Page 4 of Whispers of Ruin

When I return to the kitchen, a subtle knock makes me jump. My heart pounds as I glance at the clock—it is too early for visitors. Not that I ever actually have visitors—thanks to my sparkling social life and magnetic charm, of course.

I debate ignoring it, but the knocking continues, now sharp and insistent. Taking a deep breath, I walk through the hallway and peek through the peephole.

No one’s there.

I open the door cautiously to find a package on the floor. It is small and meticulously wrapped in plain brown paper, with my name written in cursive letters in the middle, in dark crimson ink.

My stomach knots as I carry it inside. Setting it on the counter, I stare at it, half-expecting it to explode or to scream at me like the howler envelope did to Ronald Weasley inHarry Potter.

Julian’s voice breaks the silence, groggy and muffled from the bedroom.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I call back, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Just a delivery.”

I notice at the top—my name in clear, clean handwriting, the ink almost too perfect. No return address, no sign of who sent it. I ordered nothing. And I sure as hell do not remember asking for something, as if Julian Beckett would get it for me anyway.

My curiosity pushes me forward. I reach for the package; the paper crinkling under my fingertips as I carefully peel back the tape with the small green knife I keep in the drawer. I work my way around the edges, keen to see what is inside, the blade sliding smoothly under the surface. It is almost as satisfying as those ASMR carpet cleaning videos I tend to watch late at night, trying to quiet the recurring nightmares that haunt me.

Without warning, the knife hits something unexpected. I hesitate, thinking it is just the cardboard, but with a sudden sharp motion, the blade gives way, and I feel a hot sting across the side of my hand to my wrist.

“Damn it!”

The knife clatters to the floor as I pull my hand back. My skin is sliced open, a trail of blood immediately pooling at the surface. The cut is shallow, but it hurts and bleeds like hell. I pull my hand to my chest instinctively, my heart pounding.

“What in the actual fuck was that?” I mutter under my breath, my mind racing with frustration and confusion.

The sensation of the blade biting into my skin seems deliberate, as if the package was meant to hurt me. I grab a paper towel from the counter, pressing it against the wound to staunch the bleeding. My fingers shake slightly, my annoyance building.

I return to the package, the thought of what is inside suddenly feeling a little more ominous. I finish cutting the tape with more caution, but as I peel back the last flap of paper, I cannot help but feel a nagging suspicion that this container is wrong.

The box is full of crumpled tissue paper. At first glance, it seems harmless, even mundane. But while I dig through the soft layers, I pull out a folded sheet of paper—something is weighing it down beneath it.

I reach deeper and pull out a small, sharp object hidden among the tissues. It’s a razor blade, its edges gleaming in the light. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

What kind of crazy sickos would do something like this?

My hand pulses with a dull ache as the sense of being watched grows back again. I push the paper and the blade aside to find…

A sketch.

A detailed drawing of me in the gallery, the faint reflection of myself in the window capturing the exact moment I stood there the day before, lost in thought, right before closing.

I inspect the drawing, my pulse quickening for reasons I cannot entirely explain. The scene is too accurate, too precise to be a coincidence. That is when I notice it—scrawled in faint pencil along the bottom corner:

Nice view, huh? You should see the original.

Here’s some advice, Ginger—don’t paint yourself into a corner.

P.S.: Here are some tissues for your hand.

X -

My chest contracts as I stare at the message. The pain in my hand suddenly seems secondary to the icy chill creeping up my spine.

Who the hell is X?

How do they know about me?

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