He's A Monster

A Little Taste

Danielle's perspective (POV)

Ten. He said ten.

I walk deeper into the woods, branches snapping back against my arms and face, the night swallowing me whole.

Everyone in town knows he lives out here alone.  Hidden in the dark, a phantom among trees. Isolated. Feared.

The first time I saw him was last year, not long after I moved here. I stumbled across a house by the lake, weathered but strangely beautiful, its reflection rippling on the water. I thought it abandoned until I saw him. His eyes glowed through the window, yellow streaked with brown, catching the dim light like a beast's. His thin, angular body moved with unsettling grace. I remember backing away, my stomach tight with unease.

The townsfolk whispered blood-soaked rumors about him: Marshal Schafer. The name alone could send a chill through a room.

Now, as I walk the path, my boots crunching leaves beneath me, the cold air burns my lungs. Fog curls around my lips with every breath. I glimpse the house from the corner of my eye and know I am close. The air feels thicker here, charged, as if the very woods are holding their breath.

A sharp sting at my cheek makes me flinch as another branch catches my skin. The silence presses harder, broken only by my footsteps and the thundering of my heart.

And then I hear it. A throat clearing, low and deliberate.

I freeze. Look up.

He stands before me.

Marshal.

The moon spills down on him like silver, casting long shadows over his tall, stick-thin frame. His eyes, those unnatural, gleaming eyes fix on me with a weight that makes me ache with self-consciousness. His white shirt clings to his gaunt form, sleeves rolled to reveal pale, wiry arms. A black tie hangs loose at his throat, carelessly elegant.

"You're bleeding."

His voice is low, smooth, and terrible like velvet on dry skin. He raises his hand, and my pulse leaps in my throat.

When his bony fingers brush my cheek, I nearly stop breathing. The tips of his nails scrape lightly along my jaw, leaving shivers in their wake.

"See?" He purred.

I look at his hand. Crimson glistens on his fingers. My blood.

"I must have scratched myself on the way in," I murmur, though my voice wavers.

He studies the blood for a heartbeat, then lifts his fingers to his lips. Slowly. Purposefully. His tongue flicks, and he sucks them clean, never breaking eye contact.

"Mmm."

My lips part helplessly.

"I, ah-"

"Shh, Miss Danielle." He licks his lips, smiling faintly, leaning closer. His breath warms the shell of my ear as he whispers, "How can you like a monster?"

My body trembles. "I just... I just do."

His smirk widens, and once again his fingers graze my cheek, scooping the blood, his tongue trailing over the cut. The sensation should revolt me, but instead... it excites me.

Maybe I'm not normal.

"Tsk, tsk, Danielle," he murmurs.

My chin tips up under his hand, my lip trembling.

"You shouldn't be so willing on the first date." His voice curls dark and amused.

"Date? Willing?"

He laughs softly, the sound intimate and cold. "You smell exquisite, Miss Danielle."

His presence overwhelms me, his strange scent invading my lungs, pulling me closer to him. Then I flinch at a sudden sting -- his tongue, warm and wet, sliding along my cheek where the cut lies.

"So sweet of you," he says, his smile pale and sharp under the moonlight. "To bring me a gift already."

His gaze locks with mine, dark and endless, as if he were trying to peel away my very soul.

Then, with a final touch his long finger gliding down the line of my throat, he grins.

"This was a delightful beginning, Miss Danielle."

The tingling vanishes. My eyes fly open.

"Marshal?"

Nothing. He is gone.

Just... gone.

I wrap my arms around myself, shivering in the night wind. "Okay," I whisper, forcing my feet back down the path. Still, I cannot resist one last glance at the house, biting my lip until it hurts.

---

"Did you have fun at your friend's house, sweetie?"

My mother's voice pulls me back to the safety of walls and light.

"Yes," I answer quickly, forcing a smile.

She smooths down her blouse, one manicured hand brushing aside her bleached curls. "Mom?" I ask suddenly. "Can I dye my hair?"

Her brows lift. "What color?"

"Blue. Maybe a faded blue."

She stares at me as though I've sprouted horns. I tap the staircase nervously, looking down at the wooden steps. "Well?"

"If that's what you really want," she sighs, her voice edged with doubt.

"It is."

Her frown softens, replaced by a smile. "Then we'll get what you need for it."

"Thanks, Mom."

I climb the stairs, passing photographs hung crookedly along the red-painted hall. My heart beats faster, the images pulling me back to the woods, to him. I force my thoughts elsewhere: school, hair dye, anything but the truth.

The bathroom light flickers on, harsh and blinding. I groan, squinting at my reflection. Slowly, I touch my cheek.

Smooth. No scratch. No mark. Nothing.

Did he... heal it?

A chill runs down my spine.

I shut the light off, stepping into the creaking hallway, wishing for silence, wishing for forgetfulness. My room welcomes me in its bland familiarity: white blouse, black skirt, dull uniform, the fabric of a life that feels like a lie.

I change into my nightgown, the thin fabric brushing cool against my thighs. I reach for the lamp.

"Ugh, so far," I mutter.

And then, boom, darkness.

The light goes out on its own.

My breath catches.

"You're welcome, love."

His voice. Inside me. Around me.

I clutch the blanket, trembling. Am I losing my mind?

"Sleep well, love."

My throat is dry. "Sweet dreams... Marshal," I whisper foolishly into the dark.

"You too."

The room is empty, yet his presence lingers. I fall asleep with only one thing in my mind: his eyes. His voice. His touch.