3AM

01.2

A lucid dream, perhaps. But then, why did it feel like something far worse? Usually, Anne wasn’t able to have lucid dreams when she slept drunk, so she clearly hadn’t experienced one in years. Her brown hair was loose, cascading in perfect curls down her back to her waist. The flannel pajamas she was wearing weren’t suitable for the cold, but at that moment, Anne was in a dream. And even without understanding how, she knew perfectly well that this wasn’t real. Her chest heaved. Standing up, her eyes scanned the forest of pine trees stretching in an apparent infinity of endless rows.

And then she saw it.

It was a silhouette, at least ten meters ahead. Her eyes fixed on the figure, and immediately her legs moved. Almost like a locomotive, at the same speed as the heartbeats that pounded like drums.

There was a genuine feeling there.

It was the innocence of sudden curiosity.

But before her third step, the figure disappeared, evaporating before her eyes as if it had never existed. Anne froze, her feet glued to the ground as her subconscious questioned what kind of dream or hallucination this was.

Her eardrums caught the sound of a branch snapping behind her, the cold wind tossing her hair, whistling through the forest like a wolf as every hair on her body stood on end.

She turned, distressed, the anxiety coursing through her gut. Her eyes met a broad chest, very, very close to her. Clad in a black flannel shirt. She barely had time to shift her gaze to what loomed over her when a strong hand grabbed her face and covered her eyes, while another wrapped around her waist.

She was frozen in place, her body trapped against the solid form of a man. Every breath came in short, rapid bursts, her hands instinctively gripping his wrist as her heart pounded so fiercely it drowned out everything—the wind, the rustling trees, every other sound.

Thud.

Thud.

It was all she could hear, the relentless rhythm echoing through her.

“Who…” The word barely escaped her lips before the air was stolen from her lungs, his long fingers sliding beneath her pajamas, searing her fair skin with a heat that felt like embers.

He lifted her effortlessly, as if her weight meant nothing, and the warmth of his breath ghosted across her face, igniting her flesh in a fire that consumed her.

His hand moved to cover half her face, silencing any attempt to speak. Her lips parted, but the soft, deliberate pressure against her mouth melted away all courage. The deep, almost feral growl that followed sent a shiver down her spine, a blend of fear and something dangerously intoxicating.

“You’re an intruder…” he murmured against her lips, the words vibrating through her. “You’re invading my land.”

Every muscle, every nerve in her body seemed to dissolve into liquid heat, a primal mixture of terror and exhilaration coursing through her veins. For a moment, Anne questioned if this was truly a figment of her imagination or something far more sinister.

It’s just a dream, she tried to convince herself, but the line between reality and nightmare was already blurred beyond recognition.

It was like sin itself had invaded her, winding through her veins, coiling around her spine, and igniting something primal in her mind. A surge of something dark and forbidden made her eyes widen, her breath catching in a harsh gasp. Anne bolted upright, shaken to her core. What the hell was that? She had never experienced anything so vividly real.

Never.

Her gaze flickered to the clock, the cold, indifferent face of time marking the witching hour. The room was heavy with silence, her heartbeat echoing in the stillness. Trembling, she let out a shuddering breath and lay back down, her body sinking into the mattress like it was pulling her into the abyss. Her eyes slipped shut, but deep inside, a desperate longing clawed at her—a dark, unspoken wish to return to that haunting dream, to be consumed by it once more. Out of everything, she was left with nothing.

Nothing but the sensation… And the taste… Embedded in her mouth like rust.

(…)

The sun bathed the gardens and forests surrounding the house when morning came. Birds perched along the wire fence that bordered her property, and the dew from the cold night was now transforming into a blanket of mist hovering just inches above the ground.

But Anne Walch hadn’t slept after that dream. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t go back. And that led to an unbearable headache.

Was she dreaming?

Or hallucinating?

What kind of f****d-up dream was that?

She still felt her mouth throbbing as if the kiss had actually happened. Violent, abrupt. And that voice… whose was it? Who was he? Why… why did he call her an intruder?

She stared at the computer screen, and all she had managed to write was a short prologue about her recent dream. She was stunned, anxious, curious, wanting to dream more. It was as if the sunlight dimmed a bit of the sudden fear she felt upon waking.

That morning, despite the migraine, Anne went to the store and stocked the fridge for the first time. She had lunch on time, making herself some quick food with potatoes and a juicy steak, devouring it purely for survival. She didn’t really know how to take care of herself, but she felt a bit weak that morning.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the excessive cognac. Maybe it was the dream. It was as if her skin still burned where she had been touched, something impressive and a bit frightening.

After all, how was this physically possible? How could she… feel on her skin something that happened inside a dream? As if her waist and face still burned and throbbed even after so many hours. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And so she spent the rest of the day alone, in pure and complete silence, staring at the laptop screen and rereading the last words of the prologue over and over again.

“The taste of rust” they were.

And it was as if that same taste was still present, no matter what she ate, and every time she remembered, an electric shock surged through her muscles and forced her to stand up, in genuine fatigue. She spent the day drunk, with tangled hair and clothes far too large for her body, wandering around the house clutching a bottle of whiskey.

The hours dragged on until night fell, and Anne stuffed herself with cereal and milk before stripping naked and getting under the shower. Stumbling and tripping, she let the hot water push her blood pressure to its limit, sliding down the tiles until she was sitting on the floor of the bathtub.

The miserable drunk woman hugged her knees, trying to find, in that whirlwind of questions, the answer to her emptiness, to the pain, to all the weakness and incoherence. Unable to fight the intoxication and with that immense feeling of confusion, Anne lost consciousness, sprawled on the shower floor with hot water hitting the side of her body.

And so, at three in the morning, heavy boots landed on the attic floor and descended directly to the kitchen. Like magic, utensils materialized.

With deliberate, almost predatory motions, Charles prepared the coffee in under five minutes, the dark brew swirling into a cup that molded perfectly to his hand.

He brought the cup to his lips, pausing to inhale the rich, intoxicating aroma, savoring the moment, preferring the scent over the taste, at least for now. The kitchen around him was a wasteland of empty bottles and discarded food, remnants of a night that had spiraled into oblivion. His gaze, cold and calculating, swept over the scene before he moved silently up the stairs.

Each step was measured, echoing softly as he approached the bathroom. The faint sound of running water grew louder, the shower still spraying onto the tiled floor. His eyes fell upon the woman on the floor, her naked form sprawled in unconsciousness beneath the mist of the warm water. A dark frown deepened between his brows as he took in the sight, his eyes trailing over the curves of her body with a mix of curiosity and something darker, more primal.

He lingered, the air around him thick with unspoken tension, before setting the untouched coffee cup on the sink. The soft clink of porcelain was the only sound that marked his presence as he turned away, ascending to the attic, leaving the room steeped in the oppressive silence of his departure, the water still cascading over her.

Minutes later, Anne awoke, her body shivering despite the now-lukewarm water. Her head throbbed with the remnants of too much drink, and she struggled to her feet, turning off the shower before wrapping a towel around herself. Confusion and dread settled in her chest as she moved toward the bedroom, her brow furrowed deeply, and the bitter taste of fear lingering in her mouth like a warning she couldn’t quite grasp. She stopped, just before leaving the bathroom.

The scent of lavender was thick in the air, unnaturally strong, like a perfumed warning from some malevolent force. It carried a heaviness that clung to her skin, sinking into her pores, setting off an alarm in her very bones.

Every hair on her body bristled in response, as if sensing the approach of something dark and inevitable. The sensation was unnerving, like being slowly dragged from the safety of the earth, impaled by an unseen force.

Compelled by a dread she couldn't explain, Anne turned ever so slowly, every movement a battle against the mounting terror that someone—or something—was lurking just behind her. Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat, as if the air itself had thickened to suffocate her. Veins bulged, pulsing with a frantic rhythm, each beat of her heart pounding louder, a drum of panic that echoed in her ears.

The anxiety seeped into her mind, filling every crevice with the cold, creeping dread, like a gas leak poisoning her from within. The woman leaned against the doorframe, her gaze falling on the cup, a bullseye that captured her attention for what felt like ten eternal seconds before she took the first and second steps, lifting her trembling hand to grasp the ceramic.

It was warm.

Anne almost dropped the cup. She set it back down in the same spot and left the bathroom for the bedroom, this time with her heart in her throat.

Shaking from head to toe, she grabbed the gun from the box and descended the stairs to the first floor, completely soaked and leaving wet footprints with every step. She crossed the house and searched every room, but there was absolutely no one.

Anne stepped into the yard, the wind clawing at her, but something sent her quickly back inside. As her gaze fixed on the staircase, she froze. A tall, shadowed figure with a low ponytail of reddish hair was ascending the stairs with unnerving silence, vanishing into the darkness of the second floor as if the shadows themselves had swallowed him whole.

“Hey!” she screamed, terrified.

Anne unlocked the gun with a clenched jaw of fear but ran up the stairs as if chasing the killer of a child. Anne was determined, and despite trembling with fear, the real driving force was courage. The purest, most visceral kind.

She reached the second floor, almost falling, slipping on the small wet footprints she had made while descending.

There was no one.

Hungover and with a terrible headache, Anne still remembered considering not taking a single sip of alcohol once she stepped into that house. However, what actually happened was that the amount she drank had increased since she arrived. Dealing with the grief of her mother’s death, failure, alcoholism, and the known resentment her siblings felt, it was as if she were alone, sinking into a mill of seeds.

It had started raining, and after searching the entire house, she decided it had been a hallucination.

A scene fabricated by her mind.

And maybe, just maybe, she was making the coffee herself, as a sign that she should stop drinking so much. She got dressed and threw herself onto the bed, forcing her eyes shut and making herself sleep, even though it took hours to do so.

The next day, Anne changed the locks and added some latches to the windows. It didn’t hurt to take precautions, after all, how would she know if what was happening was or wasn’t a trick her mind was playing?

She went to bed early, lulled by sleeping pills, and for some reason, she didn’t dream of anything at all. Instead, those almost fifteen hours of sleep did her so much good that when she woke up, Anne felt as if she had slept for an entire year and gone back in time.

Feeling energized and starving, she prepared herself a wonderful breakfast and ate while watching an episode of True Crime. Thinking about the recent events, the writer cleaned the kitchen, and between sips of whiskey and cigarettes, she unpacked some glasses and plates. Her mind buzzed with ideas, yet she couldn’t put them into words.

It was past four in the afternoon when she sat on the first steps outside, noticing the garden of dead plants and the vegetation that had taken over the entire property around the house.

The tall grass, in some spots, almost her height. A slight sense of insecurity took hold of her, despite knowing that this was exactly what houses so deeply embedded in the woods looked like.

That night, she locked the bedroom door and slept with the bedside lamp on. The .38 caliber pistol rested on the nightstand. It was two-ten in the morning when her mind finally gave up fighting against the intoxication and mental exhaustion, and defeated, Anne fell asleep.

That night, she dreamed she was leaving that house. The moving truck carried the last boxes, and she got into her car, driving away for good. For some reason, a short and strange scene lasted the entire night because when she woke up at nine in the morning, Anne had the distinct impression she had only slept for thirty minutes.

Despite this, the day seemed short. She spent hours wandering the property, read a book at the base of a tree in the woods, and then tried to climb the branches, drunk. In the end, she slept in the old chair on the porch, waking up as the sun set on the horizon. Anne ate something quick for dinner since she no longer had enough coordination to even cut a steak, and turned on the TV to some random show, the only excuse to keep drinking and taking a few more sips before lighting a cigarette.

She pondered the recent events, questioning the boundary between reality and nightmare. With leaden limbs, she dragged herself upstairs, collapsing onto the mattress as if the weight of her thoughts was too much to bear. The clock had crept past two in the morning. As her eyes fluttered open, disoriented, she slowly realized she had been pulled into a dream. But this was no ordinary dream—it was a living, breathing illusion, woven from threads of dread and unease.

The house, once pristine and new, stood before her like a deceptive beacon of comfort. Its vibrant, gleaming white facade clashed grotesquely with the dark, brooding sky above. The garden, though lush with vivid flowers and green grass, seemed too perfect, too precise—an eerie mockery of life. The pillars were wrapped in creeping vines that, under the harsh glow of the lanterns, looked like twisted, skeletal fingers. The flames within the lanterns and chandeliers flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows that seemed to dance with malevolent intent on the walls.

Anne’s gaze was drawn to the windows, their glass unnervingly pristine, almost too clean, reflecting not just the light but something else—something lurking just beyond the surface. The house was silent, but not with the peace of a quiet night. It was a silence heavy with anticipation, a silence that smothered, pressing against her like an invisible force.

Her shoulders hunched instinctively as she took a hesitant step forward, feeling the oppressive weight of the atmosphere settle over her like a shroud. The front door, painted a bright navy blue that now appeared almost black under the dim light, stood wide open, gaping like the mouth of a predator waiting to devour her.

A lump formed in her throat as she forced herself to move toward the porch. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of oak and pine, underscored by a cloying sweetness—apple and cinnamon, a scent that should have been comforting but now seemed sickly, as if masking something rotten.

As she crossed the threshold, Anne’s skin prickled with a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. The interior was immaculate, the walls freshly painted, the floor polished to a gleam.

But there was something wrong, something deeply, disturbingly wrong. The house was too clean, too perfect, a pristine tomb waiting to trap its next victim.

Was this the past, or was it some twisted reflection of it? Anne’s mind reeled as she tried to grasp the reality of what she was seeing. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn back, to run, but she was rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away from the malevolent beauty of the scene before her. The house seemed to pulse with a life of its own, breathing in the darkness, exhaling fear. A chill slithered down her spine as her hand clutched the doorknob, fingers trembling against the cold metal. The door was already open, but something held her back, as if the very air inside was warning her not to enter. The memory of the shadow she had pursued up the stairs that night clung to her, a lingering terror that made every creak and whisper in the house feel like a threat.

She wasn’t sure what she was searching for—a cup of coffee, perhaps, or the source of the nightmare that had followed her out of sleep. But in the back of her mind, a gnawing doubt took hold. Was she losing her grip on reality? Had the drinks, the pills, and the sleepless nights finally pushed her over the edge? The thought festered like a wound.

Then, without warning, the scent hit her—sharp and overwhelming, the unmistakable aroma of freshly ground coffee. It was so vivid, so real, that it dragged her forward, forcing her into the house. The scent was an unyielding force, pulling her deeper into the darkness as if it held the answer to some terrible secret.

“Hello?” The word barely escaped her lips, a tremor of fear in the stillness. She didn’t want an answer, didn’t want to disturb whatever was lurking in the shadows.

All she wanted was to find a bottle of cognac, to drown herself in its warmth, to make these next steps less excruciating. But the house was silent, unnervingly perfect, as if it had been frozen in time, and Anne felt like nothing more than an intruder in this carefully preserved past.

Then, a scream tore through the silence, the kind of scream that comes from deep within, filled with a pain so profound it seemed to shake the very walls. Anne’s heart lurched, and she turned to run, but barely had she moved when she saw it—a woman, no older than 30, flung down the stairs with a violence that defied reality. She didn’t tumble or fall; she was thrown, as if by an unseen hand, crashing into the last steps with a sickening thud. Blood splattered the pristine walls and floor, the bright red a violent contrast against the white. The woman’s body landed in a crumpled heap, lifeless and broken.

Anne’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide, unable to tear them away from the horrifying scene. The world seemed to slow down, every second stretching into an eternity as she tried to convince herself that this was just a dream, a twisted creation of her mind.

“Claire!” The desperate cry of a man shattered the eerie silence, and Anne turned her head, spotting a tall figure at the top of the stairs. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock as he stared down at the bloodied body below.

It’s just a dream. A dream, Anne. It’s just a dream.

“Get out of my house.” The voice growled, a low, menacing sound that reverberated through the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Anne’s gaze shot back to the top of the stairs, where a shadow loomed behind the man, too dark and dense to be natural.

“You’re trespassing.” The words slithered through the darkness like a venomous whisper, curling around her, tightening with each breath. She was paralyzed, feet rooted to the spot as the pool of blood spread across the floor, inching closer to her. Then, without warning, a cold shock stabbed through her spine, snapping her back to reality.

With a jolt, Anne sat up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hand instinctively found the cold steel of the .38 on the bedside table. Gripping it tightly, she bolted from the room, the echo of that sinister voice still lingering in her ears.

At exactly three in the morning, she stepped out of the bedroom with the gun in hand. Walking down the hallway on the second floor, Anne turned on every light, illuminating her path in a systematic sweep.

She was about to step onto the first stair toward the attic when a loud, strong bang sounded, close, freezing her in place. Her blue eyes darted to the ceiling, where the sound had come from. She didn’t move for at least five seconds, ready for the next bang.

Walch checked the bullets and, sweating courage, straightened her posture, pulling air into her lungs, which were contracting in genuine spasms of fear. If she wanted to live alone, she had to face everything, and that included a lunatic in the attic.

The staircase to the attic was tall and a bit long, and at the end of the steps, an old, heavy wooden door stood. She realized she had never entered there before. The only thing she knew about that attic was what the photos had shown her: spacious and bright.

A faint, almost imperceptible sound drifted from the darkness above as Anne reached the fourth step. She froze, breath catching in her throat.

Saliva slid down a parched throat, and the uncontrollable tremor in the right hand holding the pistol became impossible to ignore, the gun quivering as if possessed by the same fear gripping her.

Heat surged through the body, the adrenaline coursing through veins numbing any sense of cold, leaving only a feverish detachment from reality.

Glancing down at her dirt-caked feet, the question of reality arose. How much of this was real? How much of that bottle of cognac had been consumed in the last few hours? And what about the opioids? Were any of those pills from the bag, meant for emergencies, swallowed in desperation?

A sudden bang jolted her thoughts, a shockwave of fear rippling through muscles. The sound intensified, reverberating through the walls like an ominous heartbeat. Teeth gritted, attempting to steel against the rising tide of panic. Rain drummed relentlessly on the roof, but the noise inside was different, more sinister. Breath came in shallow gasps.

Courage, Anne! The thought pushed her feet up the remaining steps. The left hand found the doorknob, heart pounding violently, threatening to break free from the chest. The memory of that vivid, surreal dream taunted her mind as the knob turned.

The banging transformed into a relentless vibration, piercing eardrums, growing more intense with each passing second. It was a sound that burrowed into bones, sending shivers through the entire body. The door creaked open, and the light switch was hit, trembling hands struggling to steady the gun pointed into the room.