Chapter 2
Fade to black
JUDE
The voicemail echoes in my head long after it ends. I sit frozen, phone in hand, as if moving might somehow summon whatever it was outside. The rain lashes against the window, drowning out every other sound, but it can’t drown out the pounding of my pulse.
The storm outside is alive. It’s malevolent. It’s raging against the world and my cottage, and it’s as stirred up as I am.
“Run.”
The word reverberates like a warning from some primal part of my brain. Something ancient and buried deep.
I set the phone down carefully, almost reverently, as if it might shatter if I moved too quickly. My legs feel heavy as I stand, my body stiff with unease. For a moment, I consider calling Anya back, hearing her voice again, grounding myself in something familiar.
But what would I say? That I’m losing it? That I’ve changed my mind? That I’ve decided to change genres and start writing horror, and my mind is playing tricks on me? Or that I think there’s a man—or something—lurking outside my window during a storm? That my voicemail just threatened me?
She’d laugh. Or worse, she’d worry.
I lean closer toward the window, hesitating before I pull the curtain aside. My reflection stares back at me in the glass, pale and wide-eyed, the room behind me dimly lit by the single lamp in the corner.
Nothing.
The dunes are empty, the beach a barren stretch of chaos under the storm. The figure—whoever, or whatever, it was—is gone.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
It prickles at the back of my neck, sharp and unrelenting, as if the darkness itself has eyes.
It’s not just paranoia. It’s more. The sensation is tangible, a weight pressing down on me, a thousand unseen threads tightening around my body.
It feels like I’m not alone in the room, like someone—or something—is standing just out of sight, watching me with cold, patient intent.
The air inside feels too close, too still, the hum of the storm outside only amplifying the silence in here. But there’s not a chance I’m venturing out into it, not tonight. Not when there’s a gale devastating the coast and I’d be insane to even think about it.
I grab the remote off the coffee table and turn on the TV, needing the distraction. Static fills the screen at first, the flickering noise grating against my nerves. I flip through the channels, landing on the news.
“Severe weather warnings remain in effect for coastal areas,” the anchor says, her voice calm, clinical. The map behind her shows the storm’s trajectory, a swirling mass of red and orange barreling through the region. “Residents are advised to stay indoors and avoid unnecessary travel.”
No kidding.
My stomach twists as the anchor’s words echo in my head, but my focus is pinned on the screen.
The scene cuts to footage of the beach. It’s the same beach that’s just outside my window.
The same waves crash against the rocks, and the wind bends trees nearly in half.
It looks more apocalyptic on screen than it does in real life.
It’s not just the storm that looks devastating—it’s the figure, unbothered by the surrounding chaos, as if he belongs to the storm itself.
My heart thuds painfully in my chest, the air catching in my throat as my mind races for explanations that won’t come.
This can’t be real. It has to be some kind of trick.
But I know what I saw.
The camera pans across the shoreline, and my breath catches.
There. Just for a second, in the corner of the frame.
A figure.
Tall. Motionless.
Standing against the wind like it doesn’t touch him.
I lunge for the remote, rewinding the broadcast, my fingers trembling as I pause the image. My chest tightens as I stare at the screen, at the figure blurred by rain but unmistakably there.
He’s facing the water, his back to the camera. But even through the distortion, there’s something wrong about him. Something off.
I grab my phone, snapping a picture of the screen. My hands shake so badly the first one comes out blurry, so I take another.
The moment I lower the phone, the power flickers.
The TV goes dark.
The room plunges into silence.
And then I hear it.
The same low, guttural sound from before carried faintly through the storm.
But this time, it’s closer.
Much closer.
The sound crawls through the storm, slipping past the barriers of glass and brick, winding its way into my chest. I can’t explain why it freezes me the way it does, only that I know instinctively that it isn’t natural.
I back away from the window, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it might break free of my ribs. The low, guttural noise rises again, almost a growl now, but it’s layered with something else. Something faint and whispery, like words spoken just out of earshot.
The power flickers again, this time plunging the room into a moment of total darkness before the dim glow of the lamp sputters back to life. My breathing is loud, ragged, as I listen to the storm rage outside, every gust of wind and crack of thunder twisting my nerves tighter.
I try to convince myself it’s nothing. A trick of the wind. My own paranoia. But my body knows better. There’s something out there.
I reach for my phone, my thumb hovering over Anya’s name in my contacts. I can already hear her voice in my head, teasing me for freaking out over a shadow and some static.
The door creaks under the pressure, the wood groaning as a force pushes against it.
I back up until I hit the kitchen counter, my chest heaving as my eyes dart around for an escape route. But there’s nowhere to go. The storm outside is just as dangerous as whatever is trying to get in.
The door gives a sudden lurch, the hinges straining, and a flash of lightning illuminates the silhouette pressed against the glass.
It’s not human.
It’s too tall, its limbs too long, its head tilting unnaturally as it peers inside. For a moment, I think I see eyes that glow faintly in the darkness, like embers burning low.
My hand shakes as my grip tightens on the knife, and I try to steady my breathing. But it’s no use. My chest is on the verge of caving in, my heart’s hammering wildly against my ribs and my vision is closing in. I’m already losing whatever fight this is, and it hasn’t even started yet.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the noise stops.
The scratching, the growling, the pressure against the door. All of it disappears, leaving only the sound of the storm raging outside.
I stand frozen, every muscle in my body coiled and ready to spring. The silence stretches on, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the howling wind.
And then I hear it.
A voice.
Not distorted or guttural this time, but clear and unmistakable.
“Jude…”
It’s coming from the other side of the house.
It’s coming from the beach.
I stumble back, nearly dropping the knife as the sound of my name echoes through the story. It’s impossible. There’s no way anyone could be out there, not in this weather.
But I know what I heard.
Against every instinct screaming at me to stay inside, I move towards the window, peering out into the darkness. The dunes are empty, the beach desolate, but the voice comes again.
“You are claimed…”
It’s softer this time, almost pleading.
I shouldn’t go.
Every instinct, every fiber of my soul, every beat of my heart is telling me to lock the door. To hide inside. To wait out the storm and whatever lurks outside. But the voice pulls at something deep inside me, something I can’t explain.
And I cannot resist it.
I grab my phone and coat, stepping outside as the rain slams into me with a force that steals my breath.
The wind howls, whipping my hair into my face as I make my way down the steps and into the dunes.
I call out for whoever’s out there, yelling as loud as I can, but even now, my voice is barely audible over the storm.
There’s no answer, but the pull grows stronger, dragging me across the beach and towards the water. The sand shifts beneath my feet, wet and heavy, as the ocean comes into view.
And that’s when I see it.
The figure from before, standing at the edge of the waves.
It doesn’t move as I approach, its tall, angular frame silhouetted against the churning sea. The rain blurs its outline, but I can see enough to know it isn’t right.
“Who are you?” I shout, gripping the knife so tightly my knuckles ache.
It doesn’t respond.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the beach for a split second, and I freeze.
The figure isn’t standing on the sand.
It’s hovering just above it.
“It will be easier if you do not fight this,” it says.
My stomach drops as the pull intensifies, my feet moving without my permission. The knife slips from my hand, landing with a dull thud in the sand as I’m drawn closer and closer to the water.
I shake my head violently, thrashing against everything and nothing.
I’m moving even though I don’t want to be, and the more I try to fight it, to stop myself, the harder the pull is.
My body isn’t my own and my feet step into the water, the waves crashing around my ankles, cold and unrelenting, as I stumble into the surf.
The figure raises a hand, long fingers curling in a beckoning gesture.
“No,” I gasp, struggling against the invisible force dragging me forward. “Stop!”
But it’s no use.
The water rises to my knees, then my waist, the current pulling at me with a strength that’s impossible to resist.
The figure looms closer, its glowing eyes locking onto mine.
And then it’s on me.
Long, icy fingers wrap around my wrist, yanking me under. I try to wrestle free, but it’s like fighting against steel. Its grip is inhumanly strong, unyielding, and my strength feels pitiful in comparison.
My other hand flails, clawing at the water, at the sand below me, at anything that might save me, but there’s nothing.
It’s dragging me as if I weigh nothing, as if I’m as inconsequential as the seaweed pulled along by the tide.
Panic seizes me as the waves close over my head, and the world around me dissolves into a frigid, all-consuming void.
I choke on seawater as the world tilts, the storm above fading into a muffled roar.
The figure’s grip is unrelenting, dragging me deeper and deeper into the black abyss.
My lungs scream for air, my chest aching with a pressure that feels like it will shatter my ribs.
I kick wildly, my legs tangling in the cold, endless dark, but it doesn’t matter.
There’s no escaping.
I know this is the end, but the primal need to survive drives me to fight, even as my strength ebbs away. My mind is a torrent of fear, desperation, and disbelief, all warring against the icy inevitability that this thing is going to drag me somewhere I was never meant to go.
My vision blurs, my lungs burning as I struggle to hold my breath. The last thing I see before the darkness takes me are those glowing eyes, staring at me with an unnatural hunger. They’re relentless and unstoppable, and as eternal as the moon or the fires of hell.
And then everything goes black.