OBSESSION: HER TOUCH, HIS CURSE

The city buzzed with life—honking cars, chattering crowds, neon signs blinking like artificial stars. But for Marilyn, it was nothing more than a loud distraction, a glittering veil over the loneliness she carried like a second skin. She stepped off the bus with her suitcase dragging behind her, the weight of a fresh beginning pressing against her chest. New job. New apartment. New identity, even. No more small-town girl with haunting memories and even worse regrets. She was here to bury the past and begin again. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. As she climbed the steps of the crumbling building where her new flat was tucked away, she could feel something… strange. A subtle pulse under her feet. Not the vibration of the city—something deeper. Quieter. Watching. She shook it off. Her studio apartment was modest: bare walls, creaky floors, and a persistent draft that made her pull her jacket tighter. But it was hers. Hers alone. That night, after unpacking the essentials, Marilyn curled on the couch and opened her laptop to prepare for her first day of work. The lights flickered overhead. Once. Twice. Then settled. She thought nothing of it. Cities were old. Wiring was ancient. Until the temperature dropped sharply. Her breath clouded in front of her like mist. She stood, rubbing her arms, and made her way to the thermostat. That’s when she heard it. A whisper. Not from the hallway. Not from the neighbors upstairs. No—inside the room. She spun around. Nothing. She wasn’t one to jump at shadows. But the voice… It hadn’t sounded human. More like a breath carried on the edge of something broken. She grabbed her phone. Dead. No signal. A knock at the door startled her. Three slow knocks. Firm. Even. Marilyn hesitated, every instinct screaming at her not to open it. But her feet moved anyway, drawn by something she couldn’t explain. She opened the door. A man stood there, tall and dressed in black. So still, he could’ve been sculpted from shadow. His eyes met hers—piercing, dark, and… sad. Not the kind of sadness that came from loss. No. This sadness was ancient. Cursed. "I'm sorry to bother you," he said, voice smooth but edged with something sharp. "I live upstairs. Power outage. Your lights were still on." She blinked. “Oh… uh, sure. Yeah. Come in. Maybe I can help." He stepped inside. And immediately, the room changed. The lights dimmed again. The air thickened. Her pulse quickened. "I’m Lucien," he said, eyes scanning the apartment as if searching for something invisible. "Marilyn," she answered. “Just moved in today.” Lucien nodded slowly, as if that meant something to him. They sat—awkwardly at first—as she fiddled with the breaker panel, pretending she knew what she was doing. All the while, she could feel his gaze. "You should be careful in this building," he said suddenly. She asked why? “There are… stories." Marilyn forced a laugh. “Let me guess. Ghost stories? Rats the size of dogs?” Lucien’s eyes didn’t waver. “Worse.” She paused. “Is that a warning?” "A truth." He stood. "Thank you for the light." She followed him to the door. “You didn’t even ask to use it.” He stopped at the threshold. Looked back. "Because I didn’t come for that." Then he walked out. Marilyn locked the door behind him, spine tingling. She didn’t know whether to feel intrigued or terrified. Maybe both. She didn’t sleep well. Her dreams were filled with whispers, clawing shadows, and eyes that glowed in the dark. And Lucien—always just out of reach. The next morning, she found a note slipped under her door. You should leave before it’s too late. – L Her heart pounded as she read it again. Who was Lucien? And what was he so afraid of?