Page 12 of What the Shadows Hide
Call someone about the fence along the south ridge.
Normal things people do when they’re not imagining shadows outside their window.
But the feeling remains. It’s like eyes tracing over me from somewhere unseen.
I glance at the window, but there’s nothing. Just vines stirring under the moonlight, their shadows crawling over the dirt like black lace.
“Get a grip,” I mutter. “You’re alone, not haunted.”
That truth hits harder than I expect.
Iamalone.
No family left. No friends nearby. The nearest neighbor is a half mile down the ridge—and the next closest one is the man who’s been trying to buy my land.
The Voss Estate is beautiful in daylight, but at night it feels like something else entirely. Too big, too quiet. The wide wraparound porch creaks when the wind moves through the boards, and the house groans like it’s trying to remember who lived here before me.
I stand and turn on the radio sitting on the counter, hoping for noise. A burst of static, then a familiar beat filters through the speakers.
The song, “Every Breath You Take” by the Police, flows from the speakers.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts. I snort out a shaky laugh. “Perfect timing.”
The song keeps playing, that smooth, haunting rhythm winding through the house. I tell myself it’s just a coincidence. A weird sense of humor from the universe.
Still, my eyes drift to the same window where I saw the masked man the first night.
The vines shift in the wind. Nothing more.
“See? It’s nothing,” I whisper. “It’s just a song.”
But my muscles stay tense. Ready and waiting.
When the song ends, I’m too uneasy to concentrate. I shut off the radio, recheck the locks, and head upstairs.
In my room, I turn on the TV for background noise. The flickering light feels safer somehow. Normal.
I crawl into bed, pulling the covers tightly around me.
Sleep takes its time, but when it comes, it’s worse than the silence.
I’m backin the vineyard.
Lightning rips through the sky, the vines twisting in the wind. I’m running—barefoot, breathless—mud splashing up my legs. I can feel him behind me, heavy footsteps closing in.
I glance back, and the hockey mask gleams white against the darkness.
He’s faster than he should be. Always there. Always closer.
I hit the edge of the woods, branches whipping at my face. My lungs burn. Then his hand grabs me—hard. I slam into a tree, bark biting into my shoulders.
He doesn’t speak. Just stares at me through the mask.
“Who are you?” I choke out.
