Roslyn Woods turns down her grandmother’s quilt for her and the frail old woman sighs contently in her sleep. With careful fingers, the mousy haired girl slides the woman’s favorite book, which she had been reading to her before she fell asleep, onto the nightstand and stands up noiselessly to collect her coat and leave.
Roslyn notes that it’s a brisk night, aware that with every exhale her breath curls out from her mouth like smoke. Her fingers become stiff and white around the handle of the woven basket she’s carried with her since she was a child. Only now she doesn’t carry dolls and plucked dandelions. The basket is empty now, but was full to the brim earlier with baked goods that she delivers to her diabetic grandmother once a week.
Her grandmother is her only living family, now. Her parents died years ago and neither had siblings. So, Roslyn treasures her grandmother dearly, seeing as the woman had raised her through her remaining teenage years. Now, the thinning, fluffy white-haired woman is weak and scarred from insulin needles and blood sugar pricks. Roslyn is concerned for her. But, it’s more than just the diabetes that she fears for.
Some time ago a man visited Roslyn in a dream. He was a primitive looking man with a greying beard and wild hair. His eyes were orange, but glowed red in the foggy nightmare. He had loomed out of the darkness, hunched forward crawling on hands and feet. His teeth glinted from the moon overhead, the shadows behind him becoming trees. The closer he became, the more he became upright and human. His breath was pungent with the smell of blood and decay when he curled forward to speak.
“What are you doing out here, little girl?” the wicked man asked, while reaching forward to twirl a lock of hair between his dirty fingers, smiling cunningly at the way Roslyn held her breath.
In her dream, Roslyn had been making her way to her grandmother’s house, which now seemed to be hidden in the depths of the surrounding forest, instead of the center of town. When she had stammered this out to the crude looking man, he gave her a jagged, toothy grin.
“That’s a good little girl,” the man whispered breathily, running his grimy finger down the length of her arm. Roslyn’s heart quickened and she suddenly felt very nervous. “Let’s play a game.”
Her eyes widened at the proposal and the man took an intimidating step forward. “Whoever finds your granny first wins.”
“Wh-what?” Roslyn stuttered confusedly, her head dizzy with the smell of blood filling her nose and seeping into her mind.
“If I win, I get to kill you both. If you win, I won’t touch either one of you.”
“I don’t want to play this game,” Roslyn tried shakily, feeling sick and petrified about the rules of the game.
“It’s too late. I’ve already picked you as my next meal, Little Girl,” as he said this he leaned in, snapping his teeth at her and making her flinch and pull away. He caught her arm and leaned in, whispering, “Ready…set…go.” With that, he disappeared back into the haze, eyes glowing as he went.
She had woken up in a cold sweat, hair damp, skin clammy, breathing hard and fast. At first, she had batted the nightmare away, dismissing it entirely. It wasn’t until she was at the grocery store a few days afterward, that she became convinced he was real.
She saw him.
He was the same silver-haired man with orange eyes smiling wickedly at her in a crowd of people past the checkout line. When she blinked, he was gone. But, he didn’t just appear that once—no—she saw him again at the library reading a book she swears was labeled Slaughter. His eyes had flicked up over the top of the book, glinting mischievously.
Then, he started appearing at her house. He’d step out of the shadows and remind her that she is running out of time. He would come from behind her, flicking her hair and caressing her skin. His teeth would drag along her shoulders, tugging at the skin and leaving marks. He would appear before her while she pulled on her shoes to leave her house, telling her to wear the little red coat he adores so much.
She had learned his name: Andrew Wolfe. He told her that he is a serial killer—cannibalistic, even. He loves meeting scared people wandering alone in their dreams, enjoys ruining their lives forever. Nobody ever wins his game. Even he doesn’t play by the rules. He will kill them win or lose.
Roslyn does not wander the streets by herself. Many people pass her as she goes. Some bicker back and forth, others pass by quietly with their teeth chattering in the cold. She’s on edge. She felt strange leaving her grandmother alone tonight, feeling fear freeze her insides when she had locked the door. She feels this way when Andrew is near. But, she refuses to look around for him, for if she sees him she will panic.
He has been scaring her more, lately.
His eyes have gotten twice as big, it seems, and glowing red like they had the first night they met in her dreams. When she asked him about it he had commented ever so lightly, “The better to see you with, my dear.”
Thick hair has been starting to form along his neck and arms, making him seem quite like an animal and Roslyn doesn’t care for it. It makes him more freakish and intimidating—much like his ears, which have elongated in their past few encounters. Roslyn had mentioned it casually but worriedly, and he answered, “The better to hear you with, my dear.” This had made her feel more uneasy than ever.
Taking a deep breath at the door of her apartment building, letting the last of the cold chill her insides, Roslyn lets herself in and travels up the stairs to her floor cautiously. Her eyes flit nervously along the halls, making sure Wolfe isn’t nearby.
When she comes to her apartment, she fishes her keys from the pocket of her red coat and inserts them into the lock, checking the hall twice before stepping into her home. The room is dark and she stands still when inside, eyes roaming about the room, checking for a red glow among the furniture.
He is not there.
With a sigh of relief, she shuts the door behind her, locking it smoothly, and drops her basket next to her ankle boots. When she shakes off her coat, she thinks she hears chuckling and turns quickly, arms still in the dragging sleeves. With her pulse pounding loud in her ears, she decides that nobody is in fact there and finishes removing her coat to hang it up.
When she steps into the bathroom, she pulls the shower curtain back quickly, just in case. When she finds nobody there, she lets out a shaky breath and turns the shower on. While she undresses, she watches the steam condense onto the mirror, cutting off her view of the wall behind her and forcing her to make jerky glances back at the wall to ensure that she is indeed alone.
She enters the shower with her back to the tub so that she can watch the rest of the empty room before vanishing behind the deep red curtain. While she stands under the pounding water, she has to control her heart rate, which is skyrocketing while she is cut-off from the rest of the room. She forces deep breaths of steam as she washes her hair and scrubs her skin, trying to be quick. Though she tries to force it away, she can hear Wolfe’s husky voice ringing quietly in her ears.
You smell positively delicious, little girl. I bet you taste just as good.
She swallows dryly and dunks her head under the shower head to give her hair one last swift rinse, wiping her eyes in panic when she surfaces. For a brief moment, she imagines the shower head is spewing sticky, warm blood—splattering the walls and drenching her in the thick smell of death—but then, in a blink, it’s spraying clear, hot water. Gasping in surprise and horror, Roslyn shuts off the water and flicks open the shower curtain with so much force she breaks a few hooks. Nobody is in the room, she knows that, still, she tears the towel off the rack and dashes across the bathroom to peak out into the hallway. With all of the lights she left on in the walk it took her to get to the bathroom, she sees right away that her apartment is vacant. The thought should have given her a piece of mind, but she still dashes across the hall to her room, turning the light on the moment she enters.
With her eyes constantly darting around the furniture, she yanks open her closet and quickly pulls on a plain white nightgown. After brushing through her long, tangled hair, she peaks down the hall again and closes the door, keeping the lights outside on.
It’s hard for her to close her eyes once she’s under her blankets, snuggled in false comfort. What if she closes her eyes…and he’s there?