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

I place my beer bottle down on the counter, my fingers lingering around its slick surface.

It's still only half empty, but I can already feel the warmth of its influence buzzing faintly at the tips of my fingers.

Good. It's working. Now, I just need to finish the rest of it, and I'll be blissfully intoxicated enough to not feel a damn thing if this night goes horribly wrong.

And...upon the twist of my stalker's whims, I end up catching on fire instead of my curtains this time.

With that particularly comforting thought, I pick the bottle back up, fully intending to drain it in one go before I put it back down.

The bitter liquid slides down my throat, but before I can finish, something else—something more potent than alcohol—spikes through my system.

A chill. Slow, creeping, and all-consuming.

It slithers up my spine, burrowing beneath my skin, coiling around my lungs and squeezing just enough to make my breath hitch.

My fingers go slack, and before I can stop it, the bottle slips from my grasp, plummeting to the floor with a deafening crash.

I watch as the glass explodes on impact, shards scattering around my feet, some of them sharp enough to scratch at the bare skin of my feet, leaving tiny crimson beads in their wake.

Because something far worse has happened.

The man of my nightmare has arrived.

Somehow, I could feel it before I saw it. Likely the effect of the paranormal haunting this house.

I am surrounded by horror all around, aren't I?

Slowly, like a marionette on strings I have no control over, I turn. The air feels heavier now, thick and charged, yet calm like the atmosphere before a storm.

My feet move on their own, carrying me closer to the wide expanse of glass, closer to him.

He lurks near the tree line tonight, the faint silhouette of his figure cutting through the darkness like an ink stain against the dim glow of the night.

One shoulder leans lazily against the rough bark of a tree, his arms crossed over his chest in that ever-casual stance he always seems to adopt—like he has all the time in the world, like he's completely and utterly unbothered.

Like he is not afraid of anything.

But then again, who would the devil fear but himself.

Once again, he's cloaked in darkness, his attire seamlessly blending into the night. The hood is drawn up, obscuring his features, but even through the layers of shadow, I know—I know—that his golden eyes are fixated on a single spot. Me.

I wonder if he could see me clearly at this distance; or like I see him, a blur of dark and ominous figure.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I force my breath to even out.

I knew this was coming. I spent the entire day preparing myself for this, rallying my nerves, convincing myself that this time, this time, I wouldn't let him get under my skin.

Standing here, staring at the dark figure just beyond my reach, my resolve wavers.

Because no matter how many times I see him, no matter how much I try to convince myself that he's nothing more than a phantom, a hallucination born from paranoia—

137. The Man of My Nightmare has Arrived