Scarlet in the Shadows

I. Unseen Eyes

The café's familiar warmth, usually a comforting embrace, today feels stifling, a suffocating heat against my skin. The sunlight streaming through the large windows pierces like a spotlight, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The once-soothing murmur of conversations now grates on my nerves, a cacophony of noise amplifying my growing dread. I try to focus on my writing, but a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like an icy finger tracing my spine, tells me I'm being watched.

My gaze darts up, locking with his across the room. It's him again, the same man who's been nursing his espresso with that unsettling calm every day for the past week. His sharp, angular face is partially hidden beneath a cap, the brim casting a shadow that accentuates the web of scars tracing one side of his face. His eyes—cold and predatory—bore into mine, and a shiver wracks my body. I quickly avert my gaze, heart pounding.

But the feeling of his eyes doesn’t fade. His tongue clicks against his teeth, barely audible, but that sound—sharp, rhythmic—sends a chill down my spine. It’s a sound I can't forget, like a countdown. I try to shake it off, but the unease settles deep in my gut, a heavy weight I can't ignore.

Needing a break from the suffocating atmosphere, I excuse myself to the restroom. When I return, my breath catches in my throat, and a wave of terror washes over me. On my table, amidst my scattered notes and half-finished latte, lies a stack of sketches.

My fingers tremble as I pick them up. It's me. Me, captured in various poses, each one more intimate than the last. I'm writing, lost in thought, laughing with a friend. The details are excruciatingly precise, down to the way my hair falls across my face, the slight curve of my lips when I smile.

One sketch in particular sends a shiver down my spine. It's me, sitting at this very table, engrossed in my work. The angle is impossible; he must have been watching me from a hidden vantage point. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, and my hands start to shake uncontrollably.

My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic drumbeat echoing my growing panic. It's not just me he's drawn. The café itself is replicated with chilling accuracy—every table, every chair, every hidden corner. He knows this place better than I do.

Panic floods my senses, a tidal wave threatening to drown me. This isn't just a harmless admirer; this is an obsession. He's not just watching; he's documenting, cataloging my every move. The walls of the café seem to close in on me, and I struggle to breathe. I have to get out of here.

A sharp breeze cuts through my reverie, bringing me back to the present. The wine glass in my hand is nearly empty, the cheap liquid doing little to warm me or quell the fear that still gnaws at me. I’m on the porch of my rented house in Havenwood, five days into my self-imposed exile. The town, bathed in the soft glow of dusk, looks like a picture postcard - quaint, charming, almost too perfect.

But beneath the idyllic facade, a chill lingers. I came to Havenwood hoping to outrun the darkness that had consumed my life in the city. But as I sit here, watching the shadows lengthen across the town square, a chilling thought creeps in: Have I simply traded one kind of fear for another? The feeling of being watched, the paranoia, the unease--- it's all still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to resurface.

I clutch the wine glass tighter, my knuckles turning white. The silence of Havenwood is deafening, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional bark of a dog. The isolation is both comforting and terrifying. I'm safe here, for now. But for how long? And what happens when the darkness catches up with me again?

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Scarlet Abbot Jefferson

25, writer

writing and storytelling, coffee and cozy cafés, books and wine, nature and serenity, traveling and exploring

"There's a fire in your eyes that I can't look away from. It's dangerous, and yet...it calls to me."