Page 5 of Her Soul to Own

Jesus.

I flip onto my stomach with a groan and bury my face in the mattress like maybe if I press hard enough, I’ll black out. No luck. My brain just cues up a close-up of the scar at the base of his neck and wonders how far down it goes.

Perfect. I’m officially hopeless.

Eventually, exhaustion drags me under like a riptide.

And that’s when the nightmare finds me.

I’m running.

Again.

The trees are unfamiliar this time, twisted, skeletal things, clawing at my skin as I tear through them. My lungs burn. My bare feet slash against hidden roots and sharp stones. Every breath is a gasp, every step a scream waiting to happen.

I can feel him behind me.

Not see. Feel.

It’s not paranoia. It’s presence. The weight of him dragging at the air and thickening it until every breath feels like I’m sucking it through tar. His footsteps are measured and heavy. Getting closer. It’s not too fast or panicked. This isn’t a desperate chase. It’s a hunt. And he’s not rushing because he knows something I’m trying to forget.

That I’ll fall.

Eventually, I always do. No matter how hard I try every time.

The trees are thinning. Branches claw at my arms, sharp leaves snapping against my skin. My lungs burn, drawing in damp night air that tastes like moss and sweat and fear. My legs are slick with blood—mine, maybe, or maybe from whatever thorned nightmare I’ve plowed through to get this far. My feet are slipping in the underbrush, too loud, tooclumsy, and he’s still behind me, breathing like this is just a walk in the woods.

Then, without warning, the clearing breaks open around me.

Moonlight floods the space like a spotlight, silvery and cruel. I stumble into it, gasping, my chest heaving like I’ve been drowning and only just surfaced. My hair clings to my face, soaked in sweat. My arms are streaked with scratches, and my thighs are smeared red with blood that shines like paint in the moonlight.

For a second, I think I’ve outrun him.

And then… he steps out from the trees.

Always the same.

That silhouette. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He moves like he’s gliding, barely rustling the underbrush, and yet the ground seems to shudder beneath him. There’s no stumble or hesitation. Just calm. Cold calm.

The moon refuses to touch his face. It glances off him, like even the light knows better. It just outlines the edges, feeding me the shape of him but never the details. No features. No eyes. Just the sense that he sees everything, and that nothing I do will matter.

That feeling crashes into me again, paralyzing me.

Ice runs down my spine. Like a scream frozen behind my teeth.

He raises one hand in a practiced motion, like he’s always done before. He closes in, but still, I can’t see his face. My arms are tied all of a sudden, and I can’t seem to move.I want to run. I want to scream. I want to wake up. But my legs won’t move.

He puts his hands on my thighs, forcing me to spread my legs as I struggle and try to kick my legs and feet at him. I try to stop him any way I can, but he doesn’t stop. He continues to do what he always does. He unbuckles his belt, the sound makingme shiver from panic and fear. That is followed by his pants, which land with a threatening thud. Finally, he puts his body’s weight on me until I feel like I’m choking, suffocating.

I scream.

A raw, tearing sound that barely makes it past my lips…

I jolt upright, choking on air like I’ve surfaced from drowning.

My heart is a jackhammer in my chest, slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Sweat slicks every inch of my skin, wet and clinging. The sheets are wrapped around my legs in a mess of knots and panic, like I tried to wrestle my way out of the dream, and I lost.

Same fucking dream. Same faceless monster.

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