Chapter 4: Not Her

Chapter 4: Not Her

It wasn't a sound that woke her. It was the cold. A deep, unnatural chill that had nothing to do with the night air and everything to do with the violation of her space. It settled over her like a shroud, and her eyes fluttered open into the oppressive dark of her own bedroom.

For a moment, there was only the familiar pattern of moonlight filtering through the maple leaves outside, casting shifting, skeletal shadows on her wall. Everything was as it should be. But the feeling remained. A crushing weight. The feeling of being watched, no longer a prickle on her neck but a certainty that settled in her bones.

Her gaze drifted from the wall to the foot of her bed.

And the world stopped.

He was there. The man from the reflection. He was no phantom of the glass, no trick of the light. He was a solid, terrifying mass of shadow and bone, standing in her room. He was just as she had seen him: impossibly tall and rail-thin, his shoulders hunched as if he were perpetually cowering and looming at the same time. The moonlight caught the gaunt planes of his face, the jagged, pale line of the scar on his cheek, the deep, dark pits of his eyes. Those eyes were fixed on her with an intensity so absolute, so possessive, it felt like a physical touch.

Paralysis seized her, a scream trapped in her throat like a stone. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. This was the monster from her anxiety, the one her parents told her she had invented.

Then he moved, a slight shift of his hand, and the moonlight caught something else. A glint of polished steel. A knife. The blade was long and slender, held loosely but with a terrifying familiarity in his grip.

The sight shattered her paralysis. The scream tore from her lungs, raw and desperate.

He didn't rush. He moved toward her with a slow, deliberate stride, a predator that knew its prey was cornered. It was the calm, methodical patience that was the most horrifying part. He wasn't enraged; he was fulfilling a purpose.

Elara scrambled backward, her limbs clumsy with sleep and terror, until her head hit the headboard with a painful thud. There was nowhere else to go. He reached the side of the bed, his shadow falling over her, blotting out the moonlight. He smelled of damp earth, of rust, and of something else—the stale, unwashed scent of obsession.

"Be still," he rasped, his voice a dry rustle of dead leaves. It was the first time she had ever heard it, and it was a sound that would haunt her forever.

Her survival instinct, raw and primal, took over. She lashed out with her feet, kicking wildly, aiming for his knees, his groin, anything. One of her feet connected with his thigh, but it was like kicking a steel pole. He barely flinched. His free hand shot out, impossibly fast, and clamped around her ankle. His grip was like iron, deceptively strong for such a skeletal frame. He yanked, pulling her down the bed with a single, effortless motion.

She clawed at the sheets, her fingernails scraping against the mattress. "Get off me! Help!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with terror.

He leaned over her, his weight pressing her down. The gaunt face was inches from hers now, the sunken eyes bottomless pits. He wasn't looking at her with malice, but with a strange, warped kind of reverence, as if she were a sacred object he needed to purify. The image of the bird skull—bleached and clean—flashed through her mind. The knotted rope. This was what it meant. This was the end of the trap.

He raised the knife. The steel gleamed in the dim light, a cold, silver promise of pain. Her breath hitched in a sob. She twisted, bucking against his weight, her hands flying up to block the blow. She managed to catch his wrist, her fingers straining against his. His skin was cold and dry, like old paper. For a heart-stopping moment, they were locked in a desperate stalemate, her fading strength against his relentless pressure. The point of the knife hovered, trembling, an inch from her throat.

She could feel her muscles screaming, her grip failing. His arm was a piston, slowly, inexorably driving the blade downwards. This was it. He was too strong. She was going to die.

Suddenly, the bedroom door flew open with a crash that echoed like a gunshot in the charged silence.

A small figure stood silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. Leo.

His face was a mess of tears and fury, his small body rigid with a rage that seemed far too big for his frame. He wasn't looking at Elara. He was staring at the tall man pinning his sister to the bed. A guttural scream of pure, undiluted betrayal ripped from his small chest.

"I told you NO!"

The words struck the gaunt man with more force than any physical blow. He froze. For the first time, his obsessive focus on Elara was broken. His head actually turned, his dark eyes widening slightly as he looked at the little boy by the door.

Leo didn't wait. He let out another furious cry and charged into the room. In his hands were his weapons: a hard plastic stegosaurus and his worn teddy bear, Barnaby. He threw the dinosaur with all his might, and it bounced harmlessly off Joseph's back. Then he was there, a tiny, weeping warrior, hammering his fists and Barnaby against the intruder’s long, wiry legs.

"NOT HER!" he screamed, his voice choked with sobs. "I told you! NOT HER!"

It was the only distraction Elara needed. The pressure on her slackened. The knife wavered. Joseph was momentarily bewildered, his methodical plan shattered by the furious, unpredictable loyalty of a six-year-old boy.

With a surge of adrenaline, Elara drove her knee upwards with all the strength she had left, connecting squarely with his groin.

A choked grunt of pain escaped him. He doubled over, his grip on her finally loosening. She shoved him, rolling off the other