98. And He will Come Again

Continued...

He is now on the patio with me.

Before this, he had been following me, his movements mirroring mine—a shadow keeping its distance, deliberately maintaining a pace just behind me, never overtaking, never falling too far back. 

But now, he is advancing, inching closer, like a predator that knows its prey has nowhere left to run.

How does he know the door is locked?

And who locked it?

I remember running after him, thinking it was Jake. There was no one else in the house before I left, and judging by the unlit windows and the eerie stillness, no one is here now. Then why—

My hands tremble as I try the handle again, forcing, twisting, pulling—anything to make it give.

Nothing.

I can feel him behind me now, his presence thick and inescapable. 

My body reacts instinctively, pressing itself against the glass as though I could merge with it, disappear into the walls, create even the smallest sliver of distance between us.

 Futile, I know. A mere inch or two will do nothing to stop him.

A burning sensation spreads across my back, anticipation crawling beneath my skin like fire licking at dry wood.

Then, the scent hits me.

Woodsy. Ashen. Ancient.

It invades my senses, curling around me, thick and intoxicating. It lingers with an uncanny familiarity, like something enchanting my body remembers dancing to before my senses ever smelled it. 

The longer I inhale, the more potent it becomes, saturating the air, clinging to my skin, heavy enough I could even taste it on my tongue if I wanted to. 

And as much as I despise myself for it, I do not entirely hate it.

It is lulling me into a sense of... Calm.

A fleeting moment of blissful pleasure before the inevitable pain.

The world outside seems to fade—wind rustling through trees, the distant hum of nocturnal life—all drowned beneath the thunderous beat of my own heart.

 My breath hitches, my body goes rigid, my cheek presses harder against the glass as if that will somehow ground me.

I don't dare turn fully, but from my peripheral vision, I see him.

Hood drawn low over his head.

Molten gold eyes watching. Assessing.

Then, I see his hand.

It moves forward, slow, deliberate. My breath catches, stomach twisting as it nears my waist. 

I should close my eyes, should recoil, should scream—but I can do nothing. I remain frozen, helplessly watching as his fingers extend towards me.

His skin is pale-ish, a stark contrast to the blackness of his clothing. And not at all scaly or thorny like I had anticipated.

The sleeve of his hoodie is pushed up slightly, revealing a forearm both lean and strong, the muscles subtly defined beneath the surface as a vein or two travels over them.

Not grotesque. Not monstrous. But very much Human.

And yet, the darkness that clings to him tells me otherwise.

The ink across his skin catches my attention—black, intricate, sprawling. A tattoo that snakes its way up his arm, twisting like a living thing, curling over his veins and disappearing up his sleeve. 

The symbols seem foreign, bewitching even; holding a weight I could sense but not understand.

His fingers reach for the handle and I immediately withdraw mine in panic to avoid our skin making contact.

They curl around the metal with an effortless grip.

A simple twist of his wrist.

*Click.*

The lock gives way.

Relief. Confusion. Fear. It all wars within me, but none of it matters, because in the next second—

The door swings open.

I had been pressed so tightly against it that the sudden loss of support sends me lurching forward.

 My body pitches, gravity pulling me down, and before I can fully process what is happening, I collapse onto my hands and knees, catching myself just before my face meets the floor.

Half inside. Half outside.

My breath comes in shallow pants, hands pressing into the cool hardwood beneath me as I scramble forward, desperate to put space between us. 

With the last of my strength, I throw my weight into the door, slamming it shut behind me.

As if I didn't just witness him unlocking a door with a twist of his wrist and *slamming the door *will keep him out.

My body trembles. The silence stretches. And finally, I look up—ready, *determined* to face him now that a fragile barrier of glass stands between us.

But there is nothing.

The patio is empty.

I blink. Once. Twice. Squint into the night, searching beyond the tree line, straining to catch even the faintest glimpse of movement.

Nothing.

Like mist dissolving into the night, he is gone.

But in his place—

A single rose. Blood red in it's glory and perfectly bloomed. Sitting just beyond the threshold to my safe place.

A taunt. A silent reminder left in his vestige. He was here.

And he will come again.