Grabbing the handle, I dragged the box to the middle of the room and sank to the floor in front of it, my fingers fumbling with the zip until it gave way.
Then, one by one, I began pulling the books out, setting them aside in piles, flipping open each one, even the ones I knew had nothing to do with what I was looking for. Just in case. The scent of old paper filled the room, musty and faintly sweet, and I let myself drown in it
My fingers protested after a while, cramped from flipping, pressing and jotting. I tossed one book aside, then another, until the floor was a graveyard of open pages and paper dust. My legs had gone stiff beneath me after being folded too long in the same position. I shifted to my knees, leaned forward, and pulled another book from the box.
My vision was beginning to blur, my eyes raw and aching from overuse. I barely noticed the ache crawling up my spine until I tried to sit straighter and a sharp jolt of pain cut through my back.
I hissed and collapsed onto the floor, sprawled out amidst the books. Staring up at the ceiling, I let my arms fall to my sides, breathing in slowly, then out, like that might slow the fast-beating panic in my chest.
“There’s nothing,” I whispered to no one. “There’s absolutely no tale about a man without a shadow.”
Maybe he wasn’t written about because no one lived long enough to write about him?
That thought coiled in my stomach like a knot of cold, tightening.
Was this like some horror film? Where creatures pretended to be men, lured their prey into an enclosed space, and waited, fantasising about how they’d kill them?
I swallowed hard and sat up, brushing hair out of my face. My heart was ticking faster, and my hands were starting to tremble in that way they did when my brain had too many thoughts and no place to put them.
What if he had been stalking me just to make sure he got to kill me first? What if this house wasn’t random? What if it was his…his slaughterhouse?
He warned me not to go near The Crater. Then he saved me like some psycho villain who didn’t want anyone else to kill their prey.
Was that it?
I rose to my feet, mind racing, and stared around at the books scattered like debris from a storm.
This could be the house where he often killed them. Maybe he needed to kill them so he could wear their skin? Maybe that was why the landlord wasn’t answering anymore. He knew I wouldn’t last.
I turned to look at the door...just as a knock shook it.
“Ahh!” I screeched, instinct jerking my body backwards. I stumbled and crashed into the edge of the bed frame, arms thrown out in defence as if I expected the door to burst open.
He’s there.
The knock came again. And again.
“Open the door,” came his voice. “Is something wrong?”
Yes. Everything was wrong.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
LEAVE, I screamed in my head, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. My breath caught in my throat like it was stuck on barbed wire. My lungs wouldn’t expand.
Knock. Knock. Bang.
My chest heaved in shallow gasps. What was this? I wasn’t someone who panicked. Why couldn’t I breathe?
It was then I felt that horrible, soul-wrenching tug.
It was as though my heart was being dragged across the floor by an invisible thread, tearing muscle as it went. That horrible sensation I always felt when he was in a close distance from me. It twisted me from the inside out.
I clutched my chest, tears pouring from my eyes as I folded over, groaning. It hurt so much. My ribs screamed. My body trembled. My knees buckled, and I dropped.
It hurt. Gods.
I curled in on myself and clutched my chest. I was shaking—no, shuddering—as that awful ache intensified. It was like every part of me was being called to him against my will.
