Page 15 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)
Fourteen
S aturday drifts by in a haze, each tick of the clock heightening my anticipation for tomorrow afternoon with an almost desperate longing.
At my writing desk, I lean over my laptop, a bowl of ramen resting in the palm of one hand and chopsticks held in my other.
The words refuse to flow, and my blinking cursor continues to mock me.
The allure of Tristan and the disturbing atmosphere of his home intertwine, clouding my thoughts.
One might imagine inspiration would blossom in such a mysterious place, and while it originally had, my fears have twisted into vivid nightmares, leaving me hesitant to delve into anything remotely otherworldly.
Exercising my imagination is usually my strong suit, yet lately, it feels like a double-edged sword, cutting deep as I wrestle with my thoughts. The shadows—mere figments of my anxiety—stretch and twist, taking on shapes of little horrors that dance just beyond the periphery of my vision.
As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, a haunting glow fills my room, casting long, golden beams that seem to battle the encroaching night.
As the shadows stretch, I remind myself they are nothing more than darkness—and yet a part of me trembles at the thought, sensing the terrifying potential lurking within the blackened corners of my mind.
While logically, I know better, my imagination seems in overdrive to scare me, conjuring a flurry of fears that chill me to the bone.
Tristan is a young, hauntingly attractive man with a passion for science and a deep affinity for the beach.
I picture him instead in a cozy beach house, its walls painted a sun-faded white, weathered by salty air and time.
The sound of waves crashing gently against the shore would be a constant lullaby, inviting him to escape into nature from his books and science projects.
Sunlight would filter through large, open windows, illuminating the rooms with a warm glow and cast playful shadows across the wooden floor.
The air is filled with the scent of sea breeze and coconut rather than old parchment and dusty shelves, with shells and sand scattered about, remnants of countless days spent by the shore.
A hammock would sway lazily between two palm trees outside, and a collection of surfboards would rest against the side of the house, ready for his next adventure.
This beach oasis seemed far more suited to him.
Instead, he lives here in this creepy old house dulled by age, with weathered wood that creaks underfoot and walls that whisper as you pass.
Shadows cling to every corner, dark and unyielding, as if something sinister lurks just beyond the reach of the light.
The air is always heavy with a musty scent, mingling with the faint traces of salt from the nearby ocean, a constant reminder of the world outside that feels both tantalizingly close and eerily distant.
Crooked trees loom outside, their twisted branches scratching against the windows like skeletal fingers reaching for something that isn’t there.
The atmosphere is thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle or groan.
In this place, the call of the ocean is overshadowed by the haunting presence in every shadow, making it hard to escape the feeling you are not alone.
I can easily envision a man like Mortimer living in this foreboding house—a figure who might very well be carved from the shadows themselves, dressed in tailored suits that cling to him like a second skin.
I tilt my head, considering Mortimer. I wonder how old he is.
No number I try attaching seems to fit. Mortimer, I conclude, isas close as someone can get to being timeless—not because of some lasting trait of goodness, but because of the sense that follows him that the world outside long ago forgot him.
But Tristan is a world apart; he’s not a relic of the past. He’s youthful, sun-kissed, and muscular, bursting with life and energy that feels almost out of place.
Where Mortimer might evoke a sense of dread, Tristan brings life to these decaying walls, a jarring contrast that leaves me wondering how he thrives in a space so deeply disheveled.
Setting my bowl of ramen on the desk beside my laptop, I look toward the portrait sitting over the fireplace across the room.
As the last light of day wanes, the woman in the painting appears almost to stir, her gaze unblinkingly fixed on me.
I can’t help but think of the painting of Tristan I saw upstairs.
I’m still not quite certain if it was real or a figment of my imagination.
Compelled by curiosity, I rise and make my way to the canvas, wondering if it too carries a hidden inscription in its gilded frame.
It’s covered in a familiar coating of dust but lacks the words I’m looking for.
It’s just a frame. As I look up, I see the painting is chipping slightly, showing its age.
It’s worn and old, much like the rest of the house.
The woman stares down at me with a sad type of stare that tugs at my heartstrings.
Disappointed, I return to my desk to bring my dishes to the kitchen sink, the remnants of soup sloshing gently in the bowl as I walk.
The house creaks in the darkness, but a gentle light streams in from the dining room, where chatter drifts through the hallway—Mrs. Wong and Gisella’s voices are soft, a comforting presence as a reminder of life.
I swing open the door, and the clatter of the bowl meeting the metal sink pierces the silence of the kitchen.
As I rinse it under the cool water, the last traces of broth spiral away, disappearing down the drain before I scrub it clean.
After drying my hands with a dish towel, I return to my room and pull my pajamas from the wardrobe.
The hallway stretches before me, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my feet, echoing a tune both familiar and disquieting as I walk.
I step into the bathroom, where the air is thick with the comforting scents of sweets and florals, growing more pronounced as I close the door behind me.
I turn on the shower, and steam rises in delicate tendrils.
As I shed my clothes, I feel the day's tension dissolve, ready to be washed away as the hot water cascades down my body. Taking a deep breath, I embrace the heat, letting it soothe my frazzled mind.
After finishing my shower, my body relaxed and my mind calmed, I dry myself off and wrap my hair in a towel. Donning my pajamas, I retreat to my room, where the bed beckons with its plush sheets. I close the door behind me, locking it securely to guard against the shadow monsters beyond.
At my desk, I close out the word document and switch to a streaming service, eager to escape into the world of my latest binge watch before drifting off to sleep, trying to distract myself from my looming anxiety about tomorrow afternoon.
After pulling back the sheets of my bed, I set my laptop down, but my attention is drawn to the door as footsteps and muffled voices filter through the wood.
“Dr. Shadow—you’re early this evening.” Mortimer’s voice is laced with unmistakable tension.
“I’d like to meet her.” The other voice feels both familiar and distant. Is it Tristan? My brow furrows as I strain to listen, uncertainty swirling in my chest as my heart thumps rapidly.
“Meet who?”
“You know who, Mortimer. Don’t play games with me.”
The tone is commanding and rough. It can’t be Tristan.
“I’d really caution against it, sir?—”
The floorboards betray me and groan beneath my weight as I lean closer to the door, straining to catch the hushed whispers from the hallway.
A gasp slips from my lips, a reveal of my presence, and in an instant, I retreat, scrambling back to the safety of my bed, my heart pounding like a caged animal.