I pull a blanket off the small sofa and wrap it around me – not for warmth, but for a feeling of safety. I know it’s illogical: a thin layer of fabric is nothing against whoever might be out there. But it’s all I’ve got right now, so I wrap myself tighter, sinking into the couch.
My eyes travel along the doors, the walls. I trace a faint stain close to the ceiling. Rising damp? A dark, ugly streak … but this is a brand-new house!
I close my eyes, and when I open them, blinking hard, the stain is gone, the wall pristine. It’s just my mind again, twisting shadows into something worse.Or is it?I don’t know any more. I can’t trust what I see. Can’t trust what I feel. Can’t trust who I know.
I stand up and let myself drift further into the gleaming living space; the luxurious details no longer soothe and impressme. The expensive furnishings, the polished floors – they all seem to echo a promise I once believed in, a promise that’s now shattered. Every corner of this place has been so carefully curated, yet each pristine surface reflects a truth I can’t ignore: my life, too, has been scrubbed clean of everything that matters, leaving behind only a sterile void.
I linger near the windows and wonder if this picture of perfection is all there is. The light that pours in feels harsh, exposing every crack and every hidden sorrow inside me. I remember when Dev and I believed these new walls would hold laughter and hope; now they just mirror the emptiness that has crept into our lives since we moved.
All this grandeur reflects a life that has strayed too far from what we truly need: each other. We never really belonged here at all, but we were too dazzled to see it.
I pick up my phone and stare at the screen, watching the digits change. Then I tap out another message to Dev.
Where are you?
I wait, gripping the phone tighter, willing it to ring. As if he’ll call, say he’s on his way back. Then I can speak to him at last.
But the minutes stretch out, heavy and slow, and I get nothing back. No reply.
Fear starts to seep in, thicker than the damp that may or may not be on the walls.
Images start to slide into my mind. The sinister faces of strangers hidden in shadows, someone hovering on the hillside. A fist pounding on the glass door until it shatters. Tilda lurking in the background, a false new friend who wishes me harm.
I’ve told the police everything … well, almost everything. They told me to come back here and to stay in the house with my husband. That someone would be in touch.
But while they’re out searching, there’s no one to help me. Dev is still not answering my calls and there’s nobody here but me. No one to stop an intruder getting in.
The watcher. What if he’s already here, slipping silently through the grounds to get to me?
64
The Watcher
The hillside looms, steep and silent. The damp earth slips beneath his feet, moss and rot thick in the air. Overhead, the light is fading fast, dusk becoming night.
He breathes in, breathes out.
His gaze stays fixed on what lies ahead – that pinnacle of perfection, the ostentatious prize. Perched on the hill like a trophy they do not deserve.
The floor-to-ceiling glass windows gleam, a mocking beacon against the fading day.The house they stole.
Inside, every bulb burns, as if the light alone can banish all of the shadows. The rooms are impossibly modern and stark – clean lines, white walls, polished steel. A place without history, without heart, without conscience.
Look at me! Look at me and what I stand for!
Greed and excess. A reward for betrayal and lies.
Behind him, the lake loops like a restless serpent. The hillside winds steep and treacherous, but his steps remain steady, his intention strong.
The air grows colder as he climbs, damp seeping through his clothes, into his skin. His fingers brush against solid metal in his pocket – the claw hammer’s weight, cold and familiar. The pulse in his temples stays even, his breath measured, as the house draws closer.
Through the glass, shadows shift. A figure moves inside, their back turned, oblivious.
His hand skims a low branch, slick with rain, the hammer’s weight pressing heavier with each step.
He reaches the door. Breath misting the air. Heart drumming slow and steady beneath the skin. One moment stretches into another, taut as a stretched wire.
He silently turns the stolen key as his fingers close around the door handle, cold and smooth beneath his grip.
