Seven years ago
"You can get it," Mia murmured, her voice raspy with exhaustion.
Oliver chuckled, running his fingers through her frizzy blonde hair. "It's your house."
"So?" She arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a lazy smile. "You know we're alone." Her fingers traced his cheek, warm and soft.
"True," he admitted with a slight nod, unable to resist the way her touch still sent a shiver down his spine.
With a reluctant sigh, Oliver lifted the sheets and climbed out of bed, steadying himself as he pulled on his underwear. The cool air bit at his skin, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of their shared bed. As he reached the bedroom door, he glanced back at her.
Mia lay sprawled across the satin sheets, her bare body half-covered in the soft fabric. Her skin held a lingering flush, and her breathing, though still a little uneven, had steadied. Strands of damp hair clung to her forehead, a mess of curls and waves spilling across the pillow. Even like this—especially like this—she looked beautiful.
Oliver swallowed, his chest tightening at the sight. "Just water?" he asked, resting his hand on the doorknob.
Mia propped herself up on one elbow, smirking. "You can find food in the fridge." She stretched, the robe slipping slightly off one shoulder. "Just water for me." Then, with a sigh, she collapsed back into the pillows.
"Okay. I'll be right back."
Oliver stepped into the hallway, greeted by the suffocating darkness of the house. His eyes squinted against the shadows as he moved forward, flicking on a small wall lamp. A faint glow illuminated the staircase, throwing thin shapes along the walls. The house remained eerily quiet.
By now, he knew his way around well enough. He had spent the last three months in this house more often than not, taking advantage of the fact that Mia's mom worked night shifts at the hospital.
Reaching the kitchen, Oliver opened the fridge, the dim light creating sharp contrasts across his face. He scanned the shelves, debating whether anything looked worth eating, but nothing held his interest. Settling for two bottles of water, he shut the fridge and turned back toward the stairs.
The moment he reached the second floor, his stomach twisted. A sickening wave of unease rolled over him, curling tight in his gut. His fingers gripped the bottles tighter as he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
He knew this feeling.
He had known it since childhood.
Still, he clung to the desperate hope that maybe it was just the spicy food from earlier. That maybe he was imagining it. Then, he saw him. A figure stood near the bathroom door, half-consumed by the shadows. Oliver's breath hitched. His pulse hammered against his ribs as his eyes adjusted, making out the shape of a man. His gray eyes widened.
"Mr. Jones?" His voice came out barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"
The figure turned. Oliver's stomach dropped. Mia's father stood there, pale and thin, his blond hair so light it was almost invisible under the murky light. His once-strong frame had withered, his posture slightly slouched. Oliver didn't need to ask how he had gotten inside.
He already knew.
The house was locked, and Mr. Jones shouldn't be here. The realization sent a sharp, icy chill down Oliver's spine.
"Where is my wife?" the man asked, his voice eerily calm. His forehead furrowed as he looked past Oliver, toward the master bedroom.
"She's working," Oliver murmured, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. His gaze flickered toward Mia's closed bedroom door, a sudden instinct to protect her rising in his chest.
YOU ARE READING
Talk To Me
ParanormalOliver Brown holds the gift of seeing spirits. After losing his grandmother, he neglected the purpose of his ability, and soon after, lived a ghostless life. But when Oliver's younger sister is discovered murdered in the woods, he desperately wanted...