He Comes At Night

Rose's POV:

I startled up in a sitting position, my heart racing with the remnants of fear still coursing through my veins.

Frantically, I scanned my surroundings, half-expecting to find the menacing eyes of the predator lurking in the shadows of my room. Yet, all I encountered was the familiar sight of my mundane wardrobe bathed in the soft glow of morning light.

As the sun's rays invaded my sanctuary, I shifted in my bed, seeking refuge from both the intrusive brightness and the relentless pounding of my bedroom door. The rhythmic banging echoed in my ears, a stark contrast to the eerie silence of my dream.

Bang bang bang...

Slowly, the realization dawned upon me: what had felt so vivid and terrifying was nothing more than a figment of my imagination, a nightmare born from the depths of my subconscious.

But try as I might, I couldn't shake the lingering unease that clung to me like a suffocating shroud.

The memory of those haunting eyes, their transformation into pools of fiery red, haunted me still. It was as if a primal instinct within me recognized the danger they posed, triggering a visceral reaction that left me trembling in their wake.

And then there was that fleeting glimpse of white, a detail that lingered on the fringes of my consciousness like a half-remembered whisper. Could it have been teeth, bared in a predatory snarl?

The thought sent a shiver down my spine, leaving me to ponder the true nature of my unsettling dream.

"Rose Blair Gabrielle, get up! It's already 8 am, you're going to be late for your flight again if you don't get your skinny ass out of that bed. Now!"

My aunt's frantic voice sliced through the haze of my thoughts, dragging me back to the harsh reality of my morning.

Don't get her wrong, she's nice. Just not very much when she is freaking out in the morning. Being late to anywhere is a big area of issue for her.

Groaning inwardly, I reluctantly peeled myself from the comfort of my bed, the remnants of my unsettling dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness like cobwebs in the corner of a neglected room.

Oh joy.

As if the day wasn't already shaping up to be dreary enough, now I had my aunt's scolding to look forward to if I missed yet another flight to the infamous "Painesville." 

Just the name alone was enough to evoke a sense of dread, reminding me all too well of the tumultuous past I'd left behind in my hometown.

While most people tend to get all sentimental and nostalgic about the town or city they were born and raised in, or simply spent most of their lives in, I find myself harboring anything but fond memories of that place.

It's almost as if that town has a knack for bringing nothing but death and chaos upon the Gabrielle name.

Yet, despite the seemingly cursed nature of our family's connection to the town, the Gabrielles have never turned their backs on it. We played a significant role in building it, and we remain committed to its people. However, it's hard to ignore the grim reality that every member of our family has met their demise within its borders, all through tragic accidents, leaving them six feet under the same ground they once called home.

The curse — if I dare deem it as such — stretches to the point where I might very well be the last Gabrielle standing.

Unless there are some potential hidden offspring from the Gabrielle escapades that once captivated the town, long before my time. Perhaps my great-great uncles or granddads weren't as dull as they seemed.

They certainly knew how to stir up gossip and intrigue — and let's face it, every small town thrives on a bit of scandal, especially when it's no bigger than a few city blocks and boasts a population about the size of patients in an asylum; always growing, yet never diminishing, yet never spilling over either.

There's not much about that town that I care to remember, but if there's one fond memory I can recall, it's of my one and only best friend.

Despite being separated since childhood, our friendship endured through phone calls, internet chats, and occasional visits—mostly initiated by her coming to visit me. I've never set foot back in that town ever since I left that night. 

Apart from those fleeting memories, I have only a handful of hazy recollections of what I assume to be my parents and me as a family before that fateful day.

Since then, everything changed. Not just for me, but for everyone in town.

And now, reluctantly so, I must return.

Saying goodbye to my aunt was harder than I'd expected. She's the only family I have left, the one constant in my life. I've spent more than half my years in her care, cocooned in her love and unconditional support.

She reminds me so much of my mother, in the way she smiles, the way her hands never stop moving when she's trying to comfort someone, and the way she calls me "honey" with just the right amount of exasperation when I mess up. I guess that's what being sisters does—somehow tying two souls together so tightly that echoes of one linger in the other.

I don't have siblings. Just a teenage cousin who mostly stays locked in his room, doing what most teenagers do. You know, things I'd rather not think about.

Now, I'm heading back to my past, not because I want to, but because it seems like the only way to shape a future for myself. A future that was apparently already sketched out for me, long before I even knew how to spell the word "future."

It all started with a phone call.

I'd just been gearing up to apply for colleges right after high school when I got the news. Turns out, my parents had been looking out for me all along, planning for a future they wouldn't even be around to see.

Lake Erie College in Painesville, Ohio. That's where I'm supposed to go. That's where my parents had made sure I'd have a place, funding my education long before I was even walking. They'd supported the college during its early days, securing my spot as if they knew I'd need it one day.

After that call, I was left with two choices: ignore the plans my parents had laid out, toss their dreams aside, and live my life on my own terms—or honor their wishes, pack up my life, and return to the place I was once rescued from.

It's a lot to process. And honestly? It's depressing as hell.

But, on the bright side, I happen to love lemonade.

I know that sounds random, but it makes sense, doesn't it? When life hands you lemons—and believe me, it's been handing me a whole damn orchard lately—you don't waste them. You turn them into something. Something sweet, refreshing, and stronger than you were before.

So that's what I'll do. I'll make lemonade out of this mess, suck it up, and show that stupid town exactly what I'm made of.

And trust me, it's not lemons