CHAPTER TWO
RAVEN
The room feels colder than usual, as if the draft snuck in through the cracked window while I slept. I pull the blanket tighter around me, trying to ignore the shiver tracing up my spine. My heart’s still racing, pounding so loud it almost drowns out the creaks of the old apartment.
I hate this place.
The walls are thin enough that I hear the old man next door hacking up his lungs like clockwork.
The pipes rattle every morning, a grim reminder that I could probably kick the radiator into better shape.
I find a false sense of peace here, a space where I can trick myself into feeling secure with the simple click of a lock.
I sit up slowly, letting the blanket slide from my shoulders.
The air bites at my bare skin, and I reach for the hoodie crumpled at the foot of the bed.
The soft, worn fabric smells like detergent and a little like fear.
I tug it over my tank top, covering the skin that still prickles with that uneasy feeling.
I swear I heard something last night.
It wasn’t loud. Just… a murmur. Maybe the wind or the crackle of leaves against the window. Or maybe I was dreaming again—those half-nightmares where something crawls just out of sight, whispering my name.
I rub my hands over my arms, trying to chase the goosebumps away. It’s too early to spiral. The sun’s barely a suggestion through the dirty glass, and the city outside is still groggy and half-awake.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, blinking at the cracked screen. A message from Sam—my only friend in this damn city.
Coffee? I’m dying.
A weak smile tugs at my lips. Sam’s dramatic at the best of times, and mornings are no exception. I thumb a quick reply:
Give me twenty.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing the cold, worn floorboards.
They creak under my weight as I cross to the tiny bathroom, flicking on the light.
The bulb flickers, humming like it might die any second.
I stare at myself in the mirror—eyes rimmed with fatigue, dark hair a tangled mess around my face.
I pull it into a sloppy bun, splashing cold water on my cheeks to wake myself up. The prickling on my skin doesn’t fade. My eyes dart to the window—still locked, curtains drawn.
A part of me wants to check the door, just to be sure, but I force myself to ignore it. This paranoia can’t keep bleeding into my mornings. It’s just the leftover anxiety from last night—the sense that something was watching me.
I towel off my face and head to the kitchen, pouring the last of the stale coffee grounds into the pot. The machine groans in protest before finally sputtering to life. The smell fills the space, masking the faint scent of damp creeping in from the window.
My phone buzzes again—Sam’s impatience. I roll my eyes, slipping into my jeans and boots. The hoodie’s long enough to cover my hips, and I don’t bother with makeup. Sam’s seen me worse.
Before I leave, I glance back at the window one more time. The curtains remain drawn, heavy and dark. My fingers itch to pull them back and look out—to see if anyone’s there.
I clench my jaw and head for the door instead, grabbing my keys off the hook. I don’t need to look. There’s no one out there.
The air outside is sharp, biting at my cheeks as I hurry down the cracked pavement. I try to shake the feeling that follows me—like something crawling along my skin, skittering up my spine. I jam my hands into my pockets, walking faster, eyes on the ground.
A laugh echoes from somewhere behind me, and I nearly trip, heart jolting into overdrive. I turn, but it’s just a couple of teenagers loitering by the bus stop, shoving each other and laughing too loudly for the quiet morning.
I breathe out, slow and shaky, and keep moving. I don’t realise I’m gripping my keys like a weapon until my knuckles ache.
When I reach the coffee shop, the bell above the door chimes, and the warmth hits me like a punch. Sam waves from a corner table, her eyes bright and tired, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
“God, you look like hell,” she greets, sliding a cup towards me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping into the chair. I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into my fingers.
She raises an eyebrow. “Bad night?”
I hesitate. Sam knows about the paranoia—the way I sometimes feel like I’m being followed. But I haven’t told her about last night—how the shadows felt thicker, how I could swear I heard someone humming outside my window.
“Just couldn’t sleep,” I say instead.
Sam studies me, her expression softening. “You’ve got to stop staying up so late reading horror stories. You’re psyching yourself out.”
I force a smile, sipping the too-bitter coffee. “Yeah. Maybe.”
But it wasn’t just in my head. I know it wasn’t.
Sam chatters on about her morning—something about her landlord being a creep—and I nod along, only half-listening. My mind keeps drifting back to that feeling: eyes scraping over my skin, the wind whispering threats I can’t quite catch.
I glance out the fogged window, heart thudding. There’s a man across the street, leaning against a lamppost. He bows his head; his hair is wild and dark, and he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
I can’t see his face. But something about the way he’s standing—still, patient, like he has all the time in the world—makes my stomach twist.
Sam snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Raven. You good?”
I force my eyes away from the window, pretending my heart isn’t racing. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
But when I look back, he’s gone.
And somehow, that’s worse.
I keep my hands wrapped around the coffee cup like it’s a lifeline, the heat soaking into my palms. Sam keeps talking, her voice a steady hum that’s almost soothing, but my mind is stuck on the man at the lamppost.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just some random guy waiting for the bus. Or maybe…
I shake the thought away, forcing myself to focus on Sam. She’s complaining about her neighbour’s cat again—apparently it’s been pissing on her welcome mat for weeks. I try to smile, but it feels brittle, like it might crack and expose all the fear I’m trying to swallow.
I glance at the window again, just to be sure. The street’s empty now, just a few cars passing by, oblivious to my paranoia.
Sam sighs, finally noticing I’m not really paying attention. “Seriously, Raven. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You look like you’re waiting for someone to jump out and stab you.”
I give a shaky laugh, but it sounds too high-pitched. “I just… didn’t sleep great.”
Sam leans forward, lowering her voice. “Is it happening again?”
I freeze, coffee halfway to my lips. “What do you mean?”
She gives me that look—the one that’s half pity, half worry. “The paranoia. Feeling someone watching you.”
I set the cup down hard enough to slosh coffee over the edge. I wipe it up with my sleeve, avoiding her eyes. “It’s nothing. Just… dreams, probably.”
Sam doesn’t push, but I can feel her concern like a weight pressing down on me. She’s been through this before—back when that guy from school wouldn’t leave me alone. Back when I kept finding notes on my car and couldn’t sleep without double-checking every lock.
It’s different now. I left that town behind. I left him behind.
But it doesn’t feel different.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I flinch, the sound slicing through the tension like a knife. Sam jumps too, her eyes widening. I force a breath and pick it up, checking the screen.
Unknown Number.
My heart stutters, but I swipe to open it. Just a text. One word.
Little Spider.
The phone slips from my fingers, clattering onto the table. Sam snatches it up, frowning. “Who’s texting you?”
I shake my head, throat too tight to answer. She reads the message, her frown deepening. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, reaching for the phone with trembling fingers. I delete the message, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Sam studies me, her fingers drumming on the table. “Do you know who sent that?”
“No.” My voice cracks. I hate it. It sounds weak, like I’m already breaking.
She’s about to say something else when the bell above the door jingles. A gust of cold air sweeps in, and I shiver. A man walks in, tall and broad-shouldered, with a dark jacket and messy black hair. I can’t see his face clearly—he keeps his head down as he moves to the counter.
My stomach twists itself into a knot. It’s just a guy. It’s just a guy.
But he’s wearing leather gloves. Black ones, fitted tight to his hands. I saw the same kind the night before, just for a split second before I closed the curtain.
I force myself to look away, my pulse roaring in my ears. Sam’s voice is muffled as she continues to talk. I take a shaky breath, trying to ground myself. I’m being paranoid. Just because he has gloves doesn’t mean…
“Raven.”
Sam’s voice snaps me out of it, and I meet her eyes. “What?”
“Do you want me to stay at your place tonight?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to say yes, to have someone there, just in case. But another part—the stubborn, prideful part—wants to pretend that I’m fine. That I’m not a mess of nerves and fear.
“No,” I say finally. “I’ll be okay.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. We finish our coffee in silence, the tension coiled tight around my chest. When Sam finally gets up to leave, she hugs me tightly, whispering, “Text me if you need anything.”
I nod, trying to hold on to that warmth as I watch her walk out.
I linger a few more minutes, waiting for my heart rate to settle. The man at the counter doesn’t move, doesn’t glance my way. When I finally muster the courage to leave, I keep my head down, sliding out the door without looking back.