Prologue
Somewhere between instinct and fear is the moment you realize you’re not alone—and haven’t been for a while.
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt eyes on me, but this… this felt different. Heavier. Intentional. Like someone wasn’t just watching—they were studying. Waiting.
I walked alone through the broad streets of Hollowhill, my sneakers tapping against the damp cobblestones in rhythm with the music flowing through my headphones. The night air clung to my skin, crisp and biting, carrying the scent of the leaves just beginning to fall.
The town always feels different after dark—dimly lit only by the incandescent lamp posts scattered about and uncomfortably quiet. In the light of day, people are bustling, shops are open and everyone greets you with a smile. But I reveled in the solitude that was afforded in the nighttime, just me and my music.
My headphones, an extension of myself almost like another body part, are always with me. Music has always been my refuge, drowning out the relentless churn of my thoughts.
The sharp sound of Avenged Sevenfoldfills my headphones. That shift between haunting softness and explosive intensity has a grip on me. Ethereal vocals, gritty distortions, and occasional screams weave together in my ears.
Suddenly—silence.
The music cut out.
I slowed and pulled out my phone from my pocket. I pressed the screen, but nothing —it was dead.
“Shit.”
Now I have to walk home in the crippling silence of this almost too small town. I slip my headphones down from my ears and let them rest around my neck.
Then, I hear something unusual for this time of night—footsteps in the distance.
I pause, waiting for them to pass. But the footsteps stopped when I did.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I continued on—so did the footsteps.
As I sped up, the sound of steps behind me also gained momentum. The hair on my arms rose and I was overwhelmed with a sense of panic.
I grabbed my keys and laced them between each of my fingers protruding like tiny dull knives, hoping I wouldn’t have to use my make-shift weapon.
The footsteps pick up pace. I start walking quicker as well, feeling my heart thudding against my chest harder and faster.
I steal a glance over my shoulder, but nothing. Just an empty street lined with closed storefronts that seemed to be swallowed by the darkness.
But I wasn't alone.
The footsteps are still there. My heart drops into my stomach.
When I turn to confront my stalker, a shadow flies around the corner of the alleyway as they go a different route. Relief flows through my body, warm and welcomed. My grip loosened on the cold metal keys between each of my knuckles.
I continue on my walk home, the silence now greeted with contentment. Paranoia sets in. I still feel watched.
The footsteps return a moment later.
The sound of steps closing the distance fills my body with adrenaline as I press forward, faster now. My house is only a block away. Nearly home.
I fumble with my keys, trying to find my front door key as the steps gain on me. A knot of fear forms a lump in my throat. A few yards away. Almost there.
The footsteps are closer now. Right behind me.
I can feel a hand brush against my shoulder. The sound of a leather glove against my leather jacket is sickening.
Ice shoots through my veins.
Then—
“Lydia!”
The sound of Rowan’s voice cuts through the night like a knife as she stumbles out of the front door.
My best friend stood in the doorway, backlit by the porch light, her wild red curls a halo around her face. Relief crashed over me so hard I nearly stumbled.
The presence behind me vanished, slipping soundlessly into the alley beside my house. Gone. A ghost in the night.
“What the hell was that all about?” Rowan inquired as I nearly crashed into her, breathless.
“I don’t know.” I whispered, still shaky.
Stepping past her into the house, Rowan reached into the mailbox as she entered the doorway, oblivious of the danger that lingered, continuing with her normal routine.
“Will you please get in now!” I pleaded, “And lock the door.”
Rowan, blissfully unaware of the potential peril that I just narrowly escaped, filed through the envelopes and handed over my pile. Adrenaline still surged through me, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs. It was impossible to calm down, and sorting through the mail was the last thing I wanted to do—but I needed something else to focus on.
Amongst the normal junk mail and bills— a single red envelope. No address. No stamp. Just my name scrawled across the front.
Lydia Oxford
I hesitated, then carefully peeled it open. A sense of unease washed over me.
Inside, a single sheet of white paper.
Only six words, written in blood red ink: What a beautiful nightmare you are.
