3AM

01.3

What appeared next made Anne’s blood run cold.

Her wide eyes took in the sight before them—there, at the far end of the attic, stood a massive brown bear, breath coming in ragged, audible huffs. The light from the flickering bulb above cast eerie shadows on its fur, and those gleaming, predatory eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that turned the spine to ice.

The mind screamed to raise the gun, but paralysis gripped her every limb. Tears welled up, blurring vision, and when the violent crack of thunder echoed through the house, the bear let out a deafening roar, rearing up on its hind legs. It was a monstrous sight, towering, fur bristling with primal rage.

In sheer panic, the trigger was pulled. The gun bucked, shots scattering haphazardly around the room. Bullets tore through the roof, the walls, the floor—everything but the beast before her. The sound of glass shattering barely registered. The bear lunged, massive form hurtling forward with terrifying speed.

Stumbling back, a foot missed the last step, sending her body tumbling down the staircase. Landing hard on the back, rolling twice, the head struck the wooden floor with a sickening thud. The world spun in a dizzying whirl of pain and confusion. Lying there felt like an eternity, senses dulled, hearing reduced to a distant ringing.

Finally, forcing herself upright, leaning on the left arm, eyes stared up at the open door. Heart pounded with each beat echoing in ears.

Where was it? Where was the bear?

Breathing came in ragged gasps, struggling for control. Was it real? Was there truly a grizzly bear in the attic, or had her mind finally snapped, shooting at phantoms conjured by delirium?

Staggering to feet, Anne made a mad dash to the bedroom, the door slammed shut, the gun tossed onto the bed. Stumbling into the bathroom, the head throbbed with a vicious ache. Miraculously, no blood, no cuts, just a large bump forming on the back of the skull. Drinking greedily from the tap, cold water was splashed on the face in a futile attempt to clear the mind. But the sight of the cup still resting next to the soap filled the room with creeping unease.

Staring at the reflection in the mirror, it was clear Anne would need something stronger than willpower to get through this. The onset of a panic attack gripped the chest tightly, and with trembling hands, the bottle of pills beside the toothbrush was grabbed. Four tablets down the throat, their bitter taste offering a momentary distraction from the chaos.

Stumbling back to the bedroom, the door was locked, and the body collapsed onto the mattress. By then, the fast-acting pills had already slowed the heart to a dull beating. Eyelids grew heavy as the sensation of losing grip on reality faded into the background.

Sleep came swiftly, as if nothing wrong had just happened. As if the bullets fired in the attic hadn’t pierced the wood between the floors, destroyed something between it, and lodged themselves into the floor beside the bed.

When we fight madness, many things slip under the radar.

It felt like only a second had passed, but Anne slept through the rest of the night and only woke up at eleven in the morning because the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

Without checking the name on the screen, she answered the call in the middle of a yawn.

“What is it?” Hoarse, she pulled the phone away from her ear to see who was calling. “Dave, just get to the point.”

“I’m torn between vanilla or Black Forest.”

“What?”

“For your cake. I know you love cake, and…”

“What the hell are you talking about, for God’s sake…” She massaged her left temple, sitting up and stretching.

“For your birthday, you jerk. How about treating me better?”

“What birthday? I’m in the Everglades, and you guys…”

“I booked your flight for tonight; I think you can drag your drunk ass to the airport without causing a fatal car accident, right?”

“Why don’t you go suck on a…”

“Anne Walch, I’ve spent too much time organizing this to cancel now, damn it!” he exclaimed. Dave was always very dramatic, but he seemed genuinely upset. “I shouldn’t have even told you, but you did me the favor of moving to the other side of the country.”

"Are you seriously suggesting I leave the comfort of my own home and travel all the way there just for some cake? Forget it, I'm not going to New York." Anne stood up, pacing toward the bathroom, her mind a tangled mess of thoughts, each one gnawing at every neuron, every flicker of logical thought she might have left. She was scared, but too curious to stop now.

"Wait for my resignation letter," came the enraged reply. "Patricia and I have been organizing everything for months, planning everything! I'm done with you, done with this crap, you arrogant drunk—"

"Fine." Stopping in front of the mirror, she glanced at the cup of old coffee and then at her own reflection. "Fine, you infernal bastard, I'll go."

"I'll see you at the airport, goodbye." And he simply hung up, irritated. Anne stared at the phone for a moment before closing her eyes, equally irritated.

Her birthday.

And so, she went. With a small suitcase of clothes and the feeling that she was somehow doing herself a favor by leaving that house. After nine days of dreaming and seeing things, it felt like she was slowly losing her grip on reality.

(...)

It was exhausting. Draining. Excruciating. But suddenly, she was back in her old penthouse in New York, savoring the delicious smell of steak and listening to Patricia’s laughter while indulging in yet another sip of cognac.

Drunk for at least 40 minutes.

And despite the sorrowful looks from Dave, Anne didn’t care, truly couldn’t care less about what he thought or the expectations he had built around her.

She was a terrible friend.

The next day was supposed to be her “surprise birthday party,” and she couldn’t imagine what her longtime friend and Patricia had planned. It didn’t even matter because, somehow, she felt stagnant, trapped in a situation where she wanted to be and didn’t want to be at the same time.

She wanted to go back to the Everglades and learn more about those occurrences. But on the other hand, she’d give anything to stay right there, never go back, and not sink any further into that strange situation.

“Come on, do you really think he’d admit it if that’s what he wanted?”

“Of course he would, the guy’s a millionaire.”

“Exactly!” Patricia laughed. “No one that rich would admit do something like that.”

“They’ll call him crazy for much less, so I don’t think he cares.”

Ignoring that insignificant conversation, Anne was systematically thinking about the sequence of events over the past nine days. The timeline, though clouded by alcohol, indicated that it always happened in the middle of the night. Between two and three in the morning, most of the time. And the voice, a man’s voice, with firm and… enormous hands.

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard.

The image of those masculine hands tracing her body sent a chill ripping down her spine like a piece of paper. She clenched her teeth.

Why was she thinking about this? Why was she fantasizing about something that could, dangerously, be a product of her own insanity?

With her eyes closed, she let the cognac fill her mouth, holding it there, the natural contact of her tongue with the alcohol burning.

Her soul was in a precarious state, deteriorating with each sip.

With every carefree smile released by a brain completely drowned in a domino of chaotic events. The result was absolute and utter disorder.

Anne loved it.

The feeling of belonging, and then…

Losing herself.

(...)

The surprise party was indeed a party, with at least fifty people who knew her all too well. Clowns, wolves in sheep’s clothing, systematic conspirators, and vultures. She couldn’t decide; maybe it was all of those things at once, thrown into a blender.

The photographers, outside, camped out, waiting for her to stumble out completely drunk and do something outrageous enough to capture.

Anne downed a shot of tequila without any expression, surveying the chaos in the hall, while Taylor Swift blared from the speakers. It was ridiculous to think she’d rather be haunted by a real ghost than by living ones. All those people… they were there to celebrate with her, but they were haunting her in a way nothing else could.

“Alright…” Dave materialized by her side, as if conjured by sheer willpower, looking almost like a mirage. “I’m starting to think maybe this was a bad idea.”

Anne glanced at him, then down at the half-empty bottle of tequila she was holding. “The intention was good…” she mused, throwing back another shot with a casual shrug. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“Good intentions, paving the road to… you know,” Dave quipped, his expression a mix of resignation and humor. “But honestly, what do you say we make a swift exit, Wall?”

Anne chuckled, a sound that was part amusement, part relief. “I couldn’t be happier with that suggestion,” she admitted, a smirk playing on her lips.

Dave tilted his head, feigning deep contemplation. “I mean, unless you want to stick around for another round of watching everyone here try to out-hipster each other. It’s a real spectacle, like a parade of artisanal mustaches and ironic tattoos.”

“Oh, the temptation,” Anne drawled sarcastically, eyeing a nearby guy sporting a beard so meticulously groomed it could have been a work of art. “But I think I’ll pass on the chance to discuss the merits of avocado toast with strangers.”

Dave chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “What? You’re not up for an intense debate about which cold brew is superior? Or perhaps a deep dive into the world of non-GMO, organic, gluten-free kale?”

Anne snorted. “I’d rather chew on my own foot.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Dave grinned, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s make like a banana and split.”

They both stood up, Dave offering a hand in a mock-gentlemanly manner. “Milady,” he said with a wink, helping her to her feet.

Anne took his hand with exaggerated grace, then nearly tripped over her own feet, making both of them burst into laughter. “Smooth,” she said, regaining her balance.

“Hey, we can’t both be the graceful one,” Dave teased, still holding her hand as they navigated through the crowd.

As they weaved their way out of the bar, Anne sighed dramatically. “I’m going to need about three days of solitude to recover from this place. Or, you know, a small island where I’m the only inhabitant.”

Dave nodded sagely. “I’ll bring the coconuts and a volleyball to be your only friend.”

“Perfect,” Anne laughed. “We can name it Wilson.”

“Classic,” Dave agreed, pushing open the door to the street. “You know, I’m pretty sure we’re the only people here who’ve seen that movie. Everyone else is too busy pretending to enjoy abstract art or something.”

Anne shot him a mock glare. “You’re being unfair. I’m sure they also pretend to read obscure Russian literature.”

(...)

It was past two in the morning when the alcohol dulled her consciousness. Dave had already passed out some time ago after being coldly coaxed into a shot competition.

That was her intention. To knock him out.

Because she could no longer maintain that calm and smiling facade. She needed to dismantle the tranquil expression. She needed to roar with the lions and scream with the giants.

Anne stared at the traffic below through the enormous windows, still sprawled on one of the sofas near the windows, in a spacious and cozy living room.

It was cold outside.

And inside her too.

(...)

When she returned to the Everglades, it was raining again. There weren’t many reasons to go back there, except for the strange feeling that she needed to. As if that house was pulling her in and, more than that, kidnapping her thoughts like nothing else could.

Anne opened the door and immediately noticed that her welcome mat was missing. Her eyebrows arched, and feeling that peculiar sensation slithering inside her, she entered.

It was shocking to realize how everything… seemed different.

The kitchen was clean, no trash or debris, as she was sure she had left it. There were no cigarette butts or discarded bottles. With her heart racing, Anne reached the library, noticing that all the rugs in the house had disappeared. Her lips pressed into a tight line of apprehension.

“What the hell…” The library had also been organized and cleaned; and with an overwhelming urge to run, Anne darted upstairs, reaching the second floor, where she was certain she had left her bedroom in the most absolute chaos of clothes, utensils, and towels strewn across the bed.

She pushed open the slightly ajar door, revealing a sparkling suite.

Her breath caught in her throat.

What the f**k was going on?

She was sure the house was a mess, and where the hell were her rugs? She checked the locks on the windows and doors, and everything seemed intact. No one had broken in.

Then, Anne stopped walking.

This could only mean that whoever was messing with her mind wasn’t invading.

“You’re the one invading.” The voice, deep and resonant, seemed to emerge from the very core of her mind, a sinister whisper that danced between fear and curiosity, leaving her breathless. Anne’s fingers trembled as they found the hidden bottle of whiskey in the closet, and without a second thought, she locked herself in the room, drowning her terror in the burn of the alcohol.

The whiskey took her swiftly, pulling her down into its depths until the fear dulled, replaced by a heavy, intoxicating numbness. Her thoughts became a blur, her consciousness slipping away, only to be jolted back violently by the shrill blare of the alarm. The sound sliced through her fogged mind, dragging her back to reality with a force that made her gasp. Wide-eyed, she stared at the ceiling, the light still on, the relentless drumming of rain against the windows a constant reminder of the storm outside.

Instinctively, her arm stretched out, reaching to silence the alarm, but as she turned, the breath caught in her throat. There, at the foot of her bed, stood a man.

He loomed over her, eyes as black as voids, hair a wild blaze of red. His presence was suffocating, an oppressive force that sent icy tendrils of panic spiraling through her veins. Anne bolted upright, a scream tearing from her lips as she clutched the gun that had somehow materialized in her hand, the cold metal trembling in her grip. The alarm's relentless shriek filled the room, but all she could focus on was the towering figure before her.

The man’s eyes, pools of darkness, bore into her, radiating a visceral intensity that made her heart pound louder than the storm raging outside. It was as if every fiber of her being was caught in a vice, squeezed until she could no longer breathe. Her mind screamed that this was just another nightmare, a twisted creation of her subconscious—but her body, paralyzed with terror, refused to believe it.

A dream. It had to be a dream.

But then, as if mocking her fragile grip on reality, the man’s voice, low and guttural, cut through the chaos. “You,” he growled, and the word echoed in the space between them, dripping with menace.

Anne’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She was levitating, suspended a few inches off the ground, the realization hitting her like a cold wave. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat a frantic drum against her ribs.

“… me?” The word barely escaped her, a strangled whisper in the face of the impossible.

The man’s voice, cold and sharp as a blade, sliced through her fear. “Why did you break my flask?” His face twisted with a fury that seemed to ripple through the air, yet beneath it, there was something else—a deep, conflicting emotion that sent a chill through her.

“This house is mine… you’re trespassing.”

Panic clawed at her throat, and with a dawning horror, Anne realized this wasn’t a dream. This was real.

“What?” she stammered, her voice barely more than a breath.

“You shattered it,” the man continued, his voice rising with anger. “Into a million pieces.”

Her mind raced, trying to grasp his words. “How… what do you mean, ‘your flask’?”

His eyes, black as pitch, bore into hers, and she felt as though her very soul was being crushed beneath their weight. “Do you have any idea… what you’ve done?” His teeth clenched, the fury in his gaze burning into her like hot coals.

“Who are you?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice trembling. “What are you doing in my house?”

“This is my house!” he roared, the sound like thunder crashing through the room. “And from three to four in the morning, it’s even more mine.”

The alarm suddenly cut off, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Anne’s eyes darted to the clock—it was three-oh-five in the morning. Her heart thudded against her chest as the implications of his words sank in.

“A ghost?” Her voice quivered. “What do you mean, ‘your flask’? That night… there was a bear…” The truth hovered on the edge of her consciousness, but she wasn’t ready to accept it. She couldn’t.

His next words sent a shiver down her spine. “I am the bear.” The deep, almost primal tone of his voice resonated within her, filling her with a terror that made her blood run cold.

“And… why?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“What do you mean, why?”

The tone sharpened, and he took a step closer, his presence looming over her like a dark cloud.

“If I set this house on fire, will you understand?” His shout reverberated through the walls, the very air seeming to tremble in response. “You’re trespassing!” he bellowed, and she shrank back, her shoulders curling in on themselves in sheer terror. The image of the woman tumbling down the stairs flashed through her mind.

“Please, don’t do that…” It was all she could manage to say as he drew closer, his shadow engulfing her. Even levitating, he towered over her, a figure of overwhelming dread.

“If you plan to stay in this house…” His voice dropped, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “You’d better know a few things. I live here… I’m the true owner of this place. And I will…”

“W-wait a second. What’s your name?” Her voice was a shaky whisper, the question slipping out in a desperate bid to regain some control. His eyes, black and unforgiving, flicked to her, irritation flashing across his face.

“If you interrupt me again, I’ll paint this house with your blood, pathetic creature.”

“Right... I am trully very sorry, sir. Uhn, Mister.” The words barely escaped her as she fought the overwhelming urge to flee. It felt like a knife was being driven slowly into the base of her spine, paralyzing her with fear. “And your name?” she asked again, through gritted teeth.

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He stepped back, visibly unsettled. “Charles.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Charles…” Anne’s voice was softer now, but the terror still gnawed at the edges of her calm. “I was scared of your bear… and I have no idea where your flask is, though I do remember hearing what sounded like glass breaking before I fell down the stairs to avoid being eaten by a four-hundred-pound animal.”

Charles’s gaze dropped, as if the weight of her words had struck him. “And that’s why you shot it.”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know… maybe leave my house and never come back?” His shout was sharp, slicing through the air.

“That’s too vague an answer; try putting yourself in my shoes!” Her voice trembled with frustration, her attempt at calm slipping away. “I’m talking to a ghost. I still think this…”

“This is not a dream.”

His words stopped her cold, the dark, intense stare locking her in place.

“And I am not a hallucination.” His presence was overpowering, a dark aura that seemed to close in around her.

“My name is Anne,” she whispered, the sound barely carrying in the oppressive silence. “I didn’t mean to anger you, Charles.”

“Just leave my house.”

“I’m sorry. I paid for an entire year.” Her voice shook, the reality of the situation pressing down on her. “And it’s not like I have money to spare right now. This doesn’t happen in real life; we don’t just go around finding ghosts in attics. That only happens in movies, and I can’t deal with any more changes. My mother died, my siblings hate me, and I’m trying to kick alcoholism, so please, just… ignore my presence.”

“So… you’re just a mediocre human, you know nothing about anything.”

“Exactly. Try to pretend I’m not here, please. I’m sorry. I’ll try to be the most…”

“Stop apologizing.” His irritation was palpable as he turned away, the force that had held her aloft dissipating. Her body dropped to the floor, her legs weak beneath her.

She watched as he walked out of the room, her heart still pounding in her chest. When she finally mustered the courage to follow, she found only emptiness in the hallway. The door she had locked before going to sleep was wide open, but there was no sign of him. Nothing and no one, as if he had never been there at all. She still had a question.

What happens now that he no longer has the flask?

“I still have a question!” She gave voice to her thoughts, shouting into the empty hallway. “Charles!” In a loud, demanding tone, Anne only now realized how appealing his name sounded to her own ears at that moment, with the concrete and absolute certainty that she was talking to herself.

And when he simply materialized right next to her, that’s when the writer nearly fainted, stifling a scream of shock as her eyes unconsciously began to notice the details the dim light in her room hadn’t allowed.

Like, for example, the well-defined lines of his jaw, so sharply drawn that they created contrast even under a dense and very red beard.

“What do you want?” And to be honest, despite his extremely harsh and displeased demeanor, Charles wondered why on earth he had returned the second he heard her voice.

Calling his name.

But Anne was too absorbed, allowing her eyes to commit the wild absurdity of devouring him in silence. Measuring him from head to toe in decent light. Looking at him long enough to memorize some details. Enough to write at least a dozen pages.

“I…” Noticing the almost palpable anger that escaped his gaze, like laser beams piercing her concentration, Anne held her breath. “I’m sorry for destroying something that was valuable to you. I’ll do whatever I can to make it right.”

"This house was mine long before it ever became a house," the redhead whispered, impatient, as cold as a glacier, and his voice echoed demonically through the house. “If you stay here, you’ll meet the same fate as all the others.”

And that, clearly, had been a threat.