He’s watching you again. You can feel it, like a prickle to skin, as true as the air you breathe—he’s nearby, somewhere.

His stare is a weight, a chain rattling against your bones. It’s midnight and the country is quiet—it’s unusual, to not hear the owls, or the crickets.

The country is known for horror, you should’ve remembered that.

When you look up, for the first time, he’s right in front of the window, peering down through the glass. The longer you stare, the more he changes.

“Run.“