Seraphina
The first thing I noticed wasn't the light creeping through the curtains. It was the smell.
I stayed exactly where I was, cocooned beneath the blankets while morning settled quietly around the little cottage, the world outside still stretching itself awake one sleepy bird at a time.
Somewhere beyond the window, leaves whispered together in the breeze, and a blackbird announced to absolutely nobody in particular that it had survived another night.
Good for him. Personally, I preferred mornings that arrived with less enthusiasm.
I pulled the sleeve of the oversized grey sweater over my fingers until only the tips peeked through. It still smelled like him, not overwhelmingly. Just enough.
Him.
It wasn't one of those obnoxious aftershaves that screamed from across the room before the man wearing it even opened his mouth.
No, his scent stayed close, as though it understood the value of silence.
Cedar, fresh rain soaking into old timber, a faint trace of tobacco hiding somewhere beneath it all, followed by something impossibly clean that reminded me of expensive soap and crisp cotton left drying beneath winter sunlight.
There was also coffee not because the sweater smelled like coffee, but because somehow...
he did. Like he'd been carrying a mug around for so many years the scent had simply accepted permanent residency.
I buried my nose against the collar. Making sure the smell is still as overwhelming as when I took it. Just for science. Obviously.
"You've sniffed it four times."
Frank's voice drifted lazily across the bedroom.
"I counted."
"I counted six," Gerald corrected.
"You can't count."
"I absolutely can."
"You once counted Rosemary twice."
"She moved."
"She was standing two inches to the left."
"Exactly."
I sighed into the fabric.
"Could the two of you argue at a lower volume?"
"We're inside your head."
Frank sounded offended.
"We literally can't."
Fair point. You're probably wondering why I listen to garden gnomes. That's a fair question but I'm wondering why you are still reading. Yet...here we both are.
Gerald climbed onto the windowsill, his little ceramic boots knocking softly against the wood as he folded his arms across his chest.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "most people borrow sugar."
"I borrowed a sweater."
"You stole a sweater."
"I borrowed it indefinitely."
Frank pinched the bridge of his tiny stone nose.
"Oh wonderful."
"What?"
"She's using legal terminology now."
"I resent that."
"You should."
I ignored them. Mostly because they were right and partly because they knew they were right.
The sweater hung almost to my knees, the sleeves swallowing my hands entirely, making me look less like a functioning adult and more like someone who'd accidentally wandered into the wrong wardrobe.
It was warm, comfortable. Heavy in that oddly reassuring way only well-worn clothes ever managed to become.
I undressed, folding the sweater and placing it on the shelf switching to one of my own.
I wondered if he owned more than one exactly like it.
Probably. Detectives seemed like people who bought identical clothing just to avoid making decisions before coffee.
He struck me as someone who ironed his shirts, maybe not because he enjoyed ironing.
Nobody enjoyed ironing. But because wrinkles probably irritated him.
Would he fold socks? Or simply shove them into drawers and pretend organisation was close enough?
Did he alphabetise spices? Did he replace toilet paper before it ran out or wait until the cardboard tube stared back at him accusingly?
See, people always assume obsession begins with grand declarations.
It doesn't. It begins with wondering entirely useless things.
The colour of someone's toothbrush. How many mugs they own.
Whether they leave cupboard doors open. Whether they apologise after stepping on the dog's tail. Curiosity. That's all.
At first, then it starts to burn like a flame inside your body, so excruciatingly painful until that person is near or you smell their cologne and the flame is tamed for only a little bit. It’s like an addiction. You need your next fix or hit faster than you can think.
I pushed myself upright and stretched slowly, joints protesting in tiny pops while sunlight finally reached across the wooden floorboards. Dust floated lazily through the beams like thousands of tiny ghosts with nowhere else to be.
"You should work."
Gerald cleared his throat dramatically.
"Deadlines."
"I don't have one."
"You gave yourself one."
"I regret that decision."
Frank pointed toward my desk.
"Joey's waiting."
My eyes drifted toward the laptop sitting patiently beneath the window.
It almost looked offended. Writers develop strange relationships with unfinished manuscripts.
Characters become roommates. Scenes become conversations.
Entire chapters sit quietly in corners waiting for permission to exist. People often ask where stories come from.
As though they hatch. As though one morning an author wakes up and thinks…
You know what? I'd quite like to emotionally devastate strangers today.
No. Stories are stubborn little things. They scratch politely at first then they start hammering and eventually, they kick the bloody door down refusing to leave until you've written them.
I padded across the cottage barefoot, the old floorboards greeting me with familiar creaks beneath each step.
The kettle clicked on automatically because we'd reached that stage in our relationship where words were no longer necessary. It wasn’t true they haven’t invented something like that yet, but I’d like to imagine.
Steam began curling into the air, gathering everything the soft click of the kettle being done called to me as I made my cup of coffee.
Steam coming from the cup while I settled into the chair, fingers resting above the keyboard.
The cursor blinked. Expectant, like it already knew exactly what came next. Lucky thing. I didn't. I just wing it.
I took a slow sip of coffee, cracked my knuckles, stretching each finger. Wiggling my fingers above the keyboard, I closed my eyes, took a moment and opened them.
"All right," I murmured.
“Time to play.”
The keys began to clatter beneath my fingertips.
JOEY
Darkness settled over the room like a second skin, swallowing the corners until only fragments remained. A single bulb overhead buzzed and flickered, casting brief flashes of light before surrendering to shadow again. Somewhere behind me, a tap leaked with maddening precision.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound became its own metronome, measuring seconds no clock could keep. A chair scraped faintly across the concrete floor. You could hear the struggles as she figures out I have her bound to the chair. The chair was bolted to the floor. . There is no running away now.
The air smelled of damp stone, old wood, and rust. Dust drifted lazily through the narrow beam of light, disappearing each time the bulb dimmed.
I turned a knife over in my hands watching how it glints in the light, I put my finger to the tip of the knife and pressed.
Hmmm not sharp enough. Walking over to the whetstone I start sharpening.
The whetstone whispered against the steel.
Shhk...
Shhk...
Shhk...
Every pass echoed through the room. The bulb flickered once more.
Silence settled back in. Except for the struggling behind me.
Then came a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the darkness.
The room held its breath with it. Outside, the rain tapped softly against the windows, almost politely, as though the world beyond had no idea what secrets this place was keeping.
I turned around to look at the body occupying the chair.
“You know… You breathe very disgustingly. It’s very irritating.”
Her breath hitched then she started struggling more, no point in doing that dumbass. I rolled my eyes and put the knife down.
“Help! Someone help me!”
I shake my head every fucking time… Why do people think that it's going to work? They do it every single time… Hilarious really.
“Who are you, let me go this instant. My husband is looking for me. Let. Me. Go!”
She continues to struggle… Honestly her voice is so irritating I just want to rip it out of her neck. Walking forward I ripped the bag off her head, letting her eyes adjust to her surroundings and walked back to the table. Hmm what instrument to use first.
“Where am I? YOU let me go immediately. I will keep quiet. What do you want? Money. I can write you a check this instant. Just let me go.” She screams and struggles further.
Honestly, why did I let her keep her voice… The knife, no not yet. The cutters, too painless. Hmm the hammer, yes.
I turn around and walk forward, her eyes sharpening on me. You could hear the gasp as I stopped in front of her and crouched down.
“Joey?” She whispered.
No shit Sherlock.
“Hello Miss Eleanor Hayes.” I grinned as confusion and fear seeped into her face.
“Joey, what are you doing? LET ME GO THIS INSTANT YOUNG LADY.!”
I laugh honestly because she is so stupid.
“No.” I stand up and turn around.
Walking away I start grabbing the table.
“Do you want to hear a story, Eleanor? Can I call you Eleanor.”
Not waiting for her to answer I continue.
“I’m going to call you Eleanor. So, this story begins with a woman walking in the park seeing little girls playing around on the swings while their mother is chatting up a man that is not her husband.
As the girls are playing the one girl falls and as a good person the woman walks over to help while her mother is still too focused on the man.
So, the woman walks towards the little girls and bends down to help the girl up, but when she reaches forward the little girl flinches.
No, the woman thinks maybe stranger danger, as the mother should have taught them but no.
The woman looks closely and starts seeing makeup, coverage foundation, and concealer on the little girl's face. Now why would little girls wear makeup so young? Then the woman started looking closer and saw the bruises under the makeup. The bruises continue to go on from their tiny little throat and arms.”
I bring the table back and walk back to get the rope and hammer.
“Do you know why I am telling you this story Eleanor?”
I wait for an answer and look her straight in the eyes, her face white as a sheet as she realises what I am talking about.
I take her hands and put them on the table binding them to it.
“So, you see, Eleanor. No, I will not let you go because I don’t like mothers who hurt their children.
I do not fucking like mothers who victimize their children.
I do not fucking like little girls with bruises on their bodies!
And I do not fucking like mother using their hands as weapons instead of for comfort.
You’re a mother why couldn’t you fucking act like it.
But don’t you worry I’ll make sure they are taken care of. ”
I looked at her as I grabbed the hammer making sure her hands were straightened out lifting the hammer. I came down the sound making a sickening thunk as it hit flesh and bones.
The screams ricocheted around the room as I did it again.
And again.
And again.
I stop typing, looking at the cursor as it blinks in rhythm with my heartbeat. The house fell quiet again. Not the comforting sort of quiet. The kind that lingers after words have finished echoing.
You probably weren't expecting that. You can close your jaw now. I saw you. Don’t worry. Everyone does. You're trying to decide whether Joey is a monster. That’s cute. Keep reading. You're asking the wrong question.
I leaned back in my chair, flexing my aching fingers while the cursor settled obediently at the end of the chapter. Writing always left me feeling strangely hollow, as though every sentence stole something invisible before giving it back rearranged.
Frank wandered across the desk, peering suspiciously at the screen.
"She's dramatic."
"She's terrifying," Gerald corrected.
"Is there a difference?"
"Barely."
I reached for my notebook. Looking towards my supplies. Pens. Scissors. Paper clips. Lengths of faded ribbon. A craft knife. An ordinary little collection of ordinary little things.
Funny thing about fear...It almost never lives inside the object.
You could leave a knife on a kitchen counter for twenty years.
Nobody would scream. Nobody would call the police.
Nobody would even look twice. Until someone picks it up.
That's the inconvenient thing about monsters. They usually come attached to hands.
Objects themselves are almost never frightening. It's the hands holding them. Readers know that better than anyone. You see a teacup, someone else sees comfort, another person sees poison. Stories work exactly the same way. Stories are harmless.
At least... that's what you tell yourself. That's why you keep turning the page because you believe monsters stay inside books…Don't you? Tell me….What will you do when you realize monsters were never the ones hiding?
I slid the blade carefully across a strip of thick black paper, trimming away uneven edges before setting it beside a growing collection of pressed flowers and handwritten notes. Rose. Baby's breath. A crimson rose petal that had dried almost perfectly months ago.
People preserve beautiful things because they're afraid of losing them.
Sometimes… People preserve other things too.
Flowers are beautiful. They spend their entire lives trying to bloom.
Then humans cut them down...because they're beautiful.
Funny little creatures, humans. They always destroy the things they admire.
The knife clicked softly against the wooden desk as I set it aside.
A bark shattered the silence. Once, then again. Max.
"Well..."
I reached for the little dog-bone tin beside the door, its painted lid rattling cheerfully as I filled my palm with treats.
"I suppose we'd better go see what my very handsome detective is doing."
Frank groaned.
"There she goes."
Gerald hopped down from the desk.
"Should we be worried?"
"We're always worried."
"Fair."
I slipped my feet into my boots, tucked the tin beneath one arm, and reached for the door.
Morning had finally arrived for him and somewhere just across the road... someone was probably making coffee. Maybe I should invite myself. I wondered if he'd looked out his window today. I wondered if he'd noticed mine. The thought followed me outside like a second shadow.