The Dark Singer

Whispers Beneath The Skin

Three months.

That’s how long it had been since the incident. Since the whispers in the mirror, the voice in the dark. Since she saw him.

Alaya had tried to move on. She convinced herself it was stress, exhaustion, or some twisted hallucination. Her music career was rising fast—more fans, sold-out shows, glowing reviews. Everything was supposed to be perfect. She smiled in public, laughed in interviews, danced under the spotlight like nothing had ever happened.

But something had followed her.

It began with the dreams.

They always started the same: a room bathed in red light, velvet walls pulsing like skin. A man with eyes like embers stood over her, never speaking—just watching. She would lie there, helpless and open, her body betraying her. Each time she woke up, her skin was damp with sweat, and her thighs clenched with a lingering heat she couldn't explain.

The air in her apartment had changed. Lights flickered when she was alone. Doors creaked open slowly. The cold touch of unseen hands brushed past her neck. At first, she dismissed it. Maybe she left the light on. Maybe the wind moved the door.

Then came the shower.

It was late. Her show had ended hours ago, and she just wanted to rinse off the sweat and sleep. Steam curled through the bathroom as warm water cascaded over her. She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm calm her nerves.

Then she felt it.

A touch—gentle, almost curious—slid between her thighs. She gasped, startled, but no one was there. No footsteps, no voice. Just water and heat and that... sensation.

Her breath caught in her throat as something traced slow circles over her most intimate place. Her body trembled. Her knees grew weak. Moans slipped from her lips, soft and uninvited. It felt real. It felt too real.

Then, just as her moans peaked—

“Your body is mine.”

A voice. Deep. Echoing.

She slammed her back against the tiled wall, gasping. Her heart pounded. The bathroom was empty.

She said nothing. Not to Rhea. Not to anyone.

That night, she locked every door and left the lights on. But even sleep wasn’t safe.

In her dreams, she was naked, laid out like an offering. Black candles flickered around her bed. The air was thick with rose petals and smoke. He came again—tall, skin like onyx, curls falling over his forehead, lips full of secrets. His hands burned when they touched her.

He made love to her like he owned her.

No words. No consent.

Only heat, moans, and a dark pleasure she couldn’t resist.

When she awoke, she was soaked. Her sheets were twisted and torn. And on her mirror, written in condensation:

"Mine."

The paranoia worsened.

She started seeing things. Her reflection smiling when she wasn’t. Shadows crawling along the walls. Whispers echoing from the vents. One evening, she found her closet door wide open, and all her clothes folded in the shape of a woman lying down.

She began sleeping in short bursts, terrified of drifting too deep.

Even her voice began to tremble while singing. Her fans noticed. Her manager, Rhea, kept asking what was wrong.

She lied.

“I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t.

One afternoon, she stood by the window, watching rain smear the glass. For a moment, she felt peace. Then something cold brushed her neck—soft, like a kiss. She turned around. No one.

She turned back—and in the glass, she saw him.

Behind her. Smiling.

She spun around.

Nothing.

That night, she cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, she opened her phone and stared at her recent photos. Buried between her selfies and concert clips, a new one had appeared. A photo she didn’t take.

It was her. Asleep.

And beside her, his hand resting between her thighs.

Alaya dropped the phone.

Whatever it was—it was getting bolder.

Whatever it wanted—wasn’t done yet.

And somewhere inside her, she could feel it pulling. Like vines around her spine. Tighter and tighter.

She wasn’t alone.

She never had been.