me off guard. I wiggle against his hold again, but he only tightens it. "You say it over and over in your sleep. Did you know?"

I swallow, closing my eyes and fighting emotions I don't want to feel while I'm awake. I can't help them when I'm asleep, but I can while I'm awake.

"Who are you? Have you been watching me this entire time?"

He doesn't say a word.

Something has shifted between us with the first touch of his hand against my stomach. The fear has filtered out of me, replacing with a deep ache in my center I'm afraid to examine. Why am I so aroused by this situation? Sure, him coming from the shadows initially scared the absolute shit out of me, but there's something about him... A serene energy exuding from him—one I didn't know I needed—that's soothed me. As if I've been a woman on the edge for far longer than I realized.

"Do you think about the things you write on that laptop when you make yourself come?" he asks, and my breath hitches.

He has been watching!

The man answered my question. He'd watched me come, and as many times as I've touched myself after writing scenes into the dark novel on my computer, he's gotten quite the show.

"The owner of this place is going to be very displeased when he finds out you're stowed away in his home!" I tell him, grasping for something to throw him as off-kilter as he's done me.

To my surprise, it works.

He stiffens slightly before leaning forward, tightening my wrists in his grasp.

I hiss.

"And what do you know of the owner, hmm?" he asks, his warm breath tickling my ear. Gooseflesh rises from the intrusive way he's unarmed me.

"His name is Mr. Augustine, and I'm certain he won't be pleased to know you're stalking his tenant. I hear he's very keen for his guests to remain happy and comfortable." I swallow.

He doesn't move from beside my face. I realize his cologne is that same as I smelled upstairs, and for some ungodly reason, my nipples harden at the proximity to his scent and the way it invades my senses.

"And how, little ember, is it you know that name? Tell me who spoke it."

My body tenses with fear, but beneath the fear is a reaction I don't want to dwell on. Because arousal can easily be confused when in an intense situation, right?

His hand leaves my stomach and slinks into my hair, tugging sternly. A whimper escapes me before I staunch it. "Tell me who spoke of Mr. Augustine."

Apparently, he knows him and doesn't like him. He especially doesn't want the man knowing he's in his home. That's apparent.

"The snowplow workers," I grit out.

"And why were you speaking to them, hmm?"

I'm not a prisoner. I'm not his fucking business. But my stomach coils with worry. My mind overthinks my answer before I speak it.

"Because I had no reason not to. I don't answer to anyone," I snarl, more anger slipping into my tone than I'd intended. I don't want this asshole getting angry with me. Well, angrier. I don't know who he is, and I don't know what he's capable of.

"Well, maybe we'll need to change that," he says, and my mind tries to fathom what he means, while my center clenches at the idea of belonging to a man this commanding. My brain and my body are at odds. And I've never experienced something like this before.

My eyes strain to look beside me as much as they can. He has a mask over his face. It looks familiar...

Phantom of the Opera.

It's eerily similar to Erik's mask from Phantom of the Opera. Other than this one covers his half of his face and is made of what looks like either gold or iron. There are designs etched into it, giving it a decorative feel. It's contrasted by the genuine threat that his presence imposes.

How fucking fitting.

I'm seething inside. My eyes drift over a scar running over his lips before he shoves me forward and growls.

"Trying to make out a monster's face, are you?" His tone has disgust lingering in it, and I don't know if it's meant for me or himself.

"Just trying to see what I can. For the sketch artists, you know?"

I instantly regret my words because taunting him with the idea of being caught by the police isn't wise. Even though I haven't seen his face, I know he's dangerous. It's in the aura surrounding him.

The way he holds me tight to his body like a trained expert in detainment.

In a flash, he's moving me toward the bed, bending my body over the foot of the plush mattress and pressing into me from behind.

Fear nearly chokes me.

"Is that so? You're going to run squealing to the pigs about me, are you? I know you've already tried once. And you didn't succeed, did you?"

Trembling overtakes me, and a hot tear leaves my eyes.

"Did you?" he shouts, shaking my body with his hold on my hands.

"No, I didn't," I answer shakily.

"You looked crazy, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," I whisper.

Despite that, if I got my phone, he'd retreat into wherever he hides, and I'd look like a fucking fool. I just know it.

Flashes of what happened to me last Christmas flicker through my mind, and I whimper. It's going to happen all over again.

Why does everyone else get diamonds and fancy clothes for Christmas, while I get scary men and stalkers?

What is it about me that attracts danger?