Lovecraft

The rain was a living thing. It clawed at Mila's back, whipped her hair across her face, and drowned the city in a cold, metallic roar. She ran. Her heels, a stupid choice for a night like this, clicked a frantic, uneven rhythm against the wet cobblestones. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She could feel him. The weight of his gaze was a physical pressure between her shoulder blades. Her lungs burned. The narrow alley spat her out onto a wider street, lined with sleeping townhouses. Dark windows. No lights. No help. A single nameplate gleamed dully under a flickering streetlamp: Lovecraft Lane. She didn't care about the name. She cared about the door. The third house on the left had a light on. A single, defiant square of gold in the second-floor window. Sanctuary. She stumbled up the steps, her hand slapping against the cold, black paint of the door. She hammered on it with her fist. "Please! Please, open up!" Silence. The rain hissed. Footsteps echoed from the alley behind her. Slow. Deliberate. He was no longer running. He knew he had her. She tried the handle. Unlocked. She didn't think. She pushed the door open, slipped inside, and closed it behind her with a soft, desperate click. The silence of the foyer was deafening after the scream of the storm. She leaned against the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling. It smelled of old wood, dust, and something else. Something sharp and clean. Gunpowder. Or maybe just the expensive cologne that seemed to seep from the very walls. She was in someone's home. A stranger's home. A floorboard creaked above her head. Her heart stopped. Then hammered back to life, twice as fast. Stupid. Stupid. She had run from a predator and straight into the den of another. The creaking came again. Closer. Slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs. She pressed herself harder against the door, as if she could melt through the wood and disappear back into the storm. The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. The silence stretched, thin and brittle as glass. Then, a voice. Low, calm, and laced with a quiet, terrifying amusement. "You have exactly ten seconds to explain why I shouldn't put a bullet in you." Mila squeezed her eyes shut. She was dead either way. At least this one spoke before he killed you.