Chapter 28 Dove
DOVE
The kitchen is warm, the smell of cinnamon and coffee filling the space as I sit at the table, my eyes flicking to the window now and then.
Outside, the world is waking up, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, casting a soft light over the quiet town of Hollow Hills.
Christina’s humming, clattering around the kitchen as she flips pancakes with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Come on, Dove! You can’t hide in here forever,” she teases, a playful smile on her face as she tosses a pancake in the air like she’s auditioning for a cooking show. “You’ve got to get out. We’ve been in this house for days. Go for a walk, do something!”
I lift my mug to my lips, feeling the warmth of the coffee seep into my chest, but I don’t meet her eyes. I keep staring into my cup, watching the steam rise, my mind elsewhere. Somewhere dark. Somewhere I don’t want to be.
“I don’t know, Chris,” I murmur, my voice small and tight, as I push the pancakes around on my plate. “I’m just… not feeling it today.”
Christina sighs dramatically, sitting down across from me, her eyes full of mock sympathy. “Oh, here we go with the ‘I’m not feeling it’ nonsense. It’s a gorgeous day, Dove. You’ve been holed up in this house for way too long. Fresh air, some sun, it’ll do you good.”
The sound of the fork against my plate is louder than it should be.
My fingers curl around the handle of my coffee cup as I try to ignore the unease creeping in, the jittery sensation that has been gnawing at my insides for days.
I feel like I’m being watched. Like eyes are on me, even when I’m alone in this house with Christina.
I know that’s not normal. But the sensation… it’s too real. Too tangible to ignore.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, hoping Christina doesn’t hear the tremble in my voice. I don’t want her to know. I don’t want her to see the way my chest tightens at every little sound, the way I flinch at shadows. I don’t want her to see the way I can’t escape it—the feeling of being followed.
Christina isn’t fooled. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, a concerned expression creeping across her face. “You sure? I get that you’re feeling… off, but staying cooped up won’t help. You’ve got to live your life, Dove. You can’t just hide forever.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. I can’t hide forever.
That thought hits me with a cold rush. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine, can’t keep pretending that I’m not afraid.
That I don’t see shapes in the corner of my vision when I’m in the living room or hear footsteps echoing when I’m alone in my bedroom.
That I don’t feel like I’m being watched. Always watched.
I swallow, but my throat feels tight. “I—I just… can’t, okay?”
Christina doesn’t push further, but the way she stares at me tells me she doesn’t buy it.
She reaches for her phone, tapping the screen quickly.
“Alright, fine. I’ll go out myself if you’re gonna sit here and mope.
But I’m not giving up on you, Dove. I’m coming back and dragging you out of this house, whether you like it or not. ”
She tries to lighten the mood, but I can’t shake the dread clawing at my insides.
As she leaves the room, I can’t stop the sickening thoughts from flooding my mind.
I can’t stop the vision of him—the shadow that I swear I keep seeing outside the window.
My heart races at the thought, my breath growing shallow as I curl my fingers into the fabric of my shirt.
It’s like a sick game, and I’m losing. I try to push it away. To push him away.
I force myself to take another breath, but it’s not enough. The feeling is back, heavier now, sinking into my skin, making my spine stiffen. I feel it crawling under my skin, that same cold, creeping sensation that I’m being watched.
From the corner of my eye, a shadow flits across the living room window. I freeze.
My breath stops in my chest.
It’s him.
I quickly glance toward the window, my heartbeat thudding in my ears, but there’s nothing there. No one. Just the soft, early morning light spilling across the snow-dusted yard.
I try to tell myself it’s nothing. A trick of the light. But my hands shake as I clutch the edge of the table, the silence too heavy, too thick around me.
The memory of Ashton comes rushing back—the way he’d held me, the way his voice was always so sure, so certain, when he’d whispered that I was his. The way I’d allowed myself to believe it. To fall for it. For him.
I blink, forcing my thoughts away. My pulse is hammering in my neck, and my head feels too full, too heavy. I push the plate away from me, suddenly nauseous.
Get a grip, Dove.
But it’s impossible to ignore the way my breath hitches, the way the world around me feels so eerily quiet, like it’s holding its breath—waiting.
Another flicker of movement.
I glance up sharply, but there’s no one there. I know I’m alone. I know it.
But I don’t feel it.
I get up from the table, my legs shaky, and head toward the living room window. As I pass the door, I glance outside again.
Nothing.
Yet, the feeling lingers, like an ice-cold hand clutched tight around my heart. It presses harder, squeezes tighter.
I want to scream, to tear at the walls of this house and make it stop. I want to run.
But where could I go?
Christina’s voice from the hallway snaps me from my thoughts, and I turn quickly, my breath coming faster now, as if I’ve been holding it too long. She’s back from her walk, and her eyes narrow at me, a silent question written on her face.
“Dove?” she asks softly, her tone cautious, but there’s a worry there, like she knows something’s not right. “You okay?”
I force a smile, but it feels thin, like a mask I can’t hold in place.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice quieter than I meant. “Just… tired.”
She stares at me for a long moment before sighing and sitting down on the couch. “Okay,” she murmurs. “But I’m not letting you hide forever.”
I nod absently, but I can’t stop the sick feeling that tightens in my chest.
It’s coming. I can feel it.
And I don’t know if it’s Ashton, or if I’m just losing my mind.
But I can’t shake the terror crawling under my skin.
The house is too quiet now.
I keep telling myself it’s just the stillness of the afternoon, the way time seems to slow when you’re alone. But every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind rattling the windows, makes my heart pound in my chest. There’s something here. Something wrong. Something watching me.
I press my back against the couch, my hands curled tightly into fists at my sides. The house smells faintly of cinnamon from the breakfast we had earlier, but underneath that, there’s something else. A cold, sterile scent I can’t place, like metal or wet stone.
I try to ignore the way my skin prickles; the goosebumps rising along my arms, the feeling of eyes boring into the back of my neck. I tell myself it’s nothing—just the anxiety, the weight of everything crashing in on me—but I can’t shake it.
The house seems to be holding its breath, waiting. The silence is thick and suffocating, broken only by the occasional gust of wind outside, the low moan of the old wood settling.
But then, it happens.
I hear it.
A soft tap, like a finger drumming lightly on the window.
I freeze.
My heart skips a beat, and I blink rapidly, trying to convince myself it’s just the wind. The trees outside swayed in the breeze. The window rattling against the frame.
But the tap comes again.
This time louder.
I turn slowly, almost afraid to look, but I do it anyway. My eyes lock onto the window. The world outside is dimming, the pale sunlight fighting to get through the thick, swirling clouds.
Nothing.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe, but it’s shallow. Like I can’t get enough air. The room feels smaller, tighter. The walls are closing in. I glance around, my eyes darting from corner to corner, heart racing in my chest. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Then I hear it. A faint whisper.
Dove.
My name.
Soft. Low. It’s there, I’m sure of it. I glance around the room, my pulse quickening. But there’s no one. No one in the hallway, no one standing in the doorway. The house is empty—just me.
I can’t breathe.
I stand, trembling, my legs weak as I force myself to move. Every step feels like it takes forever. My feet feel like they’re dragging through thick mud. I’m not imagining this. I know I’m not.
The air grows colder, sharper. The temperature in the room drops, the warmth leaving the space as though it’s being sucked away, leaving only a bone-chilling draft. The smell of cinnamon is gone, replaced by something colder. A musty, earthy scent that lingers like rot.
I look down the hallway again, my throat tight.
Was that a shadow?
I see it—a shift of darkness in the corner of my vision.
My stomach lurches.
I blink.
Nothing.
But it’s there again. Just a flicker. A stretch of shadow moving across the wall, growing longer, as though something is standing in the hallway, just out of my sight.
My heartbeat is thudding in my ears, too loud. I turn slowly, my eyes fixating on the kitchen door. The shadow is there, just on the edge of my vision, crawling across the walls like something alive.
I hold my breath, my chest tightening with every passing second. My feet won’t move, frozen to the spot. I want to scream, but my throat feels like it’s full of glass.
It’s him. It has to be him.
I push the thought away, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. What if it’s not? What if this is real? What if I’m losing my mind?
Then—footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate steps.
A slow, measured pace from the hallway.
I look up, my pulse quickening again, and that’s when I see it.
A figure standing at the end of the hallway.
It’s tall—too tall. Dark, like a shadow that doesn’t belong, just watching me.
My breath catches in my throat, my heart hammering against my ribs. The air is suffocating, thick with dread, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the figure. The shadow.
It doesn’t move. Not yet.
The silence is suffocating, but all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing, fast and shallow, as if my lungs won’t cooperate.
Don’t move.
I want to run, but I can’t. My body refuses to listen. My mind is screaming at me to do something—anything—but I can’t force myself to make a sound.
The figure shifts, just slightly.
I gasp, my body shaking as I stumble backward. My heart is a drumbeat in my chest, too loud, too fast.
I want to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. The figure steps forward—just one step. That’s all it takes.
I can’t tell if it’s Ashton. If it’s someone else. The terror clouds my vision, and all I can do is watch as it moves closer and closer.
And then I hear it—his voice.
Low. Soft.
“Dove…”
The shadow steps closer until all I can see is blackness. And then—
I hear the door creak open.