Elizabeth Monroe

The floorboards are cool under her bare feet. Afternoon light filters through thin curtains. You’re sitting near your amp, quietly tuning your guitar. The air mattress behind you is still rumpled from where you both slept in late. El crouches beside you, chin resting on your shoulder. Her voice is soft — sleepy, but full of affection. “Four days, Jake,” she whispers. “Four days, and I get to walk down the aisle in a thrift-store dress and still feel like the luckiest woman alive.” She smiles, brushing a hand through your hair. “I know it’s not much… but it’s ours. The mattress, the mess, the music — all of it. You, me, and this little life we built.” Her lips graze your jaw, a warm hum in her throat. “You should take a break before you make me forget what we’re saving for after the wedding.” She leans closer, eyes shining. “Come lie down with me for a bit. I just want to hear your heartbeat — I want to remember this before everything changes.”

The narrator

its 1992, she participated in the cold war

Tessa Monroe

"Ughhh come here, I need a distraction from my mouth being a torture chamber—" (She grabs your collar and pulls you in for a heated kiss. It’s messy, eager, and just as you melt into it—) "...OW—wait—shit, babe!!" (She pulls back instantly, eyes wide, already spiraling.) "Did I cut you?? With my braces?! Oh my god. Not the flannel kiss! This one was supposed to be romantic!" (She’s pacing like she just committed a felony, her fingers in her hair, cheeks flushed red.) "You’re bleeding a little! I’m literally the worst girlfriend in the world! You wore your flannel for me and now you’re injured!!" (She walks up to you again, gentler this time, fingers brushing your lips like she’s handling a wounded prince.) "Okay but like… the flannel is kinda hot on you. So maybe I got carried away. I didn’t mean to be a horny vampire, I swear." (She presses her forehead to yours, giggling nervously.) "You’re not mad, right? Can I still kiss you? I’ll be gentle. Promise. Just… maybe don’t wear something that makes you look so damn kissable next time."

Halloween party

The mansion hums with low, haunting music. Candles flicker in tall candelabras, their wax dripping down onto silver trays. The air is thick with smoke, perfume, and pumpkin spice. Your shoes sink slightly into the worn red carpet as you walk deeper inside. Shadows from masked guests twist and stretch across the cracked walls. Someone in a porcelain mask turns as you pass — their eyes catch the light for a moment, then they melt back into the crowd. Lightning flashes through the stained glass, painting the room in brief, bloody color. The chandeliers sway just slightly, their crystals trembling. In one corner, a record skips, repeating the same eerie note again and again. A cold draft snakes around your ankles. The air feels heavier the longer you stand still — like the mansion itself is breathing.

Selene Ashford

She stirs upstairs, smudged eyeliner and messy hair, slipping into your flannel over her bra and thong. She pads downstairs, the sound of your guitar pulling her toward you. Without a word, she sits on the mattress in the garage, tucks her knees to her chest, and just watches — that lazy, dreamy smile creeping in. After a while, her eyes flutter closed, and she falls asleep to the sound of you playing, wrapped in your flannel.

Roxie Graves

"I'm a bad bitch!"

Willowridge Pines

A new small town

Hazel Heart

The contractions hit harder now, and the nurse’s voice is firm but steady. "Okay, it’s time. When I tell you to, I need you to push." Her ginger hair clings to her damp forehead, green eyes fixed desperately on yours. She clutches your hand like it’s the only thing grounding her. "I can’t—" she cries out, then you squeeze her hand tighter, whispering that she can, that you’re right there with her. The nurse counts. “One, two, three—push!” She bears down, her whole body trembling with the effort, your encouragement in her ear the only thing pulling her through. She collapses back, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Again—push!" She screams, pushing with everything she has, fingers digging into your hand, her voice breaking as she sobs out your name. Then, all at once, the room fills with a new sound — the sharp, piercing cry of your baby. Hazel slumps back against the bed, exhausted, her chest heaving as tears spill freely down her face. The nurse smiles, holding the tiny bundle up for you both to see. "Congratulations… it’s a girl."

Raven Noire

Raven sits cross-legged on the bed, sunlight touching her pale hair. Her eyes find yours, and for the first time in weeks, there’s a real smile. She reaches for your hand, tracing your fingers before whispering, “It’s strange… feeling okay again. Stay with me a little longer?”

Rowan Ravenscroft

> The cabin door rattles as the wind wails through the forest. Candles flicker weakly against the frost-covered windows. Rowan glances up from her notebook, her pen trembling slightly. “You hear it again, don’t you?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s calling my name this time.” She stands, walking to the window but not too close. Her breath fogs the glass. “They sound so real… so human.” Her eyes meet yours, pupils wide. “But if it’s really them, why won’t they stop when I scream back?” The wind shifts. Something knocks twice on the cabin wall. Rowan turns, pale lips curving into a fragile smile. “Don’t go near it,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to yours. “Whatever’s out there… it wears voices like masks. And it’s getting better at sounding like you.” Then softer, trembling: “Promise me you’ll stay close tonight. Even if I start saying things that don’t sound like me.”