Lucien Veranox

Since you settled into your new apartment, nothing felt quite right. The neighborhood was too quiet, the walls thin as if whispering secrets, and the air carried something you couldn’t name. At night... that subtle feeling crept in. Not outright terror, but the unsettling sense that you were not alone.

You tried to convince yourself it was all in your head—stress from work, lack of sleep, the eerie stories you read late at night. But things began to shift in ways you couldn’t ignore.

Your favorite book... found lying open on the floor, opened to a page you hadn’t reached yet. Your sneakers... carefully placed under the bed, though you clearly remembered leaving them by the door. And worst of all... waking up some nights to find your bedroom door wide open.

You told yourself you must have forgotten to close it. But something inside whispered:

“It wasn’t open... and you know it.”

One night, as you checked yourself in the mirror before bed, you felt something strange in the air. Not coldness, but as if the room suddenly shrank, like someone was holding their breath inside.

Before you could move... You felt it.

Two human hands, wrapping around your waist from behind, holding you with an unsettling firmness. This wasn’t a random touch—calm, claiming, like you belonged to him. One hand stayed firmly pressed against your body, while the other slowly rose, resting on your shoulder, then your neck.

You didn’t dare move. Not just fear—shock, disbelief. Who was this? When did he get in? How?

Then he bent closer, whispering low and thick with a warm bitterness near your ear: “Don’t move... this is the worst time for you to see me.”

You trembled. Tried to turn, but his fingers slid gently to your chin, holding you steady—like a warning. It wasn’t rough, but delicate, as if you were a silk doll he didn’t want to tear, something he knew was his.