Chapter 2 – First Frissons
918 Words
The morning came gray and reluctant, as though even the sun refused to pierce Havenmoor’s fog. When I opened the curtains of my small room, all I saw was white. The lake, the street, even the neighboring houses had vanished behind the curtain of mist.
I dressed slowly, choosing my thickest sweater, and ventured out. The town was busier than it had been the night before, though “busy” was relative. A handful of shopkeepers lifted shutters, voices murmured low in the marketplace, and a church bell chimed faintly somewhere in the distance. People moved quietly, as if unwilling to disturb whatever lay hidden in the fog.
I followed the cobblestone street until the smell of roasted beans drew me toward a small café tucked between two crooked buildings. Its windows glowed warmly, the condensation fogging the glass. A bell above the door tinkled when I stepped inside.
The café smelled of coffee and fresh bread. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with worn books, giving the place a cozy, timeless air. I ordered a cup and found a corner table near the window. The warmth seeped into my fingers, loosening the tightness in my chest. For a moment, I almost felt safe.
Almost.
The door opened, and with it, a gust of cold air. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. My pulse betrayed me, quickening before my eyes confirmed it: the man from the dock.
He entered like the fog itself had followed him inside. Dark coat, damp hair, the same deliberate stride. Conversations at nearby tables faltered, a silence falling sharp enough to notice. He didn’t seem to care. He moved with the certainty of someone accustomed to being watched.
I ducked my gaze, pretending to study the spine of a book on the shelf nearest me. But it was useless. My awareness of him filled the room, every nerve in my body sparking as if I’d been waiting for this.
And then—he sat down. Not across from me, but at the next table over, close enough that I could hear the scrape of his chair, the slow stir of his spoon against porcelain.
“New in town,” he said without looking at me. His tone was casual, but the weight of his voice coiled tight inside me.
“Yes.” I forced my eyes to his, caught again by the intensity there. “You said that last night.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Then I was right twice.”
The air between us shifted. Something magnetic, dangerous, inexplicable, pulled me toward him. I hated how aware I was of the way his sleeve brushed the table, the faint scar cutting across his knuckle, the way he stirred his coffee once and then let it sit untouched.
“Do you live here?” I asked finally, needing to fill the silence.
“For a long time.” His gaze lingered on me, unblinking. “Long enough to know when someone doesn’t belong.”
The words should have stung, but they didn’t. Instead, I heard something beneath them—an invitation, or maybe a warning.
Before I could answer, the bell above the door jingled again. An older woman entered, her eyes finding me almost immediately. She walked straight to my table, her movements sharp, purposeful.
“You’re renting at Mrs. Kellan’s boardinghouse,” she said. Not a question.
“Yes…”
Her gaze flicked to the man beside me, then back. Her mouth tightened. “You should be careful who you speak to in this town. Some people are better left alone.”
The man didn’t react. He didn’t even glance at her. He simply raised his cup, finally sipping his coffee, as though the warning wasn’t about him at all.
But it was. Everyone in the café knew it. I could feel their eyes darting between us.
Heat rose to my cheeks. “I can make my own decisions,” I said softly, though my voice trembled.
The woman’s expression softened briefly, almost pitying. Then she leaned close enough that only I could hear: “Not here, you can’t.”
And with that, she straightened and left, the bell above the door jingling once more, her figure swallowed by fog.
Silence lingered in her wake. I forced myself to sip my coffee, though it had gone cold.
The man finally spoke again, his voice smooth, unreadable. “People talk too much in this town.”
I swallowed, my throat tight. “And what is it they say about you?”
His eyes locked on mine, dark and unwavering. “That depends on who you ask.”
A shiver slid down my spine. There was no smile in his voice, no jest. He wasn’t denying it.
I rose abruptly, gathering my bag. I couldn’t sit there under the weight of those eyes any longer. My chair scraped against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet café.
As I pushed open the door, the cold air hit me like a slap. I hurried down the street, heart racing, breath clouding in front of me. The town’s narrow alleys twisted into one another, shadows lurking at every corner.
It wasn’t until I reached the boardinghouse steps that I saw it—
A folded scrap of paper wedged under the door.
With trembling fingers, I pulled it free and opened it. Scrawled in uneven ink, only three words stared back at me:
Stay away from him.
- Writer
