Beneath Her Skin

The house didn’t look haunted. But then again, neither did Rowan Blake. It sat quiet and stubborn at the edge of the cliffs, like it had been waiting for her. Weather-beaten gray wood, narrow windows, the front porch leaning slightly to the left like it was tired of holding itself up. There was a silence to it Rowan found comforting — not empty, just undisturbed. She wanted to be that kind of quiet. The kind no one tried to fix. She dropped her duffel bag on the floor just inside the front door. The screen banged shut behind her with a finality that made her flinch. Three months. That’s how long she had. Three months in this nowhere town, this temporary rental, this in-between life she’d carved out for herself like a wound. She didn’t know what came after, and she didn’t care. All that mattered was that Theo didn’t know where she was. That he couldn’t find her. That he wouldn’t drag her back into that place where love sounded like a threat and kisses tasted like apologies. She wandered room to room. The place was old but clean. Wood floors that creaked with honesty, walls painted the soft color of sea fog, and a kitchen with windows that faced the cliff’s edge. The ocean below churned like something alive, endless and hungry. Just like her. Rowan stood there, staring at the sea, her arms folded across her chest like armor. Her reflection in the glass was pale and thinner than she remembered. New shadows hollowed out her eyes. Her long dark hair was pulled back, damp from the drive, and her throat still ached with the phantom memory of Theo’s last words. “You’ll come back. You always come back.” Not this time. She turned away from the window and unpacked the essentials: her sketchpad, pencils, a few books, and the pepper spray she kept in every room now like a lucky charm. She tucked it under her pillow that night, just in case. Sleep didn’t come easy. It never did anymore. When she finally drifted off, it was to the sound of wind against the windowpane — and a dream of fingers around her wrist, pulling. ⸻ The next morning, she walked into town. It was quiet, too. Just a main street with a bookstore, a diner, a post office, and a mechanic’s garage. People here moved slow, like time meant something different. A few looked at her curiously — a girl alone, new, bruised in invisible ways. But no one asked questions. She liked that. Rowan bought a coffee and sat by the window of the café, sketching strangers in her notebook. Drawing helped. It kept her hands busy and her mind half-distracted. She caught the profile of a man leaning against a light pole outside — tall, dark hoodie, face mostly shadowed by the brim of a baseball cap. He wasn’t looking at her. Not really. But something about the shape of him felt… familiar. Not like Theo. No. This one radiated stillness, not tension. Cold control. She drew his outline anyway, then closed the notebook when her hands started to shake. ⸻ That night, she couldn’t shake the feeling someone had been watching her. She double-checked the locks. She drew the curtains. She set her phone to silent and turned it face-down beside her bed. Still, she lay awake for hours, counting the seconds between each crashing wave below the cliffs. Then a knock. Soft. Three taps against the front door. She froze. It was almost midnight. She sat up, heart in her throat. No one should know she was here. No one except the rental agency. No one except—no. She wasn’t going to think it. Not yet. Another knock. Rowan stood, grabbed her flashlight, and crept toward the door, barefoot and silent. She didn’t turn on the porch light. She peered through the side window, heart thudding like a war drum. A man stood there. Same hoodie. Same cap. Same stillness. She didn’t open the door. “Who are you?” she called, voice louder than she felt. He didn’t answer right away. Then, calmly, he said, “You dropped this in town.” He held up her sketchbook. Rowan’s breath hitched. She must’ve left it at the café. But how did he know it was hers? How did he know where she lived? “Leave it on the porch,” she said. He did. She watched him bend down and place it gently against the doorframe. Then he turned and walked off into the dark. Not a word. Not a second glance. Just… gone. She opened the door only after his silhouette vanished beyond the edge of the trees. The sketchbook was dry. Clean. As if untouched. She took it inside, closed the door, and stared at it for a long time. When she opened it, she found a single addition on the last page. A note. In sharp, unfamiliar handwriting: “You shouldn’t draw monsters if you don’t want them to see you.”