I'd really had a good time with Clayton—a lot of it was that I'd found one nice, relatively normal person in this town. He had his quirks, as everyone does, but sometimes, I noticed during our coffee outing, he'd have this weird twinkle in his eye. Don't ask me what that means. I have no idea! I'm not even sure if that's the best way to describe it. The man just exuded mystery. We'll put it at that.

But, on our cool walk to the downtown café, he introduced me to some of the people he personally liked, while simply waving at those he didn't think I'd get along with. He was charming; I could tell from those ten minutes he's well liked in the town. "You must be a native here, huh?" I asked, looking up at him through the hair blowing in my face.

"Yeah. Born and raised." He said with a little nod, hands in the pockets of his black peacock coat.

I couldn't imagine being stuck with the same people-pool my whole life. Having to live with the ones you hurt when you were immature or stupid, or having to live with the ones that hurt you when they were immature or stupid… I just can't imagine it. Constant reminders of a past you can't let go, whether because you won't let yourself or that other person won't.

I told Clayton so, and launched a discussion about moving vs. staying, in which I honestly feel my argument was sounder. We just talked, and walked, and eventually made it to a sweet little building that looked like it'd been made just long enough ago to wear its' time in a way that said 'amazing.' My eyes were wide the whole first five minutes we were in there before I finally got used to the cozy atmosphere the place had. How could such a place exist here?

After we'd gotten our coffee (he got a vanilla latte, me a mocha with an extra shot of espresso, no whip cream) we'd sat down at a little table overlooking the street and just talked. Sat and talked. It was a really nice change of pace from what I'd been getting in terms of socialization; it was a real conversation. Nothing of particular interest, but he did bring up my house at one point:

"You know why every old person in town is throwing Jesus at you?"

"No," I said, leaning forward and looking at him expectantly, "tell me though."

"They say…" He started slowly, eyes darkening and looking straight into my eyes, "the house is cursed." He wiggled his fingers in my face, whispering a lame, "oooo!" as he wiggled.

This caused me to roll my eyes and rest my chin in the palm of my left hand and give him a "of course it is" look. He saw it and shook his head convincingly, continuing on with, "No, really! The last owners were Satanist or something—they summoned demons constantly. Or at least tried to. Some people in town think they managed to summon the devil himself."

"Alright, alright, thanks—but this isn't really what I want to hear about the house I'm literally stuck with for at least the next couple of years."

And the conversation ended at that.

After it'd hit 11 o'clock, we both agreed it was time to go to bed. No, I did not ask for him to "oh, please, come inside, it's so chilly and much too far to walk!" He's a man, he can make it home. We didn't even have a moment when we were saying goodbye. Though that weird twinkle did again appear in his eye. Yeah, I'm suspicious too. What was that? You think I'm just reading too much into things?

… Probably.

But it's so creepy…

We'll just keep an eye out for him, shall we?

Anyway, after he left my doorstep and disappeared down the street, I carefully opened my door and was immediately greeted by my king. I took him up to the bedroom, where my bed had been set up at the foot of the old bed (those movers didn't take the bed with them. Never using them again!). I let out a long yawn, changed, snuggled into my white down comforter and drifted off easily to sleep.


Friday and Saturday went off without a hitch; the days blended together smoothly enough, with me mostly unpacking and turning the house into something I can call my own. Clayton visited for a bit on Saturday and tried helping me with my designing, but I had to kick him out; his taste would've ruined the inside of the house! Never trust a guy to help with interior design, I swear.

It's Sunday now, though, and the house looks tons better than I would've thought it could! All of my personal touches have been put in perfect position, the pillows match the drapes and the rug adds the right splashes of color—I'm rather happy with it, and snap a couple of pictures to send to my mom back at home.

Nothing had happened creepy-wise around the house, thankfully. No more—ahem—seduction attempts. Though a twisted part of mind wished for it. When that thought crossed my mind, I shook my head as if to toss the fantasy out of my head before it played itself out like a movie. I'll admit I have a certain fondness for sex with strangers, with surprise sex, but goodness, consensual! Well, at least for other people… I wouldn't mind not having a choice… Bahh, I think, blushing to myself (duster dreamily pushed against my cheek as I gaze off into nothing) before shooing the images away. It causes another chill to drag down my back, making me shudder and snap out of my stupor and continue cleaning.

Hours have passed since, filled with yet more cleaning, and I'm now standing in the kitchen making my dinner: salmon and asparagus, mmm! Delicious. The pepper, already hanging close to the edge of the counter, falls over and spills onto the floor. "Great," I hiss, putting the spatula down quickly to wipe up the mess of spice on the floor. I huffily push the pepper around with a wet towel before attempting to scoop it up; the oregano falls onto the floor right in front of my face, and I glare at the additional spill. Arg, stop this, I think, going to mop up the second pile absentmindedly.

Feeling I've accomplished my goal, what with the yet-again-shiny floors, I begin to get up off my knees to try to save the salmon, but, I won't just let my dinner be that simple; my elbow smacks the Pam off the counter as I swing myself up, and as I'm going down to get that, the fucking salt falls to the ground. "UGH," I mumble, yet again on my knees mopping, utterly frustrated, "Come ON!"

"Oohh," a voice whispers, "I just want you to pay attention to me…"

I drop the salt shaker immediately.

"… Annabelle… My sweet, sweet Annabelle."

Fuck this, my mind laments. I spring up and twist around so that my back is pressed firmly to the oven handle. I don't even care that it's pressing uncomfortably into my back; my right arm reaches out to grab one of the steak knives and holds it out in front of me like an almighty sword.

Again, nothing there. Refusing to give whatever it is what it wants, I calmly turn, set the knife down, and go back to my salmon. Which is a nicely browned-almost-black color, thank you very much. My kitchen returns to its normal silence, and I am content again. My shoulders relax, a sign that my body is ready to move on and pretend nothing had happened. Maybe I'm just going insane. Yeah, just your everyday, run of the mill schizophrenia here.

A soft, disappointed sigh echoes in the small kitchen, but I swear it's bouncing off the walls in my head.

"You've always been mine. I don't understand why you won't PAY ATTENTION TO ME."

The kitchen lights flicker before exploding, completely useless in the darkness brought on by the night weighing heavy outside; I gasp and spin around once more, the heat of the stove licking my back as I stare wide eyed at the figure in my kitchen. In a flash it's at my front, pushed so hard into me I let out a gasp of all the air I had in me- a strong hand goes to cover my mouth, roughly, it presses into my skin until there's no room for air to escape through the fingers. Fear, an intense and debilitating tidal wave of terror crashes into my body, rocking me at my core. My legs give way (see. I'm hopeless) and I start to buckle. The only thing keeping me lodged in an upward position is the force pinning me to the oven. My back starts to complain from the pressure, and the closer than ever heat source sure to eat away at me if I go any closer.

My eye brows, sweat starting to form above them, furrow harshly at the vision my teary eyes perceive: deep, dark (though the lack of lights does stitch blackness to everything) crimson irises with what I can't describe as anything but the angry lashes of a fire out of control. My chest heaves, heart beating wildly, as I finally put a face with the voice.

"Ah, there are those eyes of mine," The man murmurs, pressing his cheek against mine and rubbing affectionately. His nose finds its way to my hair and digs in; I feel his breath teasing my ear and curse the sensitive spot I have for soft breath there. My eyes close as he takes me in, almost feeling me with his whole self, so tightly pressed against me my lungs struggle to take in the air my body, my brain, desperately needs. I'm lucky his hand is low enough for me to slip air in through my nose.

"God," He breathes out into the crook of my neck—my eyes are widely staring at the wall behind him, body ever so shaking against this strange form, "How I've missed you. You can't tell me you don't feel this…" He growls, pressing his teeth—SHARP, sharp teeth—down into my skin. I struggle to make a sound of pain into his hands as I feel them slightly break the skin. As soon as he drawls blood he stops, though, and laps it up without a thought. A vampire? The thought flashes through my mind—no, impossible. A lunatic with a thirst for blood and the delusion that I am his long lost Annabelle, come back for him. I've got to get away before he realizes I'm not her and takes it out on me…

He finally glances up at my eyes, the only window of communication I have, and sees my fear. His blindingly white teeth are visible through the dark (his whole face seems to be quite visible, though. He almost glows in the lack of light I struggle to see in) and they stretch out to form the most viciously satisfied grin I've ever seen. "Now, now, Annabelle," The man starts, the fire in his eyes stirring violently, "don't act like I shouldn't be here—" His grin turns malicious, and his face takes on one of crazed anger contained like a ticking time bomb, "I should—I should—I should," He continues, shaking his head in my face. "Someone has to bring. You. Back. Home."

With his outburst, he lets the smallest bit of slack into his hand trapping my thoughts inside of me, and with that leeway, I scream out, "SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEASE CALL THE POLICE!" He immediately reclaims my mouth as his personal property, leaving me to shake my head violently in an effort to fling his appendage from my face.

"Tisk, tisk, my sweet. You know how I lose control of my temper…"

And as he grinds out the word 'temper,' he presses my back further and further into the flame, bending me backwards over the heat—if possible, my eyes open even further, searching desperately into his for him to just stop this, whatever this is, now. Sweat rolls down my back, tears roll down my face, and I see a flicker in his eyes that is satisfaction at its fullest. He finally relaxes the grip he has on me. "See," He says, "you need me."

"WHAT the FUCK are you talking about you INSANE man?!" I scream in his face, finally finding the burst of strength I need to propel him away from me. He lets it happen, and with the distance I've created, I turn enough to flick the gas off on the stove while still keeping him in my sights. "Get OUT of my HOUSE and leave me the FUCK alone before I stab you and THEN call police! SERIOUSLY! GET. OUT. NOW." I swing my knife at his face, aiming for anything I can connect with, but he fluidly backs away laughing.

I follow, my weapon swinging—there's no way I'm going down without a fight.

"Oh, stop this, Annabelle, really," The man drawls lazily, dodging through my kitchen doorway and into the living room. He hits the back of the couch and seems to be taken by surprise by it, so I take my chance and attack. Springing forward, I plunge the knife into his chest, my face showing my utter disgust as it tucks itself into his chest without protest. It went through like butter. My mind flashes white and I feel woozy (yes… blood makes me pass out, too. Joy.) standing there, so I let go of the wooden handle and take a step away from him. He stays in place, staring at the knife inside of him.

I finally notice that there isn't any blood rushing forth from his body; it's as dry as a canyon, nothing changing in him but the annoyed look on his face. My bottom lip trembles as I watch him slowly pull the knife out of the area where his heart, you know, the main circulatory organ, should be. It comes out cleanly, with almost no trouble to him, and he lets out an exasperated sigh, as if every girl he tried to woo stabbed him in the heart with a steak knife.

Disgusted, shocked, and terrified for my life, I take a step back and gasp out, "What are you?!" before running to my right and to the stairs. I sprint with all my might up them, and fling myself desperately at my door. I slam it shut, lock it, and thank God Louie stayed up in my room as I clutch him to my chest. With the door locked, I huddle in a corner of my room, pressed against the wall, hysterically trying to control my breathing.

He can't be real. This can't be real. If I go to sleep, all of this will be over. It's just a dream. No one could do that. It's all. Just. A. Dream.

So I close my eyes and pretend I don't feel eyes watching me from my walls.