Reece was exiting the shop when her attention was caught by a group of teenagers huddled together just outside. Their animated whispers and glances toward the books in their hands made her pause.

"I wonder if Reece Gray is a beautiful, hot, sexy man," one of the girls said dreamily, clutching a book against her chest.

Reece couldn't help but chuckle. If only they knew...

"What if Reece Gray is a woman?" another friend chimed in, her tone teasing.

"Even better!" the first girl exclaimed, her eyes lighting up.

Her friend sighed and shook her head. "There she goes again."

Reece's smile widened as she watched the playful exchange, her heart unexpectedly lightened. The conversation, as innocent and fleeting as it was, brought a sense of warmth and pride. It wasn't every day she got to see her readers speculate about her identity—and appreciate her work with such enthusiasm.

That brief moment stayed with her, making her day in a way she hadn't anticipated.

.

.

.

Reece stepped out of her car, the cool night air brushing against her face as she walked toward the grand porch of her house. The neighborhood was eerily silent—just as it always was. Most of the properties around here belonged to rich vacationers, their windows dark and lifeless for most of the year. Not that she minded; she liked the solitude.

She was just about to unlock the door when her eyes caught something unusual—a rose.

It lay on her porch, its petals a deep, unnatural crimson, like freshly spilled blood. She hesitated, her breath hitching slightly.

Who would leave a rose here?

The question gnawed at her as she glanced around. No signs of movement. The streetlights cast long, empty shadows, and the silence. She bent down and picked up the rose carefully, her fingers brushing against a folded piece of paper tucked beneath it.

Take care, the note read.

Her brows knitted together in confusion. A mistake, maybe? Could someone have left it at the wrong house? But no one lived nearby. She shrugged, trying to dismiss the unease curling in her stomach, and went inside.

Placing the rose and note on the table, she focused on her dinner preparations. Her stomach growled as she rummaged through her pantry for the instant ramen she was sure she'd bought just yesterday. But it was gone.

Her hands froze.

Reece frowned, certain she'd picked up a pack during her last grocery run. There were no gaps in her memory now—not like before. Back in the day, the lapses had been frequent, terrifying. But she'd worked on it. Therapy, medication, self-care—it had been two years since she'd experienced one.

Shaking off the discomfort, she settled for pasta instead. With her meal in hand, she curled up on the couch under a fluffy blanket, Netflix playing one of her favorite shows: Dexter. Murder mysteries always gave her the best ideas for her own stories. Her head buzzed with inspiration, and she reached for her pocket-sized diary to jot down some fleeting thoughts.

Hours slipped by. When she glanced at the clock, it was 3:40 AM. Her eyes were heavy, but her mind was restless. She swallowed her sleeping pills with the last sip of her now-cold coffee. The pills were a necessity. Without them, the violent nightmares would claw their way back.

Her psychiatrist insisted she keep taking them—even though the nightmares had stopped two years ago. She didn't argue. She couldn't risk going back to that dark place.

Sleep came quickly, or so she thought.

Her eyes snapped open, and instantly, She knew something was wrong. She couldn't move.

It was the familiar, suffocating weight of sleep paralysis, pinning her to the bed. Her heart thudded erratically, each beat loud and frantic in her ears. She tried to wiggle her fingers, to shift her head, anything—but her body refused to obey.

The room was silent at first. Too silent.

Then she heard it.

Creak.

Her breath hitched. The sound came again—Creak. Slow, deliberate, each step heavier than the last, like someone dragging their weight across the floor.

The noise grew louder, closer, until it seemed to be just outside her bedroom door. She wanted to scream, to bolt upright, but her body remained frozen, her limbs heavy as stone.

The door opened with an agonizing screech, the kind that made her teeth clench even though she couldn't move her jaw.

Her gaze locked on the doorway. It was empty at first, but then something shifted.

A figure appeared, stepping into view.

It was impossibly tall, at least 6'4, its form cloaked in shadows. A hood covered its head, obscuring any features, but its presence filled the room with a  dread. Reece's chest felt tight, as if the very air had turned thick and heavy, pressing down on her.

The figure didn't walk so much as glide, its movements unnaturally smooth, as though it weren't entirely tethered to the ground.

It's not real, she chanted silently. It's not real. This is just a hallucination.

But it felt so vivid.

Just do as Mr. White said Breath in, Breath out. Repeat the motion over and over till it's gone.

The figure stopped at the foot of her bed, towering over her, its hooded head tilting slightly to one side, like it was studying her. Watching.

She couldn't see its face, but she could feel its gaze—searing, invasive, like it was peeling back layers of her mind and seeing every secret she'd ever tried to bury.

Then, it moved.

The figure leaned down, its hood casting deeper shadows over its form, and knelt beside her bed. Reece's heart pounded wildly, her breath shallow and ragged. It reached out slowly, its hand shrouded in darkness, and placed it on the edge of the mattress.

The bed dipped slightly under the weight.

Her mantra faltered, the words caught in the back of her throat as terror surged through her. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, but even that small act of defiance was beyond her.

The figure stayed there, unmoving for what felt like an eternity.

Then, it did something worse.

It sat.

Not on the bed, but on the chair she kept by her desk, as though it planned to settle in for a long visit. It turned toward her, its hood tilting slightly, and though its face remained hidden, she swore she felt the intensity of its stare burn into her skin.

Reece's breathing became erratic, her chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. She wanted to look away, to break the connection, but she couldn't.

The figure leaned forward.

Its presence seemed to stretch across the room, engulfing her in a suffocating darkness. The shadows seemed alive, writhing at the edges of her vision.

It's not real, she whispered in her mind. It's not real. Her breaths now ragged.

Finally, she felt it.

The sleeping pills.

Their numbing haze began to pull her down, like a lifeline dragging her out of a stormy sea. The edges of her vision blurred, the figure's outline growing softer, less distinct.

But just before sleep claimed her completely, she heard it again.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

The sound retreated, growing fainter.

When she woke again, it was 4:00 AM.

The figure was gone, but the terror lingered.

When she woke again, it was 4:00 AM. Only 20 minutes had passed. But it had felt like hours—endless, torturous hours.

Her throat was dry, and she stumbled to the kitchen for water. The cool liquid soothed her nerves, but then she froze.

The table was empty.

The rose, the note—gone.

Her mind raced. She was certain she'd left them there. Had she imagined it all? The rose, the note —had it all been another hallucination?

Her hand trembled as she set the glass down.

Reece's stomach churned with unease. She'd canceled this week's therapy session, convinced she was doing fine. Now, she wasn't so sure.

The silence of the house pressed in on her.

For the first time in two years, Reece felt like she was slipping.