2: Whispers in the Night
Ellie’s POV
Startled, I blinked—and the eyes were gone.
But the feeling of being watched lingered, sending shivers down my spine. My heart pounded as I yanked the curtains shut, trying to shake off the unease. The room felt smaller somehow, like the walls were closing in on me.
I told myself it was just my imagination running wild again. After everything that had happened tonight—the attack, the stranger, the glowing eyes—it was no wonder I felt jumpy. Still, I couldn’t shake the image of those piercing blue orbs staring back at me from across the street. They hadn’t looked human. Not even close.
Who was he? And why did I feel like part of me recognized him, even though we’d never met before?
I shouldn’t have been obsessing over this right now. I should’ve been asleep—or at least pretending to rest before tomorrow’s early shift at the café. Sleep deprivation was becoming my default state these days, thanks to late-night hospital visits and endless worry about money.
But sleep wasn’t coming tonight. Instead, I paced the length of my tiny apartment, replaying the encounter in my mind. He’d saved me—that much was clear. But there was something… off about him. Something otherworldly. The way he moved, so fast and precise, like he wasn’t bound by the same laws of physics as the rest of us. And then there was his voice—cold, clipped, almost robotic—but with an undercurrent of something deeper. Pain, maybe? Or regret?
Whatever it was, it stuck with me long after he disappeared into the shadows.
Stop it, Ellie. You don’t have time for this.
I grabbed my phone and opened the chat with Sophie, my coworker and occasional confidant. She’d been texting me all day, asking why I looked so tired lately. Normally, I brushed her off with vague excuses about insomnia or stress. Tonight, though, I typed out a half-hearted response:
Me: Just long hours at work. Nothing new.
Sophie replied almost instantly.
Sophie: You’re gonna burn yourself out, El. Seriously, take a break sometime.
I sighed, setting the phone aside. If only taking a break were an option. Between Mom’s bills, Dad’s disappearing act, and whatever weirdness was happening with that guy from tonight, I didn’t see relief coming anytime soon.
Over the next few days, I became obsessed with finding him again. It wasn’t rational—I knew that. But every time I stepped outside, I found myself scanning the crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of his tall frame or jet-black hair. I noticed odd details about him when I thought I spotted him in passing: the unnatural stillness in his posture, the way people seemed to instinctively avoid him. It was as if he didn’t belong to this world—or perhaps, he belonged to another entirely.
One afternoon, while walking through Old Town Square, I saw him standing near the fountain. My breath hitched, and I froze mid-step, unsure whether to approach him or turn around and run. Before I could decide, he glanced up, his gaze locking onto mine for the briefest moment. Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Frustrated, I chased after him, weaving through tourists and street vendors, but he was already gone. Vanished, like smoke in the wind.
That evening, back at my apartment, I sat on the couch with a sketchpad in hand, trying to distract myself. Absentmindedly, I began drawing his face—the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the intensity of his gaze. At first, I stuck to reality, capturing the cold mask he wore in public. But as my pencil moved across the page, I started adding details that weren’t there: a softer smile, warmer eyes, a hint of vulnerability beneath his stoic exterior.
In my fantasies, he spoke to me gently, his voice low and melodic instead of icy and distant. We walked along Charles Bridge together, the city lights reflecting off the river below. For the first time in years, I felt safe in his presence, like nothing bad could touch me as long as he was nearby.
These small acts of creativity brought me fleeting moments of peace amidst the chaos of my life. Mom’s condition continued to deteriorate, and Dad remained absent, leaving me to shoulder the weight of everything alone. Drawing the stranger gave me something to focus on besides the endless hospital visits and sleepless nights.
But no matter how many sketches I filled, I couldn’t silence the questions swirling in my mind.
Who was he?
Why had he saved me?
And why did I feel such a strong pull toward him, even though we’d barely exchanged a dozen words?
As the days passed, I began noticing strange coincidences—symbols carved into walls, recurring dreams of blood-soaked rooms—that hinted at a connection between us. Each new clue only deepened the mystery, fueling my determination to uncover the truth.
Then, one night, as I stood by the window staring out at the empty street, I heard it.
A low voice whispered behind me: "You shouldn’t look for me.”
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. The room was empty, the door still locked. Yet the words echoed in my mind, chilling me to the bone.
It was him.
Somehow, I knew it.
Before I could catch my breath, the air seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on me like an invisible weight. My sketchpad slid off the table, pages fluttering open to reveal the drawing I’d made of him.
And then I saw it—the faintest shimmer in the corner of the room, like heat waves rising from asphalt. It solidified slowly into the outline of a figure, tall and impossibly still. His glowing blue eyes pierced through the darkness, locking onto mine.
For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“Ellie,” he said again, softer this time, almost hesitant.
But before I could respond, the sound of breaking glass shattered the silence. A shadowy figure leapt through my bedroom window, landing silently on the floor.
The intruder wasn’t him—it was someone else. Someone darker, more menacing with a sinister smile.