Veil Over Madeline

Prologue

The night sky quakes with the wrath of the gods, thunder rolling through the heavens as lightning cleaves the distant ocean. In those brief, terrifying flashes of light, I can make out the figure beyond my window—always there, always watching. His gaze feels like a weight pressing against my skin, suffocating me in silence. Fear grips me, a familiar companion by now, yet it never lessens. My heart skips, my breath falters, and my hands tremble every time. No matter how often I see him, he never fails to tear at the fragile fabric of my sanity.

His presence sets havoc in me.

I try to remind myself of the absurdity of the situation. I try to tell myself that keeping a possible danger right around the corner isn't worth for writing inspiration.

But it excites me. It possesses me beyond explanation.

There must be something deeply wrong within me. It can't be normal to feel the relentless pulse of your blood, surging through your veins like a storm, leaving behind an ache that never fades. It isn't right to dwell on thoughts you were taught to stay away from, like forbidden tomes hidden in the dark corners of a restricted section in the library. Yet I can't help lingering, eaten by the presence just outside, watching, waiting. Because deep down, I know—if I draw too close, if I let this darkness in, it will consume me entirely, like a flame devouring the very air I breathe.

I can't help wondering, when my defenseless body dreams, does he stare? Through sheer linen, does he witness fluttering rise and falling off my chest? How do I stir at night? Does he like to see me at my weakest?  Whether it's a mere fixation or the devil himself, he returns every night, growing bolder with his staring while I silently ignore him. 

Lightning strikes again, and then the light goes out again, much like flashing lights.  My breath hitches. I can't see him, but the way my heartbeat desperately fights against my ribcage tells me otherwise. I know he can see me. It almost feels like there's someone behind me when I know nobody's there. Ripping my eyes away from the oval windows, there's no one in the house. Fear clutches my throat. Maybe he already found a way inside. No matter how deep the intruder goes in Miller's Residence, the ghosts of the house always take care of them.

My grandparents left me this house. They had built the small Victorian château in the early 1970s with blood, sweat, tears, and soul.  Nana claimed that after Grandpa died, the house became her place of sanctuary. She explained how Grandpa's soul hung around and protected her when she needed it. That is why she was never afraid to stay alone at the Residence. Nana's extravagant stories usually made my folks roll their eyes. Dad never believed what Nana said, but I suppose he just didn't want to.

Sometimes I hear footsteps in the night. They come and leave. Just like my grandfather's faint feet used to.

Only a few months ago, I noticed the shift of the sound. It's not soft, it is not afraid to show itself. It's confident, loud, and eager. Like a devil.

And then I think, maybe it's the creature that stands outside of my house.

Watching me, observing me, and eating me up with its eyes as if I am the forbidden fruit in the heart of Eden.