Page 12 of When Death Whispers

What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

I risk a glance at Hudson. He’s still staring, jaw slack, his expression distant like he’s buffering—like his brain hasn’t caught up to what just happened.

I wait for the questions, the accusations, the anger—something. But nothing comes. He just stares, breathing heavily, eyes glazed with shock.

I recognize that look. Once upon a time, it had been mine too. But years of survival have dulled any shock I could feel. Now there’s only reaction, reflex, instinct.

And guilt.

Becausethisis what happens when I let someone in.

I drag myself to my feet, legs shaky beneath me. I don’t speak. Just head to the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for routine to keep from crumbling. If I can’t fix the horror clawing under my skin, I can at least fix a sandwich.

Famished.That word echoes through me, bitter and mocking. That’s something we, unfortunately, have in common tonight, my work break having been interrupted.

As I start pulling ingredients from the fridge, the guilt crashes back. Sharp and consuming. Hudson should’ve never been part of this. He was just… there. Kind. Persistent. Interested in me.

And now he’s marked.

I spin too fast, reaching for the drawer to grab a knife—and nearly slam into Hudson, who’s suddenly right behind me.

My heart skips a beat.

“What… just happened?” he asks, voice raw, like he hasn’t quite caught his breath. “What the fuck was that?”

I flinch.

So, we’re at the questions part.

Of course we are.

I force myself to keep my tone even. “Sit down, Hudson. I’ll make something to eat and answer whatever I can.”

He obeys without hesitation, sinking into the kitchen chair like his knees gave out. He doesn’t look away from me.

“How did you know those branches were going to fall on us?”

I sigh and drag a hand down my face, smudging mud across my cheek. The weight of it all presses down on me like an anchor in the sea.

Maybe I should lie.

But I don’t.

“Because… he’s done it before. I’ve learned to recognize the signs and anticipate them.”

Hudson’s brows knit. “He?”

I let the question hang in the air between us while I focus on the food. Sandwiches feel stupid now, but I make them anyway. There’s something grounding about the rhythm of it—bread, ham, cheese. It gives my hands something to do other than shake.

Without thinking, I reach for the mustard. Some part of me—muscle memory, maybe—goes through the motions. I pop the cap and drag it across the slice of bread, not in the usual pattern, but looping, spiraling instead.

I don’t really know why I’m doing it, but it’s as if I can’t stop myself now that I’ve started. Like I’m in some sort of trance—my body moving on its own, the mustard flowing in patterns I didn’t consciously plan. The act of doodling itself feels like a compulsion, something outside my control.

I stare at the spiraling design for a moment, my breath catching. The mustard swirls across the bread in tight, looping patterns—an intricate series of curves that feel almost... purposeful. It doesn’t look like something I would do. The lines are too deliberate, too exact.

For a split second, I swear I see the design flicker, a faint, unnatural glow pulsing from it. My heart skips a beat, and I blink, but the glow is gone, leaving only the strange markings on the bread.

What the hell is happening?

---