Page 5 of His to Slash

Each night, the air grew thicker with his presence, and my mind twisted with paranoia. I found myself barricading the doors and drawing the curtains tighter, living behind a shroud of fear. I stopped going into town. Stopped answering the door. Stopped living. The whispers of the locals followed me, taunting me with their cryptic warnings about the “Red Hallow Slasher,” a legend they clung to like a security blanket—one that hid the true monster lurking in their midst.

I had witnessed a murder, seen death up close and personal, felt it seep into my bones. Yet, no news of the killing ever reached the papers. No reports. No investigations. Nothing. As if the world itself had conspired to erase the victim from existence. I was left with only the bruises on my skin and the raw ache between my thighs to prove that I hadn’t imagined it all.

Every morning, I would stare at the demonic wooden statue I had found in the secret compartment, turning it over in my hands like some cursed relic. There was a story hidden in its grotesque form—a dark, twisted truth that seemed to call to me. Was it just a piece of sinister art, or was it a piece of the puzzle that held the key to the madness engulfing me?

The days bled into nights, each one more suffocating than the last. Sleep was a distant memory, a luxury I couldn’t afford. Every time I closed my eyes, I was dragged back into the nightmare—his knife flashing in the moonlight, his body pinning mine to the cold, hard ground. I could still feel the ghost of his touch, the weight of him pressing me down, the dark hunger in his eyes.

But amidst the fear, something else began to take root. A flicker of defiance. I had been his victim, yes. But I refused to remain one. My fear turned to anger, and my anger to resolve. I armed myself with every blade I could find, stashing them under my pillow, hiding them in the pockets of my clothes. I memorized every inch of the house, planned escape routes, rehearsed scenarios in my head. I was preparing, waiting for the next time he dared to come close.

I spent hours combing through old newspaper clippings and my mother’s cryptic notes, trying to untangle the web of lies and secrets that bound my family to this cursed place. Each discovery was like a needle, stitching together a horrifying tapestry that spanned generations—one in which I was just the latest, unwilling thread.

Then, on a night when the moon hung fat and swollen in the sky like a leering skull, I heard it—the sound I had been dreading. The unmistakable creak of the front porch step. The one that always groaned beneath the weight of an intruder. My breath froze in my lungs, and a cold sweat slicked my palms. My heart hammered wildly as I stood there, every muscle in my body poised to either fight or flee.

I held my breath, straining to hear over the thunder of my own heartbeat. The silence was a thick, suffocating thing, pressing in on me from all sides. And then—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the knife tighter, the blade a cold, lifeless comfort against my skin. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. It was as if the world had narrowed to that single, horrifying sound: the jingle of the doorknob rattling softly.

But the door didn’t open. Instead, something thin and white slid beneath the gap—an envelope. My name, scrawled across the front in a jagged, unfamiliar handwriting, stared back at me like a threat.

I waited, listening for any sign that he was still there. But the night remained empty, save for the wind whispering through the trees. With trembling hands, I reached for the envelope, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I tore it open, bracing myself for whatever horrors it held.

A photograph slid out, fluttering to the floor. I froze, staring down at it, my blood turning to ice.

It was me. A picture of me, lying in bed, my face soft and peaceful in sleep. Taken from outside my window. On the back, a single line was scrawled in that same, jagged handwriting:

“Sleep tight, Carly.”

The knife clattered to the floor as I staggered back, bile rising in my throat. He had been here. Watching me. Waiting. And I had never known.

Terror wrapped around me like a vice, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My gaze flickered to the window, half-expecting to see his face leering back at me through the glass.

But there was nothing. Just the dark, empty night.

He was gone.

For now.

But I knew, with a sickening certainty, that he would be back. And next time, I wouldn’t be sleeping.

six

The photograph had burrowedunder my skin like a parasite, festering in my mind, and no amount of scrubbing could wash away the feeling of being watched. I'd taken to sleeping with all the lights on, a poor substitute for the sense of security I so desperately craved. The cameras and alarms I ordered were a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, but they were all I had—my thin veil of protection against the darkness that lurked outside.

I'd always thought of myself as strong, independent, but that image had begun to crack and splinter, revealing the scared girl cowering beneath the leather and studs. The masked stranger had taken more than just my body that night; he'd stolen my sense of control, my belief that I could handle anything life threw at me. But with each passing day, the fear that had consumed me was slowly giving way to anger—a fiery, defiant fury that refused to be extinguished.

I had become a creature of routine, checking and rechecking the locks, the cameras, the alarms, as if my life depended on it—because it did. The house that was supposed to be my fresh start had become my prison, and I was its most vigilant guard. I found solace in the small victories, like successfully replacing the batteries in the smoke detectors or learning how to set the security system's panic feature. These were the things that kept the panic at bay, the actions that allowed me to pretend, if only for a moment, that I was safe.

But it was the nights that tested me, the long, interminable hours when the silence of the house seemed to mock my fear. The winds that howled outside my windows were like the whispers of ghosts, taunting me with reminders of my vulnerability. Sleep was a luxury I could scarcely afford, and when it did come, it was fractured and fraught with nightmares.

I had just settled onto the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders, when the familiar chime of the security system alerted me to movement outside. My heart leaped into my throat as I rushed to the monitor, my hands shaking as I clicked through the camera feeds. There, on the screen, was the shadowy figure of a man, standing just beyond the reach of the porch light's glow.

I couldn't make out his features, but I didn't need to—I knew who it was. The way he stood there, so still, so patient, sent a clear message: he was in control, and I was nothing more than a mouse trapped in his maze. I watched, frozen, as he took a step forward, his face hidden beneath the brim of a hat.

The anger that had been simmering inside me boiled over, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. I wouldn't be his victim again. I grabbed the knife I had stashed beneath the couch cushions and gripped it tightly, the metal cool against my clammy palm.

He stood there, just staring directly into the camera with a chilling confidence. It was as if he could see through the lens, through the walls, and straight into my soul. His message was clear: "Do you think this was going to stop me?" His gaze seemed to mock the futility of my efforts.

In one swift motion, he drew a knife from his belt—a wicked blade that glinted ominously under the dim porch light—and slammed it into the wood of my porch with such force that I felt the impact reverberate through the floorboards beneath my feet. The room spun around me, and for a moment, I was lightheaded with terror, my breath caught in my throat. The knife quivered there, a grotesque monument to his power, to my helplessness.

Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the knife embedded in the wood as a twisted calling card. The red hoodie, a splash of crimson against the dark backdrop of the night, disappeared into the shadows, and I was left alone with the pounding of my heart and the cold realization that this was far from over.

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