Hosting the Dark

Eyes Watching

The next morning, I woke with a jolt, my chest heaving, the remnants of a dream dissolving into smoke. The kind of dream that slips away the instant you open your eyes, but leaves behind its shape, its aftertaste. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the dull rush of blood in my ears.

I lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, trying to separate the threads of dream from memory. But last night clung to me. Not as fragments, but as something solid, heavy. The man in black. His silence. The strange way his voice had resonated, hollow and ancient, like it had been dredged up from the dark places beneath the earth. And worst of all—how the very air had thickened around him, charged with something unseen, something that whispered without sound.

A tremor ran down my spine, sharp enough to make me pull the covers higher, as though fabric alone could shield me from memory. I cursed under my breath, frustrated at how his presence seemed to linger inside me, like a scent you can’t wash off.

At least, I thought, he hadn’t booked breakfast. That was something. Small mercies. It meant I wouldn’t have to face him this morning. No chance of catching that strange current again, that inexplicable ripple in my body when he was near.

I pushed myself upright and exhaled slowly. Routine. That’s what I need. Routine will settle me.

I padded barefoot into the bathroom, tied my hair up into a messy knot, splashed rose water across my face. The sting and perfume of it grounded me. I dressed in cozy clothes—soft leggings, a long sweater. Mundane, necessary acts. Each one a quiet little prayer to normalcy, to ordinariness.

By noon, the laundry was sorted, the dishes done, the courtyard swept. My stomach growled, demanding indulgence, comfort. Something warm and heavy, something that reminded me I was safe in my own kitchen.

Lasagna.

I pulled out the container of homemade Bolognese I had tucked in the freezer weeks ago and warmed it gently on the stove. The air filled with the rich perfume of simmered tomatoes, garlic, and red wine. It wrapped itself around me like a familiar embrace, coaxing the tension from my shoulders.

I boiled pasta sheets until tender, stirred béchamel until it was a silken cloud. Layer by layer, I built something certain, something I could control: sauce, pasta, béchamel, cheese. A snowfall of grated Grana Padano crowned it, and I slid the dish into the oven, closing the door with a sigh that felt almost sensual in its relief.

While it baked, I carried the warm basket of clean laundry into the courtyard. The late sun stretched across the walls, bathing everything in gold. My bare feet pressed into the smooth stone, and for a brief moment, I almost convinced myself that everything was ordinary again.

I pegged each piece of clothing to the line, one after another. The rhythm soothed me. Shirt. Clip. Socks. Clip. Linen. Clip.

And then it came.

That prickling. That unmistakable pressure against my skin, as though someone’s gaze pressed directly into me.

I froze with a blouse in my hands. My head turned slowly, my heart already quickening.

The courtyard was empty. Still. Only the laundry fluttering softly in the breeze.

But I felt it.

I knew it.

My eyes lifted to the sky, searching for the source.

There.

Perched on the electric wire was a bird. A large one, its feathers dark as midnight, with an oily sheen that seemed to drink the light instead of reflecting it. Crow. Raven. It didn’t matter.

What mattered were the eyes.

Glowing.

Red.

Not the red of reflection, not the way animal eyes shine when caught in headlights. These burned. Like embers smoldering behind a veil of feathers.

It was staring at me.

Unblinking.

Something old stirred inside me at the sight—something primal, wordless. My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment I felt my chest hollow out, as though the ground beneath me had dropped away.

It wasn’t fear of death. No, this was something deeper. The fear of being unmade.

“It’s just a bird,” I whispered, my voice soft, as if not to disturb it. “Just a bird.”

But even as the words left my lips, they tasted like lies.

I forced myself to turn back to the laundry, to keep moving. Pegging sheets. Folding towels. Mundane movements to anchor me.

“Marina,” I muttered to myself, “you need to stop watching horror movies before bed.”

And yet the sensation didn’t lift. The weight of its stare clung to me, unyielding. My hands shook as I clipped the last corner of a sheet, my fingers fumbling with the pin.

When I dared a glance back—

It hadn’t moved.

It simply watched.

Not twitching, not restless, the way birds usually are. Still. Focused. Like it was studying me, recording me.

Something inside me tightened. Coiled.

This wasn’t just a bird. I knew it in my bones.

It was something else. Something that should not have had eyes like that.

The oven timer beeped, shrill and sudden.

I dropped the laundry pin and fled inside, heart hammering like a rabbit’s.

The kitchen was filled with the warm, decadent aroma of baked cheese and sauce. I pulled the lasagna out, steam curling like a halo around it. The sight of it—the solidity, the weight—was grounding.

I plated a portion, forked into it greedily. Hot, gooey layers, rich meat and creamy béchamel. I ate quickly, as if I could bury the memory of glowing eyes beneath pasta and cheese.

For a few minutes, it almost worked.

Almost.

Later, I returned to the courtyard, calmer now, to collect the laundry.

And froze.

It was still there.

Not on the wire this time.

Closer.

In the tree.

Its crimson eyes fixed on me with the same terrible stillness.

Something in me unraveled. Not from fear of violence—not exactly. But from the way its gaze seemed to see me, past my skin, past my words, to the marrow of me.

It was the fear of being known. Of having nothing hidden, nothing safe inside myself.

I understood, in that trembling silence: something had shifted since he arrived. Since the man in black had walked through my gate, carrying silence like a weapon. Since I’d seen those same burning eyes behind a curtain.

The air felt different now. Thicker. More alive.

My thoughts blurred at the edges. My emotions tangled into knots I couldn’t undo. And beneath all that, something darker pulsed.

Heat.

At the memory of his voice—low, resonant, echoing like a hymn sung in a cave. It had slipped beneath my skin last night, curling into places I hadn’t wanted touched.

And now, shamefully, my body remembered.

Arousal and dread coiled together, silk through thorns. My thighs pressed together instinctively. My breath hitched, soft, unwilling.

“Marina,” I whispered harshly, “stop. This is madness.”

But my body ached despite the words.

I needed an anchor. A tether. Something that would pull me back into the ordinary.

And that’s when Thomas came to mind.

Thomas, three years younger. Easy smile. Once a friend, until friendship blurred for him into want. I’d pulled away. But he was still nearby. Familiar. Safe.

Right now, I didn’t need want.

I needed sanity.

And I had lasagna to spare.

Maybe if I invited him over… maybe, for a little while, I could feel normal again.

Maybe I could remember who I was—before the eyes. Before the feathers.

Before him.