30. Noah - August
THIRTY
Noah - August
LAMENT - INVADABLE HARMONY
The room felt cold, though I didn’t remember turning the TV off. The blankets around me were gone. Walker wasn’t at my feet, and Dotty and Gracie were nowhere in sight.
“Dotty?” I called.
No response.
The kitchen light was on, a dim glow spilling into the living room. I rubbed my arms against the chill and stood. Soft scrapes echoed through the quiet house as my feet carried me toward the kitchen.
“Gracie? Dotty? Walker?”
There was nothing but overwhelming silence, the kind that made my heart rate pick up. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.
As I stepped into the kitchen, something felt off. The back door was ajar, just enough for the faintest breeze to slip through, brushing the curtains in a lazy sway. The air felt cold. Too cold. I stepped closer, the floor creaking under my weight.
“Hello?” My voice was louder now, edged with panic.
A faint sound came from outside—a low, almost imperceptible rustle. My breath hitched as I approached the door, every instinct screaming at me to stop, to turn around and run.
It felt like my legs were sinking into the floor, as if the earth itself was holding me in space. But despite my uncertainty, my feet stepped closer.
Each step was a battle, my body begging me to listen, but my mind driven by some irrational, rabid curiosity.
The backyard was shrouded in darkness, the tall grass swaying gently in the wind. The faint silhouette of the tree line loomed in the distance, stark against the moonlit sky.
And then I saw it. A shadow, barely more than a ripple in the darkness. It lingered just beyond the edge of the light from inside, moving slowly, methodically—like it was watching me.
The shadow stopped, and for a moment, I thought it might have been my imagination. Then it stepped forward, the light catching just enough to reveal his face.
“John?” My heart seized in my chest.
Like a pillar of fear, John stood there, his hands sheathed in his pockets, his head tilted slightly, as if amused by my panic.
“Four,” he said. His voice was smooth, deceptively calm.
He took a step forward. I stumbled inside, my legs trembling, my back hitting against the counter. My hand fumbled for something—anything—to defend myself, but all I found was the cold, empty surface.
“How? How did you find me?” I asked, shaking my head.
He advanced, his steps unhurried.
“Three,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a chilling tone.
The air felt heavy, oppressive, and it was getting harder to breathe. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, as he stepped toward me once again.
“Two,” he hissed, his body only a few feet from mine.
The room tilted. Shadows stretched and deepened, swallowing me whole. My body locked up, every nerve screaming at me to run, but I couldn’t move as he closed the final step between us.
He leaned down, his exhale brushing my ear. His voice was low and deliberate as he whispered, “One.”
I bolted upright with a gasp, my chest heaving, my body drenched in sweat. The room spun as I tried to make sense of my surroundings while the ghost of his breath still was burning on my ear.
It took a moment for everything to register—the soft glow of the TV, the blanket half-draped over me, Dotty and Gracie fast asleep on the sleeping bags beside me, Walker laying at our feet. Gracie’s little hand rested against her cheek, her curls spilling over the pillow, and Dotty’s sleeping breaths filled the room.
It was just a dream.
But it didn’t feel like one.
My hands trembled as I pushed the blanket off and stood, the room suddenly too warm, too stifling. I stumbled into the kitchen, gripping the counter for support as I tried to steady my breathing.
I reached for my phone. Before I could comprehend what I was doing, I scrolled to Dorian’s name with shaking fingers. I hesitated for a moment before hitting call.
He answered almost immediately, despite it being the middle of the night.
“Noah?” His voice was groggy and confused.
“I…” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, willing myself to speak.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I… had a bad dream,” I blurted out, still trying to catch my breath. “It was him, Dorian. It felt so real. He was counting down, and he was there. I swear he was, I could feel him right there and it was like I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe, and I just—I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I’m on my way,” he said without hesitation.
“No, you don’t have to do that.”
“I’m already walking out the door. I’ll be there in a few.”
“Okay,” I replied, clutching the phone to my chest as the line went dead.
Five minutes felt like an eternity, but when the knock finally came, I almost ran to the door.
Dorian stood there, his dark eyes scanning me. He didn’t say anything, just pulled me into his arms, holding me tight.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his hand running soothingly down my back. “I’m here now.”
The sound of his voice, the steady warmth of his embrace, broke something inside me, and I let the tears fall.
“Thank you,” I whispered against his chest, my voice muffled but full of relief.
“Always.”
He led me to the couch, sitting beside me as I attempted to push the dream away, but failed. His hand never left mine, his fingers brushing gentle circles atop my skin.
“I got you, peach. I’ve got you,” he said softly.
I nodded, my breathing finally evening out.
“Can I stay? I’ll just tell G I missed her.” His gaze searched mine.
“Okay, but I have to sleep down there,” I said, pointing to my spot between Dotty and Gracie.
“Fine.” He teased. “If you have to.”
I wedged my way down to the floor as he settled onto the couch, pulling a blanket over himself. My attention stayed locked on him—the steadiness of his presence easing the tension that had gripped me.
His hand dropped, brushing against my temple, the touch tender as his fingers slowly moved back and forth.
I leaned into his touch, sinking into the calmness of the moment. It was the same feeling he had brought out in me since the very beginning.
My eyes grew heavy, my heart settling into a steady rhythm. Just as sleep began to claim me, I heard a small creak of the couch—and then the faintest pressure, a soft, lingering brush of his lips against my head.