14. Lola
LOLA
I lose track of time.
It starts small, like it always does. Keys not where I left them, a favorite lipstick gone, a mug turned so the chipped handle faces the wall instead of the door.
Stupid things, easy to blame on myself. I’m tired, I’m careless, I’m losing it again.
Maybe it’s the drugs, or the sleepless nights.
Maybe it’s Marcus, shifting things when he’s angry, silently punishing me for slights I can’t remember.
But the feeling lingers. The prickling on the back of my neck when I cross the living room at midnight, every muscle tight, waiting for a voice to cut the dark. The way the air feels heavier in my bedroom, like someone’s just slipped out as I step in. The silence that presses in after.
I keep busy. That’s what survivors do. I run errands for Marcus, ducking my head, pretending not to notice the way his friends watch me. I clean the kitchen twice, three times, until the smell of bleach stings my nose and makes my eyes water.
I snap at my reflection in the hallway mirror, “You’re fine, Lola. You’re not crazy.”
The mirror doesn’t answer. It never does.
Tuesday night, I find my phone on the windowsill, screen open to the camera app.
I don’t remember putting it there. There are photos.
Blurry, low light, the outline of my own sleeping body curled in bed.
My stomach flips, cold and empty. I scroll back.
The file info says 2:41 a.m. I don’t wake easily. Whoever took these had time.
I think about showing Marcus. My fingers hover over the door to his study, but I stop. He’ll blame me. He’ll say I left the window open, that I invited trouble, that a girl like me should expect to be watched. He’ll make me pay for it.
Deleting the photos, I turn the phone off and wrap it in a T-shirt at the bottom of my laundry basket. I won’t sleep tonight anyway. The next morning, I find a single black rose on my pillow. There are no words, no note, just petals, crushed and velvety, staining the white case with faint bruises.
I stare at it as my brain scrambles for logic. Marcus doesn’t waste time with flowers. He likes gifts you can’t throw away. Handcuffs, silk scarves, bruises that last for days. Someone was here. Someone close enough to stand over me while I slept.
I don’t tell Sophie; she has her own problems. I miss her. I miss the way she used to laugh, the way she’d make popcorn at midnight and drag me out of my nightmares with stupid movies.
Now I’m alone with the darkness, and it’s getting harder to pretend it isn’t alive.
I keep moving. I go to work. I pose for a new set of photos, the kind that make me feel like a cardboard cutout with tits. The photographer is new, hands rough, eyes bored. He doesn’t talk much; that’s almost a relief.
When I come home, the living room smells different.
Like smoke, sweat, and a stranger’s aftershave.
I pause in the doorway, heart pounding. The air is cold, the curtains shifting in a draft I can’t find.
I push the window shut, lock it, check it twice.
I check the bathroom: nothing. The kitchen: the same.
My bedroom: bed made, pillow fluffed, black rose gone.
I blink. Did I imagine it? Was it ever really there?
I feel stupid for even wondering. My mind is a maze, and I’m lost somewhere in the center, walls closing in.
The next morning, there’s a note slid under my bedroom door. No envelope, just paper. Square, thick, expensive.
I see you.
You’re never alone.
My hands shake so hard I nearly drop it.
I crumple the note and stuff it into my makeup bag, beneath the powder I never use.
My lips feel numb, the room spinning around me.
I check the locks again. Every window, every door.
I want to believe I’m safe, but the feeling won’t go away.
Someone is watching. Someone is waiting.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel breath on my skin, a weight at the edge of the mattress. I wake with my heart pounding, nails digging into my palms, sheets soaked with sweat. The dark feels crowded.
On Thursday, Marcus calls me into his study. He’s in a mood, suit crisp, cologne sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t look up from his laptop when I enter.
“Sit,” he says, voice flat. I sit, knees tight together, hands in my lap. He finally glances up. His eyes are black, unreadable. “You’ve been distracted lately, Lola. That’s not acceptable.”
I force a smile. “Just tired. Long week.”
He watches me, cold and slow. “Don’t lie to me. If you’re seeing someone, if you’re hiding something, I’ll know. You know what happens if you keep secrets.”
My pulse stutters. “I’m not hiding anything.”
He lets the silence stretch, a leash wrapped around my throat. “Good,” he says at last. “Because I’d hate to have to remind you what happens to bad girls.”
I nod, throat tight. When he dismisses me, I walk out on jelly legs. I check my phone; no new messages, nothing from the unknown number. I almost wish there was.
That night, the messages start.
The first one comes at 2:11 a.m. My phone vibrates under my pillow, loud enough to wake me from a tangle of nightmares. I blink blearily at the screen.
Your window is open. I could touch you if I wanted.
I bolt upright. The window is shut, locked. I can see my own reflection, mouth open, eyes wild with fear.
A second message.
Close the curtains. You’re prettier when you’re scared.
My hands shake as I fumble for the curtain cord. I yank it down, cloth whipping against the glass. I want to scream, but I press my fist to my mouth and swallow it. Marcus will hear. Marcus will punish me.
I try to call Sophie. The line rings, rings, then goes to voicemail. I don't leave a message. I check every room again. Bathroom, kitchen, living room, hallway. Nothing. The silence is heavier now, as if the house is holding its breath.
I sleep with the lamp on and dream of hands around my throat, of eyes in the dark, of a voice whispering my name over and over. In the morning, I find a lock of my hair on the nightstand. Cut clean, wrapped in a black ribbon. I press my hand to my throat and count, desperate to feel alive.
I consider calling the police, but what would I say? “Someone is watching me. Someone is inside my house.” They’d ask for proof. I have none. Just a thousand tiny wounds, invisible and bleeding.
I text Sophie:
Are you awake? Something’s wrong. Please call me.
No reply. I try again. Nothing.
I shower with the door locked, the steam suffocating, my skin crawling. When I dry off, there’s a new message on my phone.
Red suits you. You should wear it more.
The only red I own is a dress, shoved in the back of my closet, too tight, too short; Marcus’s favorite. I stare at it with my hands shaking. I don’t wear it, opting to wear black jeans and a hoodie, and hope for invisibility.
Night falls slowly.
I sit in the living room, knees hugged to my chest, watching the windows. Every time a car passes, my muscles lock. Every time a branch scrapes the glass, I flinch. There’s a knock at the door and I freeze. It’s late, too late for visitors.
Another knock. Harder.
Tiptoeing to the peephole, my heart pounds in my throat. The porch is empty, no footsteps, no shadow. Just the wind shivering through the dark.
I back away, pulse racing. There’s a sound in the kitchen.
A click. I grab the nearest thing; a heavy glass candleholder, and creep toward the noise.
The back door is open, just a crack, but enough.
I know I locked it. I know I did. I stare into the night, breath fogging the air.
A shape moves in the garden. Tall, broad-shouldered, all darkness and threat. My skin goes cold.
“Who’s there?” My voice wavers.
I drop the candleholder, it lands with a dull thud.
The shape is gone, the garden empty. The door swings wider in the wind, but I slam it shut, lock it, and jam a chair under the handle.
My hands tremble so bad I can barely move.
I stagger back to the living room, heart hammering wild. The phone buzzes.
You’re not safe. You never were.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to tear my skin off, to run, to disappear.
But there’s nowhere left to go.
I try to call Marcus. The line is dead. I try Sophie again. Still nothing. I drag a chair into my bedroom, and wedge it under the doorknob. I close the curtains, lock the window, turn the lamp on bright. Curling up in bed, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, shivering.
I stare at the door, waiting. I don’t sleep. I can’t. My thoughts spiral. Who is it? Why me? I replay every interaction from the past month, searching for clues. A man on the sidewalk, a face in a crowd, a laugh behind me at the grocery store.
It could be anyone. It could be everyone.
I count the hours until sunrise. The house is cold, silent, waiting.
When the first light creeps through the curtains, I stagger to the bathroom.
My face in the mirror is pale, eyes ringed with blue.
I look haunted. I look hunted. I turn the shower on hot, steam filling the room.
I scrub my skin until it burns, until I’m shaking.
When I step out, there’s a message written on the fogged-up mirror.
Soon.
My knees buckle. I sink to the floor, naked and shivering. I want my mother. I want Sophie. I want to wake up in a world where monsters only live in stories.
But I know better. In this world, monsters live next door. Sometimes they live in your house. Sometimes they live inside you.
I pull my knees to my chest and rock, silent, until the steam fades. I am not safe. I never was.
Once the tiles become painful, I make my way back to the bedroom.
Walking over to the window, I reach forward to open the curtains.
There is a feeling in my gut telling me that someone is near.
To my horror, a man stands on the front lawn.
He is wearing all black, a skull mask placed on his face.
He stares up at me, and suddenly my feet are frozen to the spot.
Is this the person who has been sending me these messages?
Before I can process the sight in front of me, a wave of fog rolls in. I blink. The fog passes, and he is gone. Like a ghost in the night.