Page 1 of The Silent Night Stalker
Chapter 1
Constantine
Freedom.
Freedom is a concept I struggle to grasp and find.
I’ve been free from my tormentor for four years, and in that time, I’ve lived without much of a life. I work, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat. I’m without purpose and goals. And I’m afraid of everything. I’m scared to sleep, to be alone, of shadows and nighttime, but I’m especially terrified of holidays… all because of him. It’s not a constant sense of dread, but it lingers there in the back of my mind, like a headache that never goes away. It isn’t too painful, but it’s always uncomfortable.
While living alone in my house, I always wonder when he’s going to get me, even though I know he’s dead. It doesn’t matter. My trauma teases and confuses me. I see him in the shadows, lurking, or in the faces of people I pass every day. Even the creaking sounds in the house are him coming for me.
I try to live a normal life, but I’m far from ordinary. For a decade, he reshaped my body, mind, and soul. But I want to find my path. I want a journey and to grow beyond being afraid all the time. MaybeI could even find someone to be with—have a person to care about. But I never have the balls to ask anyone.
Then, when Christmas Eve rolls along, I bury myself in my bedroom, under my covers, to hide from my memories and the world. But it’s impossible to escape your mind. It’s my personal prison. It’s my very own hell.
One day a year, my anxiety and panic attacks are all-consuming. I sweat, shake, barf, and don’t eat for twenty-four hours. The only thing I can choke down is water.
The holidays are bad in general, but not likethatday, the one that’s quickly coming. It will be here in forty-eight hours, and I’m trying not to freak out.
So, here I am, nursing a beer at a bar I’ve never been to, trying to get drunk, but I never do. Something deep within my psyche knows not to lose control, or he’ll come and hurt me.
He’s dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
He can’t get you anymore.
I have to keep reminding myself of that. My brain continuously plays tricks on me.
Still, no matter how much I convince myself he isn’t coming back, I never get drunk enough to drown out the pain, even for a little bit.
The anxiety tries to creep in, poking and prodding at me. The football game on the television blurs away, and the classic rock playing on the speakers is muffled in my ears like I’m underwater.
The door opens to the bar, and the gust of cold air yanks my attention away from the spiraling.
Then I see her—an angel.
In walks a woman with long, straight, brown hair. She wears very little makeup and doesn’t need it. She’s beautiful. I wish I could seethe color of her eyes, but the lighting is too dim. She wears a white button-up tucked into dark wash jeans underneath a blue wool coat. She’s neat and put together, carrying an air of elegance, even in her casual clothes. It must be because of the red heels.
What stands out the most is her pain. She tries to mask it with small, uncertain smiles and shy glances, but it’s there all the same. I recognize it because I see myself in her, like how you fold yourself into your own body to escape whatever you’re suffering from.
For the first time in my twenty-two years, someone calls to me. I’m completely drawn to her, not in a sexual way, but in an empathetic way. I see what she’s trying to hide.
It must be fate, because the woman sits down next to me, of all people. There are other free barstools, but she chooses the one next to me. Something delicate and floral envelops my senses. Her perfume isn’t overwhelming, but it’s enough to mask the smell of stale beer. I take a deep breath of her.
“What will it be, darlin’?” the bartender asks her.
“Uhm, a glass of cabernet, please.” Her voice is resonant and deeper than expected, sultry, even in her shyness.
The bartender quickly pours her a glass and places it in front of her. She takes a large gulp and sets it back down on the wooden surface. Her body is hunched as she stares at her drink.
I never talk to people, especially to strangers, unless I must, like at work. My awkwardness is too obvious. I put people off most of the time. It can be hard because I get lonely and could use some friends. But when I try to talk about things, people look at me weirdly. I’ve been isolated for so long, I don’t really know how to act around anyone or have anything interesting to talk about. I never had any true friends when I was younger because they would have seen my shame. Despite that, none of that stops me from trying to talk to her.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask. My hands are clammy, and the ever-present nerves try to take over. God, I really hate putting myself out there, but she needs someone. For some reason, I want to do for her what no one ever did for me.
The woman looks up with eyes I can now see are green, then they start watering. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. It’s… Forget it.” She sniffles, smiles shyly, and takes another sip of her wine.
“No, it’s okay. You just look really sad.”
