Page 18 of Wicked Beasts
It’s covered in a familiar coating of dust but lacks the words I’m looking for. It’s just a frame. As I look up, I see the painting is chipping slightly, showing its age. It’s worn and old, much like the rest of the house. The woman stares down at me with a sad type of stare that tugs at my heartstrings.
Disappointed, I return to my desk to bring my dishes to the kitchen sink, the remnants of soup sloshing gently in the bowl as I walk. The house creaks in the darkness, but a gentle light streams in from the dining room, where chatter drifts through the hallway—Mrs. Wong and Gisella’s voices are soft, a comforting presence as a reminder of life. I swing open the door, and the clatter of the bowl meeting the metal sink pierces the silence of the kitchen. As I rinse it under the cool water, the last traces of broth spiral away, disappearing down the drain before I scrub it clean.
After drying my hands with a dish towel, I return to my room and pull my pajamas from the wardrobe. The hallway stretches before me, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my feet, echoing a tune both familiar and disquieting as I walk. I step into the bathroom, where the air is thick with the comforting scents of sweets and florals, growing more pronounced as I close the door behind me.
I turn on the shower, and steam rises in delicate tendrils.
As I shed my clothes, I feel the day's tension dissolve, ready to be washed away as the hot water cascades down my body. Taking a deep breath, I embrace the heat, letting it soothe my frazzled mind.
After finishing my shower, my body relaxed and my mind calmed, I dry myself off and wrap my hair in a towel. Donning my pajamas, I retreat to my room, where the bed beckons with its plush sheets. I close the door behind me, locking it securely to guard against the shadow monsters beyond.
At my desk, I close out the word document and switch to a streaming service, eager to escape into the world of my latest binge watch before drifting off to sleep, trying to distract myself from my looming anxiety about tomorrow afternoon. After pulling back the sheets of my bed, I set my laptop down, but myattention is drawn to the door as footsteps and muffled voices filter through the wood.
“Dr. Shadow—you’reearlythis evening.” Mortimer’s voice is laced with unmistakable tension.
“I’d like to meet her.” The other voice feels both familiar and distant. Is it Tristan? My brow furrows as I strain to listen, uncertainty swirling in my chest as my heart thumps rapidly.
“Meet who?”
“Youknowwho, Mortimer. Don’t play games with me.”
The tone is commanding and rough. It can’t be Tristan.
“I’d really caution against it, sir?—”
The floorboards betray me and groan beneath my weight as I lean closer to the door, straining to catch the hushed whispers from the hallway. A gasp slips from my lips, a reveal of my presence, and in an instant, I retreat, scrambling back to the safety of my bed, my heart pounding like a caged animal.
Fifteen
Sleep eludes me, my mind a restless sea of unease, a growing dread coiling tightly in the pit of my stomach. The conversation echoes in my thoughts, each word amplifying the eeriness clinging to the corners of my room.
Who is this mysterious Dr. Shadow?
Who did he want to meet?
Were they talking about me?
My thoughts reel with possibilities, trying to make sense of their words and calm the distress gnawing at my core.
If someone wanted to meet me, why wouldn’t they come during the day? Why wait until night, when everyone is usually in bed? Were they even talking about me?
With my covers pulled snugly to my chin, I lay in a cocoon of silk warmth, yet I feel the chill of apprehension seep into my bones as I stare at the sliver of darkness between the door and the floor, watching for any flicker of movement. It mocks me as I wait, engulfed in paranoia, for a monster to seep through the small space and swallow me whole.
It is only when I grow tired from my fears that I eventually drift into slumber, but sleep is far from relaxing. In my dreams, the shadows take form. Dr. Shadow, a creature of the night, aboogeyman brought to life from the strength of my anxiety. I never see his face, and yet, I can never escape the unsettling terror in my stomach and the chills prickling at my skin. He’s always shrouded in darkness, but I know he’s there, watching me.
Waiting for me.
My breath hitches as I wake. My hand finds the base of my throat as I gently massage just above my collarbones. I feel silly, constantly haunted by these nightmares, constantly living in my own fear.It’s just a house, I try to tell myself as I push the covers off.
They’re just people.
Am I going mad?
I wipe the sweat from my brow, and rather than join Manu in the kitchen as I usually do, I pull clothes from my wardrobe to start the day with a shower. I am convinced I can let go of my fears with the steam and wash away all the dread down the drain.
Maybe notfullyconvinced, but I have hope. This afternoon is finally when I get to spend some alone time with Tristan.
I refuse to let even my fears ruin that.
