Page 40 of His To Erase

Ani

Iofficially have the next two weeks off work, which feels borderline illegal considering I haven’t had a single day off since I moved here. I know I should use the time to figure some shit out—start looking at places, make a plan—but it’s late, and I just got home from a double. My brain’s mush.

I’ll deal with it in the morning.

But the second I shut the door behind me, I know something’s wrong. There’s nothing louder than silence when you know you’re not alone.

It’s not obvious—no broken window, no door ajar, no horror-movie shadow in the hallway. But the air…is off.

I lock the deadbolt, then check it again just to be sure, and my fingers hover on the chain for a second too long, like that flimsy little piece of metal could hold back whatever’s pressing against the edge of my sanity.

The lights flip on like normal, everything looks the same.

Mostly.

I drop my keys in the bowl, kicking off my boots—and freeze. The counter is too clean. Something is missing. I can’t put my finger on what it is right now, but I’m certain something’s gone.

I shake the thought, but my body doesn’t buy it. The hairs on my arms stand up anyway. That old, familiar static crackles at the back of my neck, warning me that something’s off, even if my brain wants to rationalize it.

I start checking rooms, but everything looks untouched. Nothing screams break-in. Nothing feels obviously disturbed, so why won’t my heart slow down?

I circle back to the couch, lowering myself slowly, keeping my eyes locked on the door like I’m waiting for it to explode open.

Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up to someone screaming my name. My eyes fly open and my pulse slams into my throat.

I click the lamp on in a flash and it floods the room with light—but there’s no one there. Just shadows and silence. Except something is off. I feel it, heavy and humming just beneath the surface of the quiet.

I look over to grab the blanket I threw over the back of the couch before I left—only it’s not there anymore. No, it’s folded into a perfect square, sitting on the cushion next to me like a calling card.

My stomach lurches. I didn’t fold that. I haven’t even touched it. At least—I don’t remember touching it.

God, did I?

No, I didn’t.

So either I’m losing my mind… or someone was here and they were careful enough not to wake me. Am I crazy? Maybe I did fold it?

I’m up in seconds, grabbing a knife, and checking the door like it might give me a straight answer, but it’s still locked and the chain is still firmly in place. I move fast now, trying not to panic, checking the cabinets, the closets, and even under the bed.

I check behind the shower curtain—because yeah, that’s not exactly how I want to die. Naked and blinded with shampoo in my eyes… but there’s nothing.

That’s the part that scares me most.

I grab my phone off the counter, yanking the charger out of the wall like it personally betrayed me, and I have two missed calls.

One from Sarah and the other from Frank.

There’s also a message from him, but I can’t open it because if it’s sweet, I’ll let myself believe him again.

And if it’s annoying, I’ll throw the phone through the fucking window.

Neither option ends well.

My thumb hovers over Sarah’s name, knowing she’s fast asleep like a normal person, but I tap it anyway. It rings once, then goes straight to voicemail.

I guess when you’re unraveling at two in the goddamn morning, the universe makes damn sure you’re alone for it.

I stare at the screen.

Steven’s number is there from when I called myself earlier. As if I needed a reminder that he’s now tangled in this mess too.

My hands are shaking. I don’t want to need him, and I really don’t want to owe him, but I also don’t want to sit here wondering if I’m about to be the next dateline episode. I still don’t type anything, because what the hell would I even say?

Hey, I think someone rearranged my shit while I was unconscious and now I’m spiraling—can you come be scarier than my stalker, please?

He also could be lying about the stalker thing. Yeah, no.

He’d probably laugh, then say something smug, unbearable and, infuriatingly, right. And I don’t know what’s worse—being alone... or being alone with him.

I toss my phone onto the couch like it’s his fault I feel like this.

“I’m fine,” I mutter to myself. “We’re fine.”

My legs feel like they’re moving without me as I push up off the cushions.

I head for the bedroom like it’s a battlefield instead of the one place that I should feel safe.

The lights are still off, and everything looks the same.

Boring, even. The kind of boring I’d sell my soul to believe in right now.

I cross the room and step into the bathroom like I’m trying to prove a point. Maybe if I just go through the motions of getting ready for bed—brush my teeth, wash my face—I can convince myself I’m being dramatic. That my brain’s just playing trauma Mad Libs again.

I flip on the light—my toothbrush is gone. It’s not on the sink, not in the cup where I always leave it, and not on the counter. It’s not even on the floor.

I turn slowly, dread crawling up my spine like a spider, and freeze in the doorway. My toothbrush is on my pillow. Placed dead center like someone wanted me to find it there.

My stomach flips, then nosedives.

Is this some kind of sick fucking joke?

That’s not just someone messing with me.

That’s someone in my space, in my bedroom, in my head.

I take one step back, then another, bumping into the wall and I am now one thousand percent certain that someone was for sure in my fucking apartment.

They stood in my bedroom, they touched my stuff, and I don’t realize I’ve started crying until a tear hits my collarbone.

My body betrays me in the worst way—ripping through the armor I’ve spent years welding shut, breaking past every defense I swore was unshakable.

My feet are flying across the floor as I rush back into the living room, grabbing my phone off the couch like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and this time… I don’t hesitate.

I call Sarah and it goes straight to fucking voicemail, again. Figures. She’s probably asleep, drooling on her pillow like a well-adjusted adult with no one breaking into her apartment to rearrange her toothbrush.

I don’t leave a message because the only thing I’d say is, Hey, if I end up on a true crime podcast tomorrow, you have full permission to use a hot photo of me for the thumbnail.

Nope. Can’t do it.

My thumb hovers over Steven’s name again, and just his name alone makes something in my chest tighten, like I’m about to make a deal I won’t come back from. I stare at it for a breath. Then two. Then three.

Calling feels like too much, so I type a message instead—because it’s safer to ask for help in words I can still delete.

Me: If this is you, you win. I’m freaked the fuck out. If it’s not you, then you’re the only bastard I know who can deal with someone worse. What do I do?

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, but the second my thumb leaves the screen, my knees buckle. I slide to the floor, keeping my back against the couch, and my heart pounds in a rhythm that doesn’t even feel like mine.

This isn’t just some twisted prank anymore. Maybe it never was.

I stare at the screen, willing it to light up. Waiting for those little dots to show up and save me from whatever the fuck this is. But there’s nothing. Just black glass and the sound of my own breathing, ragged and uneven. Tears are sliding down my cheeks, and my breathing picks up.

Of course he’s not answering, it’s the middle of the night. I’m sitting here, folded into myself on the floor like a child with a nightmare, clutching my phone like it’s a lifeline instead of the evidence that I’m losing it.

I open my phone again, just to make sure the message sent. The silence starts pressing in, and I curl my knees to my chest and try to breathe, but my lungs are paper. The edges of the room tilt or maybe that’s me. I can’t tell anymore.

God, I’m tired of feeling like this.

I try to think—really think. To make my brain slow down long enough to separate reality from paranoia, from exhaustion, from whatever the hell this is spiraling into, but calm won’t come. The more I chase it, the faster it slips through my fingers like water I was never meant to hold.

And then—without warning—I’m hit with something I don’t have a name for.

There’s a white wall, and someone’s yelling. Maybe my name. Maybe not. It’s muffled, like I’m underwater.

I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to see stars, like pressure might push it all back where it came from. But it’s too late. The memory doesn’t play like a movie. It shreds its way out—jagged and violent—ripping through me with too much sensation and not enough shape.

There’s so many fucking hands. Gripping and pulling. My legs are on cold tile, sticking to the floor. I can feel my pulse hammering and my throat closes just thinking about it. There’s pressure in my chest again and I know that feeling, I’ve felt it before. I felt it that night.

I hear a man’s voice cut through the fog. It’s accented and unfamiliar, but not completely. It doesn’t belong in the scene I remember, but now it’s there like it’s always been part of the story. “It’s already done. She’s his problem now.”

I lurch forward as acid creeps up my throat, sharp and sudden, and I clamp a hand over my mouth before I ruin the floor.

I count backwards…Five. Four. Three. Two—I can’t even make it to one before the breath shoves itself back into my lungs.