Chapter 9 | Terror
808 Words
Leona’s POV
I bolt upright, a scream ripped from my throat like I’m running for my life. My chest heaves, lungs burning, heartbeat pounding in my ears like a war drum.
The room is swallowed by darkness. My hands clutch the sheets, soaked with sweat, trembling uncontrollably. Tears carve rivers down my face, hot and relentless.
But the nightmare won’t loosen its grip.
Roy’s rancid breath. His cruel, unforgiving eyes. The cold, unforgiving concrete of that goddamn storage room.
Years have passed, but it feels like I’m still trapped in that hell, suffocating beneath the weight of it all.
“Leona? Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Marion’s voice slices through the haze, gentle but edged with alarm.
She stands in the doorway, haloed by moonlight, her nightgown rumpled and soft. Clutching a blanket like a lifeline, worry creases her face.
Marion the woman who gave me a safe place to land now shaken awake by my screaming at four in the damn morning.
I swipe at my burning eyes, trying to pull myself back from the edge.
“Nothing,” I choke out, voice cracked and raw. “Just a bad dream. Sorry, Marion… didn’t mean to wake you.”
She pads closer, slippers whispering on the hardwood floor. The bed creaks as she sits beside me, warm hand resting steady on my shoulder.
“You sure you’re okay? You’re shaking.”
I nod, forcing a fragile smile that feels more like a mask. “Yeah. It’s fine. Happens… rarely.”
A lie. The nightmares haunt me every damn night since that nightmare of a home.
“I’m really sorry.” My voice is small, barely more than a whisper.
Her eyes soften, searching mine like she’s trying to find the broken pieces inside.
“You don’t need to apologize. I just want you to be alright.”
She hesitates, pats my hand gently, then stands and slips out, the door clicking shut with a quiet finality.
The silence that follows is suffocating, thick and heavy.
My heart pounds an erratic rhythm, shadows in the corners seem to breathe with the echo of my nightmare.
Sleep is dead.
I glance at the clock: 4:03 AM.
No shift at the café. No reason to stay trapped in this room, this suffocating box of memories.
I throw off the covers, cold air biting at my skin as I grab my hoodie and sweatpants from the chair.
Hands still trembling, I pull them on the soft fabric a faint comfort against my clammy skin.
I find my headphones on the nightstand, plug them into my phone, and scroll to Duke Dumont’s Ocean Drive.
The smooth, haunting beat fills my ears.
Sneakers laced, I creep downstairs, careful not to wake Marion again.
Outside, the night air is sharp and cool, the neighborhood wrapped in silence but alive with distant hums and whispers.
Stars sprinkle the sky, fresh-cut grass scents the air, but there’s something else a prickling at the back of my neck like unseen eyes burning into my skin.
It’s been weeks now, since therapy started with Dr. Nikolai Volkov.
I try to tell myself it’s paranoia, my past poisoning my present.
But the feeling’s not fading.
I glance over my shoulder empty sidewalks, shadowed yards. Nothing but silence.
Still, my pulse rockets.
I turn up the music, drowning out the gnawing unease.
My footsteps scuff soft against pavement as I circle the neighborhood toward the small park’s open space.
The prickling sharpens.
Like a thousand invisible needles stabbing into my back.
I stop beneath a streetlamp, breath hitching.
There just beyond the light’s reach a shifting shadow moves.
My stomach clenches.
Not my imagination. Someone’s there.
I yank off my headphones.
Music cuts out.
The silence roars.
My eyes scan frantically.
The shadow vanishes swallowed by the dark like it was never there.
My heart hammers, pain shooting through my chest.
No time to think.
I run.
Sneakers slap pavement, breath ragged and raw, pounding against my ribs.
Marion’s house is only a few blocks, but it feels miles away in this suffocating nightmare.
The streets are deathly quiet, empty as a tomb.
Every rustle of leaves sends me flinching, every wind whisper feels like a threat.
I keep looking back, expecting eyes, footsteps something.
Nothing but darkness and my own terror.
At the porch, fumbling with the spare key, my hands shake so bad the key nearly slips through my fingers.
I shove the door open, stumble inside, and slam it behind me, locking it fast.
Lean against the door, gasping for air. Legs shaking like jelly.
The house is still.
Marion still sleeps, thank God.
I don’t want her to see me like this.
Broken. Shattered. Falling apart over a shadow.
I slide down, back against the door, knees pulled tight to my chest the only armor I know.
- Writer
