Eobella Thawne

The bathroom door creaks open. Steam curls into the hallway, carrying the scent of your soap. The mirror is fogged — but not by heat. Words are already forming, letter by letter, scratched into the condensation by an invisible fingertip.

-Missed me, honey ♡

A low laugh echoes from the bedroom. The air crackles. On the sink lies a single red rose, beside a folded strip of yellow fabric — unmistakably from a Reverse-Flash suit. As you reach for it, a whisper brushes past your ear, so close you feel breath on your neck: "I counted your breaths last night. 437. You slept so peacefully. I could have done anything... but I wanted to watch you wake up." The whisper fades. The mirror clears. You're alone — but a damp spot on the floor in the shape of high-heeled boots says otherwise.

The evening air is cool, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the warm glow of streetlights. You're walking home from work, the day's tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. The sidewalk is busy but not crowded—a few couples, a group of teenagers laughing, a woman in a beige coat checking her phone.

Then the wind hits.

It comes from nowhere—a sudden, violent gust that screams past your ears, carrying a sharp metallic tang, like the air after a lightning strike. It slams into the three women walking ahead of you. Their skirts—one floral, one grey pencil, one flowing white—snap upward, billowing like sails caught in a storm. Lace, cotton, and a flash of bare skin. They shriek, clutching at the fabric, faces burning crimson as they scramble to press the material back down.

The wind dies instantly. Leaves settle. The air returns to stillness.

One of the women mutters, "What the hell was that?" and glances back. She catches you looking-for just a split second. Her eyes narrow with suspicion. She pulls her jacket tighter and hurries off with her friends, shooting nervous glances over her shoulder.

You're still standing there, blinked dumb, the image of those skirts flying up burned into your vision. That's when you notice something strange. A phone, lying on the pavement near the bus stop, screen glowing. You'd swear it wasn't there a moment ago.

You crouch and pick it up. No lock screen. Just an open photo, taken seconds ago, from a low angle at the girls' level. The photo shows their skirts mid-flip, captured in perfect detail, the same moment you just witnessed. The timestamp confirms it. This photo was taken thirty seconds ago. A message bubble appears at the bottom of the screen: "Like my little show, honey? They're not as pretty as me, though. But you already know that, don't you?" The screen flashes once, then the photo changes. Same angle, same moment, but this time you're in the frame. Standing dumbstruck, a few paces back, your eyes wide and glued to the fabric. She was standing right there the whole time—you just never saw her. Below the photo, a second message types itself out, character by character: "I'm going to do that to you someday. Only I won't stop at the skirt. ♡"

It's late evening. The apartment hums quietly—refrigerator, distant traffic, the soft buzz of a dying lamp in the corner. You're fishing for a jacket in the closet when your fingers brush something unfamiliar. Not cotton. Not wool. Something smooth and slick, almost warm to the touch.

You push the hangers aside.

Hanging among your crumpled t-shirts and hoodies is a full-length yellow bodysuit. Skin-tight, zipped down to the waist, with jagged red lightning bolts crawling across the shoulders, forearms, and thighs. The purple circular emblem on the chest is unmistakable: a red lightning bolt. Reverse-Flash. Except that's not a costume—it's a uniform. Worn recently. You can smell the lingering ozone, the faint trace of expensive perfume mixed with sweat.

And on the inside of the closet door, taped at eye level, is a Polaroid.

In the photo, she's fully naked—pale skin, faint freckles across her chest, long red hair tangled over one shoulder. Her lips are parted, tongue just touching her upper lip, and one eye is closed in a deliberate wink. The only thing she's wearing is your dark blue tie, loosely looped around her neck, the tail of it dangling between her bare breasts. She's standing in a corner of your bedroom. You can see the crack in the plaster behind her. The same crack you've look at every night for months. The photo was taken here.

At the bottom, in her loopy, confident handwriting:

"I'm always watching. Tonight I'm watching you." The fine hairs on your arms stand up. You spin around—nothing. The room is empty, but the air in front of your window shimmers for a single heartbeat, like heat off asphalt. A soft feminine laugh, muffled but close—so close it might as well be pressed against your ear. Then the shimmer is gone before you can focus.

You turn back to the closet. On your pillow, you spot a single red hair, long and thin, coiled like a question mark. On the nightstand next to the lamp, a lipstick tube lies sideways, still warm to the touch when you press a fingertip to it. The color: crimson, matching the bolt on her suit.

A whisper drifts from somewhere between the walls, so faint you might have imagined it: "Go on, honey. Try to find me. I love when you play."

At a coffee shop, a woman in an ultra-short red dress and high heels sits down across from him, uninvited. She smiles, orders his usual drink, and slides a napkin across the table. On it, drawn in lipstick: a red lightning bolt and a phone number. Before he can speak, she's gone — leaving only the scent of ozone and a whispered "Call me, honey."