AkumaQuil

Rose stood defiantly, eyes locked onto his golden ones as she lifted the hem of her small top, exposing the smooth expanse of her stomach before peeling the fabric over her head.

The red glittering bra shimmering under moonlight as if made for this very moment.

She ignored the tremor of anticipation curling in her gut. None of that mattered. Not even the reckless haze of drugs clouding her thoughts. Tonight, she was in control.

This was a mission. A mission to keep his attention solely on her so could save her friend from his curse.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts, her breath steadying when she saw him go rigid. Shoulders squared. Posture tensed. Not in fear. Not in disgust. But in something far sinister.

His Interest.

“Yes… feast your depraved little eyes and filthy mind on this,” she whispered, smirking as the shorts fell away, pooling at her ankles. The silky red thong clung to her hips, the moonlight accentuating every curve of her body.

She flicked the discarded clothing aside, shifting her weight slightly as she let her nightly visitor drink in the sight of her naked glory.

His posture no longer that of boredom. Good. That was exactly what she wanted. More like, what intoxicated, irrational Rose wanted.

She twirled, giving him a deliberate view, rolling her hips just enough to torment. “Since you’ve made my life a living hell, I might as well return the favor.” She cast a wicked smile over her shoulder. “Consider this my gift to you—one you’ll never get to touch.”

By the time she turned back, her stomach plummeted.

He had moved.

No longer a distant silhouette in the meadow—he now stood at the edge of her patio. Much closer and so much real.

The thrill that had fueled her was fading slowly. Had she just made a mistake playing this game with her stalker?

Swallowing hard, she lowered herself onto the chair, parting her bare legs wide and letting the wooden cross dangle before her barely covered cherry, in a taunt.

A silent challenge.

His fingers curled around the wooden rail, veins standing taut against the black ink of his tattoos. His chest rose and fell, controlled but heavier, as though restraining something barely contained beneath his skin.

"Want a taste, my dear stalker?" Rose whispers

She had him pinned.

Or so she thought.

Her shadowy visitor moves. Slow, deliberate steps leading closer.

Panic slammed into her. No.

Rose bolted upright, pressing the cross against the glass door separating them. “Stay back!” Her voice wavered a bit. “I swear, I’ll burn your stalking ass right where you stand!”

He stilled.

A beat of silence.

Then—

A low, quiet chuckle rumbled through the night air, reaching her ears like smoke. Deep and Dark.

Her stomach twisted. The sound was foreign, yet eerily familiar. As if she had always known this was how he would sound.

His hands rose in mock surrender, his hooded head tilting slightly, as if entertained by her little performance. Then, as effortlessly as he had closed the distance, he stepped back.

Rose’s breath fastened.

She was playing with fire, willingly, by provoking the one who comes out at night and remain in shadows.

And he was enjoying it.  



==

In the embrace of her ancestral town, Rose seeks refuge from the echoes of her past. 

Little does she know, her return to her roots will awaken dormant shadows, shattering ordinary her existence. 

For when the darkness falls over the town, from the pitch black rises a shadowy figure that haunt her nights. 

In the darkness he sweeps her off the ground in terrible fear and the allure of sinister intrigue.

And once the sun comes, a man with a god awful attitude, haunts her in the broad day light. Causing her to swell with pure disdain. 

With each passing night, it draws closer to Rose, casting a chilling spell that both terrifies and exhilarates her.

Thrust into a labyrinth of mysteries can she navigate the treacherous path laid before her, or will her nightly visitor consume her whole?

He Comes At Night

Third Person's POV:

The next morning, Rose finally emerged from the depths of her sleep, feeling more rested than she had in what felt like an eternity.

It was rejuvenating, waking up with a clear mind and a body that didn't ache from exhaustion.

She stretched lazily, her joints popping in protest as she blinked up at the soft light filtering through her curtains. It was nearing noon it looked like.

And not just slept—she had *slept well.

No midnight disturbances, no creaking floors, no slamming windows jolting her awake. And most importantly—no damn roses waiting for her anywhere.

Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes before swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

Her first instinct was to check the windows. Part of her expected to see him still standing there, just beyond the tree line, watching. Waiting.

But when she pulled the curtain back, all she was met with was an empty, sunlit landscape.

Still, she found herself staring a little too long, as if trying to convince herself that this sudden absence of terror wasn't some kind of trick.

Just because you feel safe in here doesn't mean he's given up, her mind warned. Doesn't mean he won't try something else. You still have to step out of the house at some point.

She sighed, rolling her shoulders before dragging herself to the bathroom.

As she brushed her teeth, she mulled over her situation.

Sure, the holy relics and protective wards seemed to have done the trick—but what about when she had to leave the house?

The weekend would be over soon, and college wouldn't wait just because she had a stalker.

Her uncle was due back in a week or something, which meant she had precisely that long to come up with an explanation for why their home now resembled a mix between a witch's lair and a church.

Yeah… that conversation was going to be fun.

She could already imagine the look on his face when he walked in and saw crosses, sage bundles, and hex bags hanging around like she had turned the place into a set for a horror movie.

Oh, hi, Jake. Welcome back! By the way, don't mind the exorcism decor. No big deal, just warding off my ominous shadowy stalker. How was your trip?

She nearly gagged on her toothpaste.

Nope. She'd have to come up with something better than that.

Too bad Halloween was half a year away—at least then she'd have a perfect excuse.

After rinsing her mouth, she padded downstairs, her mood noticeably lighter than it had been in days.

Maybe I should have done this sooner, she mused.

If she had known how much peace of mind a little over-the-top paranoia would bring her, she would have gone full-blown ghost hunter the moment she started noticing things were off.

In celebration of her restored sense of ease, she decided to treat herself to a proper breakfast for the first time in… she didn't even know how long.

She went all out—eggs, bacon, toast, the whole shabang.

She even let herself enjoy it.

As she sat at the kitchen island, slowly chewing on a crispy piece of bacon, she realized something else.

Hoping that now that he knew he couldn't get inside, now that he couldn't even catch a glimpse of her because she was being extra careful with the curtains and the paranormal occurrences around the house also seemed to have dulled down, maybe—just maybe—he'd get bored.

Maybe he'd move on to hopefully find a new muse for himself.

It was a foolish thought, but she entertained it anyway.

And then, just as quickly, she grimaced at herself. Right. Because wishing your stalker finds a new victim totally makes you a great person, Rose.

Her lips twisted into a bitter smirk.

Scratch that—hopefully, he falls off a cliff and breaks his neck before he gets the chance to terrorize some other poor girl.

Now that was a wish she could stand behind.

112. Shabang