Touch me and burn

Chapter Eleven: Don’t Wake the Dead

(Amara POV)

The phone hit the ceramic basin with a dull crack, then slid sideways and died. The screen didn’t shatter—just fractured, a jagged vein down the middle. A wound.

I stared at it.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

The last message blinked out before I could re-read it. Three words that hadn’t come from any contact I recognized.

Don’t sleep.

That kind of warning shouldn’t carry weight. Not in a rational world. But something in me twisted the moment it arrived. Like a pulled thread under my skin. Like something ancient waking in my spine.

I backed away from the sink and wiped my hands on the towel, heart pounding with that uneven rhythm that usually comes before a bad decision.

In the mirror, I looked like someone else. My skin flushed, hair tangled, someone else's shirt slipping off my shoulder—white cotton, too big, Jude’s cologne still clinging to the fabric. His place was quiet now. No music. No moans. Just that awful stillness.

I pressed the towel to my mouth. Tried to ground myself.

Too late.

The quiet wasn’t peace. It was dread.

I stepped out of the bathroom. The hallway stretched longer than it should have, shadows coiling at the corners like they had lives of their own. The flat was sterile—chrome and glass and minimal furniture—but now it felt like a mausoleum.

Something wasn’t right.

Jude hadn’t made a sound in over twenty minutes. Not a snore. Not a shift in the sheets.

I crept down the hall, my bare feet silent on cold tile. I passed the kitchen, where an unopened bottle of wine still sat on the counter. Then the living room. Empty.

“Jude?” I called.

No answer.

I moved toward the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.

Something flickered across the floor. A drop of red. Then another. And another.

I froze.

Not wine.

I leaned in, stomach churning. The bed was empty. The sheets tossed and damp with sweat.

More drops led away from the bed—toward the kitchen.

A smear.

I followed them. Not because I wanted to, but because not knowing was worse.

The air felt colder now. Like a window had been left open to the sky.

The trail ended at the freezer.

It wasn’t locked.

And when I opened it—

I stumbled back so fast I nearly hit the floor.

Inside, nestled among frozen peas and gel packs, was a severed hand.

Delicate. Pale. Fingers curled slightly like it had died in protest. There was a silver ring on the middle finger. Ornate. Possibly antique.

Still bleeding.

Still fresh.

I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, lungs seizing.

What the f**k.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some sick leftover from a horror film.

This was a message.

My vision swam.

I turned and nearly ran into my reflection again—this time in the black sheen of the microwave door. My face looked wrong. Off-angle. A second too late to match my own expression.

I took a step back.

The lights flickered.

And in the reflection—I saw someone behind me.

Not Jude.

Not anyone human.

Eyes like coal. Mouth stitched with shadows.

When I turned, nothing was there.

But I knew. I f*****g knew.

He had been here.

Whoever sent the message. Whoever left the hand.

He was still here.

I backed into the hallway, breath sharp. My heart jackhammered in my ribs as if trying to escape. I didn’t realize I was crying until the tears stung the corners of my mouth.

I didn’t scream.

I just stood there, shaking, until I heard it—

The door creaked open.

And then footsteps.

Measured. Heavy.

Not a killer’s.

Worse.

Ciaran.

I saw the silhouette before he said a word. Tall, dark clothes, pale face drawn tight. His eyes scanned the hallway like a weapon.

“You came,” I whispered, throat raw.

He looked at me like I was already dead. Or maybe like he didn’t know whether to kill me himself.

“I told you I would,” he said.

There was something in his voice. Not concern. Not comfort.

Possession.

I didn’t move as he passed me, his gaze dragging over the blood smears, the freezer, the open bedroom.

Then his head turned sharply, back to me. “You’re wearing someone else’s shirt.”

It wasn’t a question.

I crossed my arms. “Don’t start.”

He stepped closer. The temperature in the flat dropped again.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared. Hard. “Try again.”

“He was in the bed when I woke up to the bathroom. Then I saw… that.” I pointed toward the kitchen, too shaken to say the word hand.

Something flickered behind his eyes. Memory. Or rage. Or both.

“You think he left it?” he asked.

“No,” I whispered. “I think whoever sent me the messages did.”

That got his attention. “Messages?”

“My phone’s cracked. But they came in before. From an unknown number. They knew I was here. They knew I wasn’t alone. The last one said—”

I stopped.

He stepped closer. “Said what?”

I met his eyes. “Don’t sleep.”

For a second, we just stood there in the quiet. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge, indifferent to the horror inside it.

Ciaran looked away, jaw tight. “This isn’t coincidence. This is calculated. Ritualistic. He wanted you to see it.”

I swallowed hard. “What does the hand mean?”

His voice dropped. “It’s a symbol. A marker. In some ancient rites, the left hand was a sign of betrayal. Offering it to someone meant surrender—or threat.”

“Why in the freezer?” I asked.

He looked grim. “Preservation. Proof. Or maybe… a way to bind the moment.”

Something tugged at my memory. A symbol from the dream. The spiral in fire. The whispered oath.

“Ciaran… he said he’s coming for me next.”

Ciaran’s whole body shifted. Tension exploded across his spine. “He won’t touch you.”

“And if I’m part of the ritual?”

“Then we burn the ritual.”

I let out a shaky breath. The flat felt smaller by the second.

Ciaran moved toward the living room window, pulled the curtain aside slightly. His expression changed.

“What is it?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just muttered, “There’s no one out there. No signs of struggle. No trace of him leaving.”

I looked at the kitchen again. At the smudges on the floor. “Then maybe… maybe he didn’t leave.”

He turned back to me. “Then we find him.”

“I’m not going back in that bedroom,” I said.

“You won’t need to.”

He headed toward the bedroom anyway. I followed him, too afraid to be alone in the hallway. The sheets were still a mess. My bra dangled off the corner of the mattress. Jude’s jeans were folded neatly on a chair.

But he wasn’t there.

No blood.

No signs of a struggle.

No signs of Jude at all.

It was like he’d never existed.

I moved to the edge of the bed, staring down at the pillow I’d slept on. There was a faint imprint of my head. But the other one was perfectly smooth. Untouched.

“Ciaran…” I whispered. “What if he wasn’t real?”

He didn’t scoff. Didn’t laugh. Just stared at the empty space beside me.

“We’re being watched,” he said.

I shivered.

Something flickered at the edge of the window. A movement that didn’t belong to the wind.

He grabbed my arm gently. “We’re leaving. Now.”

I didn’t argue.

We left everything behind—my shoes, my phone, the cracked screen still glowing with silence.

Outside, the sky was beginning to pale. Not morning. Not yet.

But the kind of gray that bleeds between night and reality.

And in the glass of the front door, just as we stepped out—

I saw him.

Not Ciaran. Not Jude.

The one from the reflection. The stitched mouth. The hollow stare.

Watching me from behind the curtain.

I blinked.

Gone.

But the cold stayed.

Deep in my chest.

Waiting.