Page 7 of When Night Falls

I toss my backpack behind me and fix the straps over my shoulders, tucking my hair behind my ear before unlocking the door and swinging it open for us to exit.

The October breeze immediately greets us, giving me a cooling factor to partially eliminate the heat that afflicted me.

I take a step outside onto the sidewalk, pressing my back up against the door to hold it open for him, but this man just stares at me from inside the store, and I feel my heartrate kick up again, worried that he really is going to try and murder me.

"I've never seen hair so winter before," he speaks and something in my belly flips.

"Winter?" I ask, feeling like I want to curl into myself. I never really liked being the subject of conversation, or receiving compliments if that's what this is. Only because I'm not used to it. When you grow up to the tune of unkind words constantly being thrown at you, you start training yourself into thinking that no one actually has anything nice to say. So when a pleasant gesture is verbally made, it feels a little overwhelming.

"Winter,” he repeats. “Resembling that of snow. It’s beguiling."

"Beguiling. That's a curious word. Are you saying that the color of my hair deceives you?" I shift with my bag on my shoulder and start to feel the sting of the cold air as it races through the night sky.

"I happen to have a meter for darkness, if you will. Just like in Winter, snow can fall from the sky exquisitely and in silence but oftentimes winters in general can be rather harsh and cruel.” His eyes are so fierce as he looks at me, nearly demanding my attention as his whiskey laced tone lingers between us. “Let's just say that I sense something inside of you that contradicts the beauty you so unabatingly possess. Your winter hair is a facade, am I right?" His words are like that of a match, striking against my ribcage and creating a flame that lights me in ways I can't even comprehend. How does he have so much power when he speaks?

I don't know what to say. I can’t even be sure that I understood what he just said. His voice takes up my good brain cells andmorphs them into putty and all I can think about is how grossly impressed I am with thiscreaturestanding in front of me.

But also, I find myself harnessing annoyance. Sure, he's right. My hair disguises the fact that my reality is a much sadder and darker place than I want anyone to be privy to. But I didn't really know that until he just brazenly pointed it out.

He looks smugly into my eyes, proud, but almost with intention to dig deeper to the core of them and it makes me feel exposed and violated. I don't need some tall and handsome stranger trying to figure me out with the efforts on an ominous compliment.

A few beats pass by of us staring at each other before I decide that I'm done entertaining this man's agenda.

“Time to go,” I say plainly, trying to seem unaffected by anything he’s saying or doing, but it’s an act entirely, knowing that I really have been bothered by his presence in one way or another.

I look down at the stone sidewalk in order to think straight; thankful I don't have to walk further than around the building to get home. I also notice a few of those late-night walkers that seem to make an appearance every night after the sun sets; this town seems to crawl with curious minds and groups of mysterious laughter in the darkest hours. When I moved here, I didn't anticipate the cloak-and-dagger effect to be so prevalent. But at least I know someone will hear me scream if he or anyone else tries to make a move before I can get home safely.

The stranger standing inside my bookstore finally understands his task and walks through the threshold and stands on the other side of me by the entrance. I shut the door, and lock it with my key before turning around and leaving without another word, still bewildered and intrigued becausewhat the hell was that?

"You didn't ask for my name," he raises his voice but still respectful in the manner he speaks to me, yet something dangerous plays in his tone.

"I don't need it," I singsong back without looking at him as I turn the corner leaving the terrifyingly charming man to the confines of the shadows.

Though, secretly, I do hope that I'll get to see him again.

5

without a trace

Lucynda

October 11th

“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?”

Spending my Friday morning arguing with a police officer about what qualifies as a stalker was not how I wanted to spend my time.

Last night, after my run in with the Poe connoisseur, I decided I was too exhausted to do anything but shower and sleep. Instead, I woke up extra early this morning to walk to the police station to explain to them for nearly twenty minutes what has been going on—the shadow person watching me, the note, the roses—only to be told that there is nothing they can actually do about any of it.

“Ma’am, I’ve explained this to you. You have no evidence other than this one note and a dying rose. If you can provide me with an image or a video of the person you claim to have seen, we might take a look at it, but other than that, it just appears that maybe you have a secret admirer, as the note claims. And that is not against the law.” The officer clasps her hands together and pulls her lips tight at me, as if I’m bothering her by being here. And I probably am.

Of course, I would be the new girl who just moved in and starts causing issues because someone gave me a fucking flower. I’m already bothering this poor department with my issues which causes me to feel like a disappointment.

Wonderful.

I stand here, annoyed with the answer I’ve been given but also annoyed with myself for overthinking the situation. I’m being totally irrational and probably a little immature. But this can’t be the resolution I’m forced to live with. Just suck it up and be grateful I have someone who likes me, basically.

Though I don’t believe that this is someone who actually admires me as something foreboding emanates from the note. I think one of my step-sisters found where I live and decided to torture me from afar. That or I have an actual stalker who wants to kidnap me. That’s not, in the slightest, something to be grateful about. The mentally abusive agoraphobia starts to swarm my nerves, causing me to start breathing a little faster.

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