Page 9 of Bewitched (Hexes and Fangs: Holiday Editions #1)

F orty-eight hours have passed.

Resting between the black sheets, my eyes are glued to the ceiling.

Hex’s cold bones are rubbing against my cheek.

Why, you wonder… we share the same pillow.

Yes, I am sleeping alongside a collection of wiggling bones every night.

My finger scratches the smooth skull, right above where his little nose once was.

He purrs; the bones in his neck vibrate with joy.

Quickly, he springs up, eyeing the window and unveiling his fangs.

Arching its spine, the hiss itself is a clear signal of distress.

I lift myself on my elbows, and the shady outline of something on my windowsill disappears.

"Don’t worry…" I stand up and scoop Hex up into my arms "… they can’t get in.

" We walk to the window, and I pull aside the sheer drapes. Outside, the full moon casts an eerie glow over the misty street. Twisted, skeletal trees claw at the sky, a sudden gust of wind rustles the leaves, dancing under its cold rhythm, carrying whispers with it. A dense fog rolls in, swallowing the dim streetlights and turning familiar shapes into ominous shadows. The distant toll of a broken church bell echoes. It’s midnight.

Just for a second—I catch a glimpse of a shadow darting between the trees, elongated fingers curling around the trunk before disappearing into the night. I put Hex on the bed and take my knife from the drawer.

The dark floorboard creaks beneath my bare feet.

Ahead, the darkness is alive with shadows, stretching and curling in unnatural shapes.

Something scuttles in the corner—too fast to see, but loud enough to make me turn my head.

I rush to the entrance and turn the key in the lock.

Hex runs between my legs out into the street.

The pavement beneath my feet is rough, uneven and cold, draining the warmth straight from my skin.

The silence is suffocating—no distant traffic, no rustling leaves now, just the eerie weight of the night pressing on my shoulders.

Streetlights flicker weakly, casting warped silhouettes that seem to stretch toward me, shifting when I am not looking.

The air is thick, carrying the scent of damp earth, smoke and something metallic.

I know I am not alone. The feeling of unseen eyes settles on me, heavy, watching from the shadows.

Hex brushes its ribs against my ankle. Cautious, spine arched.

"Do you see someone?"

He replies with a negative nod.

A stillness so odd is sealing my ears. A shape shifting too subtly for my logic to grasp.

"I can feel you!" I yell into the emptiness.

Hex takes off and runs inside the house, and I am left hanging with whatever is out here. Rain starts to dribble over my body. I hide inside.

The house groans under the weight of the storm outside, rain tapping against the windows in an impatient rhythm.

The dim hallway stretches ahead. The door of my room slams shut, but I never heard footsteps entering.

That’s the worst part. I know someone is inside now.

A distant creak. The floorboards upstairs groan under the shifting weight.

The presence isn’t just another intruder.

It moves like it belongs here, like it’s been waiting.

There’s a familiarity in its steps, its scent.

I catch a glimpse of it in the dim lighting—its figure stretches and wraps in the shadows, something not quite right about the way it holds itself. Like the shadows and darkness itself belongs to him.

"Hide or seek?"

The voice. Quiet, sickly sweet, curling around the words in a way that sends ice down my spine. He knows me. Not just that I am here—but who I am. A sudden shift. Its head jerks toward me, a movement too sharp, too unnatural. Then, ever so slightly... He smiles.

The game starts without warning. I am not supposed to be a victim. He is supposed to be my toy. I run upstairs. I press myself into a closet, hands clamped over my mouth to suppress the uneven rhythm of my breath. Silence hangs heavy. Then… the creak of my door opening.

His voice—low, steady, amused. "Come out, come out…

" The footsteps stop. A low chuckle. "You can’t hide forever.

You played so well today." I squeeze my eyes shut, willing to disappear into the shadows. The closet door is thin. Too thin. I swear I can feel the coldness of his presence just beyond it, lingering in my room. His hand is grazing against the wall, fingertips trailing along the surface like it’s savoring every inch of the space.

A knock. Gently. Playful. Right against the closed door.

"You know what is the best part?" His voice tilts with wicked delight. "You’ll come for me, nightshade. And I’ll be waiting."

The presence vanishes the moment I focus on it.

A predator crafted from darkness itself wants me.

This is the light of protection, of purity. As it covers the darkness, so it brings safety to me.

I run back down and seal the door tight. I anoint the doors and windows with the mixture of boiling water, fennel, oats, pine and sage. I keep my eyes wide open through the night.

Where light dwells, all darkness flees. Spirit move away from me. This home is mine, I will not fear, your presence is not welcome here.

"Is the maze finished?"

I stir the hot coffee with a teaspoon. The silver glides through the dark liquid, creating slow, swirling patterns as steam coils upward, curling and fading into the air. The rich scent of roasted beans, warm and earthy, fills the space.

"Chocolate grazed cocks."

I raise my eyes to Zilla laughing at me.

Her hair, like burning embers, is cascading over her shoulders.

Still draped in her midnight purple robe, she tops off my pumpkin-shaped mug with more coffee.

"Happy to see cocks attracted your attention…

" She walks to the counter and grabs a plate with two cinnamon rolls on it.

I spring to life as soon as she lays—loudly—the plate in front of me.

"What?"

"What happened last night?"

I sink my teeth into one of the rolls; the dough burns my tongue.

"Another stalker…"

She hops up on the counter. "Neo…"

"I know…"

"At least the last one is dead… dead."

"No… this one is different…"

"Different?"

"Scary but he keeps his distance."

She arches an eyebrow at me. "And the vampire?"

I take another bite. "I’ll thank him for his service." I can’t let her know he is allowed into the house at night, as he wishes.

She laughs. "I know you too well… with your knife?"

I gulp down some coffee and wink at her.

"Holy shit!" Her laughter spreads throughout the whole house. "You’ll never see him again."

I raise my shoulder and stand up with the mug perched between my lips.

"Oh, you have another gift at the door. After the last one, I’m steering clear of your shit for good."

Each step toward the front door feels heavier than the last. "The maze is finished." I tell Zilla. My fingers twitch as they reach for the handle. Placed on the ‘trick or treat’ doormat, the elegant black box is bigger than the last one. The wind slowly touching its ebony ribbon.

Shaking hands grip the edges of the box and walking with it turns an ordinary stroll into a balancing act.

It is heavy. My shoulders pull slightly forward to counter the weight.

Too afraid to shift my body too fast. I put it on the kitchen table.

I hesitate at the edges now, tracing the flaps but not quite gripping them.

The box sits in front of me—silent—but my mind twists the curiosity into horrors.

My fingers find the soft, satiny ribbon, its texture smooth against my skin.

I give it a gentle tug, watching as the bow unravels with an elegant ease—first one loop slipping free, then the other.

The black ribbon releases its grip, cascading onto the table.

The lid of the box now sits unfastened, waiting.

I lift it slowly, the faint whisper of cardboard shifting fills my ears.

I look inside—layers of raven-shade tissue rustling softly as I push them aside.

"Any body parts?" Zilla enters into the kitchen with her hand covering her mouth.

"It’s a jar…" I lift the big glass container into the air. It doesn’t quite match the other ones, but it is bigger, the vintage design making it exceptional. And I know exactly who sent it. He is playing.