a young second wife, a stoic widowed prince, and the son who actually sees her. angst, cheating, forbidden feelings.
reader is 16-17. maekar is... maekar.
warnings: age gap (teen reader / adult Maekar), political marriage, emotional neglect, cheating, mention of consummation (not explicit), dead wife mentions (dyanna), grief, Aerion being Aerion, slight obsession, pregnancy, birth, angst, no use of y/n, brief mentions of nsfw, no mention of a house - sorry if I forgot any
word count: ~5.3k
note: no proofreading, we die like Baelor (too soon...). constructive feedback welcome, mean comments will be fed to Aerion.
As a little girl, you always dreamed of a grand wedding, a dreamy marriage, a loving husbandâlike the one your parents surprisingly had. As nobles, it's an uncommon fate. One you weren't lucky enough to receive.
No. In the end, you got married for duty. For politics. Just at the age of six-and-ten.
But it was good, on the other hand. Married to a prince. Prince Maekar, to be exact. Widowed. Six childrenâwell, only four young ones who truly needed a motherly figure in their lives.
You didn't mind the younglings. They adapted to you quickly and were a lovely bunch. You enjoyed their company and they yours, due to you actually paying them mind, giving them your attention and fixing anything up for them, from classes to playtime.
Your father, a great nobleman, was known amongst the royal family and seen as a trusty ally. Thus, a marriage between your houses was issued.
Why Maekar of all? still crosses your mind sometimes. With enough young princes in the family, why were you wed to a stoic widower old enough to be your father, with six children some older than you yourself?
The wedding was a private yet grand affair. It was fun, and you enjoyed it besides Maekar seemingly not being too enthusiastic about the whole thing.
You danced with your parents, your siblings, Maekar's younger children, the Laughing Storm and any other nobles that thought could keep up with your youthful joy. The food was delicious, the wine good, the music lively. It all made you forget that your husband didn't actually enjoy being there or in fact, married.
Then came the wedding night. The consummation part.
Your mother had prepped you the best she could without terrifying you, explaining the basic details. Your handmaidens helped you prepare for the ceremony with kind smiles and care.
Once you were alone and your now-husband finally arrived, the nerves started up. He didn't say much. Just a few labored breaths and a deep exhale.
"I'm assuming you are inexperienced? Do not worry. I'll try to be careful."
And he was true to his word. It was duty, he had to do it, especially because his brother Prince Baelor and your father were outside the door listening but he took his time. Helped you. Not cruel, but not truly caring either.
The next night, he didn't return. Nor the night after that.
He performed his duty and then went to his private chamber, leaving you alone in a complete new chamber in a different place.
Summerhall.
Moons passed, and you grew into a rather handful routine. With no pestering husband and only the younglings to watch after, you didn't have much issue. Of course, Aerion always had some remarks. And Daeron, poor Daeron, at least he had you as a shoulder to rest on, an ear to tell to.
Breakfast on the morrow was quiet in general, besides the bickering of the youngest two, Aegon being bothered by little Rhae about another tea party of hers. Supper was another story.
Maekar sometimes dropped a certain name.
"Dyanna, could you passâ" A throat clear. A moment of stiffness. "âpass the wine, please."
He didn't correct himself. Didn't apologize. Just brushed over it as if it hadn't happened. You, being the dutiful wife, did so. A tight-lipped smile, the wine in your hand, you passed it. But the dimness in your eyes did not go unnoticed not by Maekar, and not by Daeron and Aerion, who were far from oblivious.
Some moons after that, Maekar was talked to and pressured to try again for a babe. An heir. With you. Despite already having four healthy sons, the realm wasn't so reluctant to let the matter go especially as you were so young and fertile, they said.
It got to his head. He drank over his limit. Took more than he could stomach.
That night, he came to your chamber. Performed his clouded desire. His duty. Rutted in you while another woman's name fell past his lips.
"DyannaâŠ" he moaned.
But you weren't Dyanna. And you never would be.
A husband who merely tolerates you. A pitiful young thing cast aside with no love, no care, and no babe. Having to take it in. What else could you do?
On the early morrow, before dawn broke, you got dressed and asked the guards to take him to his room. No one was to speak of the matter.
Maekar didn't remember the night anyway.
And you had to accept that the only reason your bed was warm was because you were mistaken for a ghost.
As the weeks passed, Aerion would show up in areas you were. He either said too much or said nothing at all, both equally intriguing, and not in a pleasant way. As if it was some twisted game, it was Aerion after all it wouldnât be much of a surprise.
You were in the garden, smelling and touching the flowers, when he once again appeared. This time around what got you was what he actually said.
"Father barely spares you a glance. So young. So fragile. So beautiful." He tilted his head, almost pitying. "What a pity, having to marry such an old man who couldn't be bothered. He says my mother's name as if he forgot your own. Is that how little he sees you?"
He smirked.
"Tell me, stepmother⊠does he call my mother's name when duty forces him to breed you?"
That got you. A shiver ran through you. Your hand froze by the flowers.
He chuckled as he realized he wasn't far off.
"Ah. So he does?" A slow, cruel smile. "Poor thing. And I would've treated you better, you know?"
His hand reached for your face. He slowly caressed it with the back of his fingers. Your breath hitched.
"My poor, beautiful stepmother." His voice dropped lower, almost tender which made it worse. "If you do end up with child, I do hope he spares that one a glance. Let alone acknowledge that you birthed it and not his deceased wife."
After a moment of shock you had regained yourself. You slapped his hand away.
"My marriage is none of your business, stepson. You shall not concern yourself with such frivolous matters."
He didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. Instead, his smirk widened slower this time, almost appreciative.
"There she is," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "I wondered if you had any spine at all beneath all that quiet resignation."
He took a step back, but his eyes stayed on you hungry, amused, dangerous.
"Enjoy your flowers, stepmother. I suspect they're the only thing in this castle that blooms just for you."
And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the garden with shaking hands and a heart pounding far too fast.
In recent days? Weeks? Moons? You had lost track.
You had gotten trouble sleeping. A midnight stroll to clear your mind soothed the war in your head. On these nights, you often found Daeron in the same spot where you would find your own clarity â a beautiful overlook with a great view of the moon.
You would pour into each other. He about his dragon dreams. You about your loneliness.
You had gotten closer. Finding comfort in one another.
Some nights, you talked until the moon began its descent. Others, you sat in comfortable silence, simply existing in the same space, neither willing to be the first to leave.
Daeron drank more than he should. You drank less than you wanted to.
"You should go to bed," he said one night, though his hand found yours on the stone ledge between you. He didn't pull away. Neither did you.
"So should you." "I don't sleep well." "Neither do I."
He laughed softly a sad, breathy thing. "What a pair we make. The drunken prince and the lonely wife."
"The forgotten son and the ghost bride," you countered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. Just once. Then he let go.
"Go," he said, but it sounded like stay. You stayed.
Neither of you spoke of the way your shoulders touched. Neither of you mentioned how his breath hitched when you leaned into him. Neither of you acknowledged that this, this was the closest either of you had felt to warmth in months.
Some things didn't need words. Some things were too dangerous to say out loud and some actions could have consequences.
You leaned in. You knew you shouldn't, but oh â it was Daeron. How could you not?
Gazing into his beautiful, saddened eyes, lower to his lips which still had a bit of wine on them then to his eyes again. He was doing the same.
He leaned closer. And you didn't hold back. You fully leaned in and kissed him.
His lips were soft. Softer than you had expected. But what could you expect? You only knew the harsh lips of your husband. These were different. They actually wanted this. Your lips moved together instead of trying to finish a duty faster.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm, shaky.
"We shouldn't," he whispered, but his hand cupped your cheek like he'd never let go.
"I know." Yet neither of you moved.
âPleaseâŠ"
It came out as a whisper. You weren't even sure what you were asking for. More? To stop? To stay?
Daeron seemed to understand anyway.
He kissed you again even softer this time. If that was even possible, slower, like he was memorizing the shape of your lips. When he pulled back, his thumb traced your jaw.
"Please what?" he murmured against your skin.
You couldn't answer. So you kissed him instead.
And for once, neither of you thought about duty. Or Maekar. Or the consequences waiting in the dark.
There was only this. Only him. Only the moon and the wine and the aching, terrible, beautiful truth that you had finally found someone who kissed you like you mattered.
"Not here," he breathed against your neck. "Come with me."
You should have said no. You followed anyway.
You didn't remember who moved first. Only that his hands were trembling, or maybe that was you. The moon hid behind a cloud. The wine lay forgotten. And when morning came, neither of you spoke of what had happened under the stars.
The corridor was empty. You almost made it to the corner when you heard it, a soft click of a tongue.
Aerion leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching you with half-lidded eyes. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look angry. He looked like he'd been waiting.
"You're up early," he said, voice lazy. "Or perhaps... not early enough?" You kept walking. He fell into step beside you like it was nothing.
"Didn't take you for the type to sneak around, stepmother. Though I suppose loneliness makes people... adventurous."
"I don't know what you're talking about." He hummed. "Of course not."
You turned a corner. He followed.
"Daeron's lucky," he mused, almost to himself. "Soft-hearted fool that he is. Always getting what he doesn't deserve." A pause. His voice dropped. "I wonder what it would take for you to look at me like that."
You stopped walking. Turned to face him. He was closer than you expected.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes dragged slowly down your face, to your lips, your neck, lower then back up. He didn't bother hiding it.
"Don't worry," he murmured, stepping back with that awful, beautiful smirk. "I won't tell. I prefer watching, anyway."
He turned and walked away, tossing over his shoulder:
"Sweet dreams, stepmother. Try not to wander into the wrong chambers next time."
As the moons passed, your belly swelled. Whether the babe was Maekar's or Daeron's was unbeknownst to you. It was as if the gods were playing a joke on you, a sick joke. But perhaps you deserved it? Actions always had consequences.
Aerion watched with a knowing smirk, his pale eyes following you everywhere, saying nothing but everything with that curl of his lips.
Daeron's gaze lowered whenever you entered a room, as if Maekar could read his mind and figure out what had happened. He couldn't look at you. Couldn't look at your belly. The guilt was eating him alive.
And then there was Maekar. Still the same. Cold. Distant. Oblivious. Three people knew the truth of the circumstances and he was not one of them.
The younger ones were excited, at least. A new sibling, they whispered. Perhaps a nephew or niece if they only knew.
You carried the weight of the lie in every step. And still, your belly grew.
But you and Daeron didn't grow distant. If anything, the secret pulled you closer. He still came to you in the quiet hours, his hand resting on your swollen belly with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He enjoyed the private moments the ones where he could pretend the babe was his, where he could whisper to it and feel it kick beneath his palm.
But the question lingered. Was it his sibling? Or his own child? His flesh and blood.
Neither of you spoke it aloud.
Maekar, for his part, had become more attentive. It was strange, almost unsettling. He still wasn't warm, not truly, but he tried. Gifts appeared in your chambers. Your favourite sweets. A new cloak lined with fur. He would sit with you some evenings, though he never knew what to say. You suspected it was only due to the babe. The heir he still wasn't sure he needed.
Beside that, he was still the same.
Then there was Aerion.
He barged into your chamber as if he had the right to be there, just because he knew. Because he'd witnessed something he shouldn't have. You never knew when he would appear. He never knocked.
"Now imagine it was mine," he murmured one afternoon, his hands sliding over your belly without permission. "A third option. That would've been something."
His face found the crook of your neck. He placed light pecks against your skin, one after another, and you froze.
"Ah, Mother," he breathed against you, that awful smirk in his voice. "What have you gotten yourself into?" That would ring through your mind for time to come.
The labour came in the middle of the night, as if the babe knew it was a secret that belonged to the dark.
Maekar was summoned. He came, of course duty demanded it. He stood by the door, stiff and useless, while the maester and handmaidens rushed around you. He didn't hold your hand. Didn't offer comfort. Just stood there, watching, waiting for his heir.
You screamed. You couldn't help it.
And through the pain, you thought you saw Daeron's face in the doorway, but he was gone before you could be sure. Or perhaps you imagined it.
Aerion, you knew, was not there. But you could feel his presence anyway. That knowing smirk. That whispered "imagine it was mine."
Then, a cry.
Sharp. Healthy. Alive.
The maester lifted the babe, and the room held its breath.
"A boy," the maester announced.
You barely had a moment to breathe before the pain surged again.
"There's another â "
The second cry was softer, smaller, but just as fierce.
"A boy. Twins, my prince."
Maekar stepped forward. Looked down at them.
The firstborn had a tuft of silver-gold hair. Classic Targaryen. When his tiny eyes opened, just like Maekarâs. Pure.
The second had sandy hair. Darker. Like Daeron's. Like some of Maekar's other children from Dyanna. His eyes opened too also Maekarâs?, but a shade darker.
Maekar stared at the second boy longer than the first. You held your breath.
But he simply nodded. "Dayne coloring," he murmured, almost to himself. "My sons have inherited it before."
He didn't question it.
He didn't look at you.
He just turned and walked toward the door, pausing only to say: "Rest. We'll name them in the morning."
And then he was gone.
You held your sons to your chest one silver, one sand and wept.
Because you knew.
The sandy-haired boy had Daeron's eyes.
As the night wore on and whilst the castle was asleep, or so you thought.
A soft knock. Three taps. His signal.
You should have told him to leave. Instead, you whispered, "Come in."
Daeron slipped through the door like a shadow, closing it softly behind him. His eyes found the cradle first. Then you.
"Twins," he breathed, crossing the room. He stopped beside the cradle, looking down at the two small bundles. His hand trembled as he reached for the sandy-haired boy.
"He has my coloring," Daeron whispered. Not a question.
"He has your eyes and hair"
Daeron's breath hitched. He lifted the babe carefully, cradling him against his chest. The boy stirred but didn't wake.
"I'm sorry," Daeron murmured â to you, to the babe, to the gods. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't." Your voice was tired but firm. "I don't regret it. I regret nothing."
He looked at you then, truly looked, and you saw the tears glistening in his eyes.
"I'll never claim him," he said quietly. "You know that. He'll never know."
"But you'll know."
Daeron pressed a kiss to the babe's forehead. Then he crossed to you and pressed one to yours.
"I'll know," he agreed. "And I'll love him from the shadows. Both of them. Always."
The door opened without a knock.
Aerion stood there, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable. He looked at Daeron. At the babe in his arms. At you.
No smirk. No mockery. Just... watching.
"Brother," Daeron said, voice tight.
Aerion said nothing. He walked to the cradle, looked down at the silver-haired boy, then back at Daeron.
"Two," he finally said. "You've been busy, stepmother."
"Leave."
"I will." He didn't move. His eyes lingered on the sandy-haired babe, on the color that wasn't Targaryen, wasn't Maekar, wasn't his father.
"I came to offer names," he said quietly. "But I see you already have company for that."
He looked at you. Just looked.
âSweet dreams, mother."
Then he turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
No threat. No smirk. Just the quiet weight of knowing.
Daeron stared at the door long after it closed.
"He knows," he whispered.
"Heâs always known"
Daeron let out a shaky breath.
"I should goâŠ" "Stay," you whispered. "Please."
He stayed.
Dawn crept through the curtains, pale and grey.
You had dozed briefly, just enough to feel more tired than before. Daeron had slipped out an hour earlier, pressing one last kiss to your forehead and a longer one to the sandy-haired babe's head.
"I'll love them both," he had whispered. "Always."
Now you were alone.
A knock. Firm. Measured. Maekar.
"Come in."
He stepped inside alone no maester, no septa, no servants. His boots were soft on the stone floor. He stopped at the foot of your bed, looking at the cradle, then at you.
"How are you?" The question caught you off guard.
"Tired," you admitted.
He nodded slowly. "The maester said it was difficult." "It was. You were there."
A pause. He seemed to be searching for words, a man lost in a conversation he hadn't prepared for.
"Did you rest?"
"Some."
Another pause. His eyes flicked to the cradle again.
"May I?"
You blinked. He was asking permission.
"Of course."
He walked to the cradle, looking down at the twins. The silver-haired boy. The sandy-haired boy. His expression was unreadable but softer than usual. Almost... curious.
"They're small," he observed.
"Twins often are."
He nodded. He reached down hesitantly, carefully and touched the silver-haired boy's cheek with the back of his finger. The babe stirred but didn't wake.
Then he looked at the other. The sandy-haired one. Daeron's son.
He studied his face. His coloring. His tiny features.
"He looks like..." Maekar started, then stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind."
Your heart pounded. What did he almost say?
But Maekar didn't elaborate. He simply straightened up and turned back to you.
"Names," he said. "Have you thought of any?"
"Vaegon," you said. "For the firstborn."
"Vaegon." He tested it on his tongue. "And the second?"
You thought of Daeron. Of his tears. Of the way he held the babe like he'd never let go.
"Vaemon."
Maekar nodded once. "Vaegon and Vaemon."
He stood there for a moment longer, looking at you. Then, stiffly, he said:
"You did well."
It was the closest to a compliment he'd ever given.
He walked to the door, then paused.
"If you need anything... send word."
And then he was gone.
You held Vaemon to your chest, the sandy-haired one, Daeron's son and watched Maekar's retreating back.
He never sees me, you thought. Not really.
Perhaps that was a blessing. If he saw you, truly saw you, he would have to see the truth in Vaemon's eyes. In the way Daeron looked at you. In the thousand small betrayals hidden in quiet corners.
But Maekar didn't see.
He never did. He never would⊠you were always just his dutiful quiet young wife, you could never.
You pressed a kiss to Vaemon's forehead, then reached for Vaegon.
Two sons. Two secrets.
And a lifetime of keeping them both.
end note: first time posting on here, always just a reader đ started off with ideas and then felt it going a bit downhill idk if I like it guys đ let me know what you think
oh and thank you for reading !! let me know if anything needs to be changed đ€
INCAPABLE OF MAKIN' ALRIGHT DECISIONS, AND HAVIN' BAD IDEAS.
synopsis Youâve heard the tales of the infamous Isaac Night that resides in that ancient, dark house on that ancient, dark hill. The man who exhales terror like tobacco, whose home is unforgiving to its rare guests that seemingly vanish whenever they venture too close. But you were in need of a job, and he in need of a fresh meal.
contains alternate universe. smut. kinda sub!isaac. nevermore not mentioned. normie!reader. mentions of illness. parent death. cursing. cumming in pants / premature ejaculation. maybe dubcon. kinda slow burn. dryhumping. themes of stalking / abuse. choking. heart kink if you squint. typical zombie shenanigans. dark content. kissing with blood (yours and someone he ate lol). boss/employee dynamic. hes lowkey sadistic. virgin!isaac intended. isaac and reader are both freaks.
aria speaks!! for @isaacnights, my dear aleena, who placed the idea of writing an isaac fic into my mind, and who deserves all the credit for inspiring a heart kink!!! i couldnât not, just look at him!!!! also im a sucker for aus, so enjoy!! also this is loooooooong, lots of buildup so hope you guys like that!!! PS idk if iâve written isaac a little ooc but i had to get this out of my brain-also considering a p2, feel like a lot has been left unexplored in this one and i feel this may be a little turdish cause iâm sick and sleep deprived but oh well (not rlly proofread)
Your father passed away a month ago. A process that was prolonged, exhaustive, and until the bitter end, tedious. Taken by a mysterious, incurable illness that rotted his body like he was already a corpse. Smothered the light from his eyes slow, like a plant decaying. His form thinned, skin becoming ghostly pale and sinking into his skeleton like a sigh. His hearty laughs faded into gasps for breath, wise mind hushed into a slumber.
Your father passed a month ago. He died three years ago.
Youâd made your peace with it long before, watching him wither in that bed tore all the grief your pathetic soul could muster. By the end, you didnât even consider him the man you once knewâhe just became another piece of furniture youâd had to throw out.
When he first contracted his disease, you were thrust into a sealed box of fury, helplessness, and despair. The doctors would come with their briefcases, examine him carefully like they didnât already know the outcome, and then, with pursed lips, would inform you that he couldnât be saved. There was just no cure.
Then theyâd demanded all the money you had in your pockets.
For a year or so, youâd been desperate. Prayed to God every night, or any divine authority, to save him. To miraculously cure him. It was when heâd only gotten worse that youâd grown bitter, unable to breathe in your fatherâs direction without bubbling with resentment. For not fighting harder. Leaving you to fend for yourself. Abandoning you, even when he were still alive.
Then, indifference. Cold and dismissive. You cleaned him, fed him, and clothed him. But youâd stopped being his daughter a while ago. You became his carer instead, a nurse. He became your patient.
His funeral was expensive, almost as much as his life was. Old friends visited, whispering their condolences to you as they left, forcing saddened looks onto their face before stuffing themselves with all the chicken they could at the wake. Youâd shed a tear for him, just one, but it was one more than you had in a long time.
You were left alone then, in your house. Silent. No machines beeping or humming, no strangled coughs emitting from the room you wonât dare glance at.
Maybe you werenât as indifferent as youâd hoped.
You were left alone, without your father, and without money.
Jericho was practically barren in that area. Youâd applied everywhere, desperately looking your best at interviews and offering your skills in hopes one of them may take a chance on you. Just one. You wouldâve blown their fucking socks off if theyâd given you just a chance.
Without any past experience and hardly any good education stats (due to your final exams happening simultaneously with the grand kickoff of your fatherâs condition), you were left with nothing.
For a while, the government issued you benefits for your fatherâbarely enough for the two of you to scrape by every month. Now theyâve ceased too. You felt hopeless, and cornered. Youâd tried everything.
Except you hadnât. Not really.
There was one last place to try your luck, despite your reluctance. There was a reason youâd tried to ignore this job in the past.
Isaac Night. His name was a whisper in the town almost constantly, as if he was an urban legend, mythologicalâsomething youâd seriously consider to be true if not for the flyer in the Weathervane.
Maid wanted, live-in, Monday-Saturday, $50/hour.
It was a heck of a deal. Youâd be a fool to not try. But youâve heard things of that house. Past takers have gone and allegedly never been seen again, their faded pictures on âMissingâ flyers all over town. Night hasnât been seen around in almost a decade, not counting the tales the children tell their mothers of seeing him from their windows at midnight. Youâd see the house as you walked around the town square, high on that hill like he was silently declaring his superiority over you all. The sight of it gave you chills. Being inside? Living there? You canât even imagine.
Fifty bucks an hour.
What do you have to lose?
Youâve never felt regret like you do in this moment.
It didnât take more than two days for the man to get back to your application letterâno interview, no questions, just a simple âMonday, 8 AMâ. Short, to the point, you can appreciate that, and hey, youâre employed now.
But come Monday morning, you feel a crippling sense of dread wash over you like a monsoon. You canât take another step. Not yet. Your eyes are fixated on the house before you, old and uncared for bricks that have chipped away, the porch which has become sunken with time and weight, and the door that looks like it knows something you donât. Itâs ominous, and youâve half a mind to turn back and abort the entire plan.
Instead, you persevere. A step forward. Then another. The gravel cracks under your weight, sounding final and grave. The earth beneath you is greener than youâd expected, the path that you presume was once here overgrown by grass and weeds. Still, stones click beneath your worn boots as you approach the steps in front of the door.
As you crept, you noted more things about the house. Vines crawled up the sides like veins, wrapping around the build as if it wanted to choke it, whilst simultaneously looking like they were keeping the whole structure together, like stitches.
The porch creaked dangerously beneath you. Your eyes darted from the door to the hollow window a little ways beside it, as if the legend himself would be waiting for you. You know he is. Where else would he be?
Then, youâd crossed the Rubicon. Your feet ceased their steps as you settled on a faded mat right by the door. No âwelcomeâ or witty joke on it, just an old piece of fabric that groaned dust once youâd put your weight on it. Like itâs never felt footsteps in years. Maybe it hasnât.
You raise your hand tentatively, heart rate spiking. Theyâre just make believe, you assure yourself, swallowing dryly. Nothing to be afraid of.
And with that, you knock.
The reverberating sound itself seems to resound in your soul, like youâve just made a decision thatâll change fate. You lower your hand and clench your fist tighter, feeling the flesh grow clammy with nerves. You waited a few moments, with nothing but eerie birdsong and your own sharp breathing to accompany you.
Nothing.
You could see the town from up here, more insignificant than it ever felt before. Your eyes glance sideways to the dirt path youâd trekked up to get here. You could go. Forget this entire thing. Let his flyer stay up in the Weathervane, ignored and decaying.
But something roots you to the spot. Like leaving isnât an option, not even in your imagination. You bite the inside of your lip anxiously, your brain screeching curses as you shakily reach out to the doorknob. You twist, and push. You damn near fall in with the pressure you handled, half expecting it to be locked. Your right foot settles on the wooden planks, old and loud. With a wince, you step in fully, dragging your suitcase with you.
Your eyes never remain in one place for more than a second, gaze flying around the foyer as you examine the details of the house youâd only ever heard tales of. The walls were white, weathered down to the colour of bone with a sickly tint. The staircase is to your right, lined with the same wood youâre standing on, railing splintered like a cracked spine. Along the stairs, paintings line the wall. Youâre too far to properly see them.
Ahead of you is a doorway, the inside of the next room so dark it looks like a blot that was forgotten to be filled in. Even with the sun almost fully risen and casting the remnants of its early golden veil through the windows, you couldnât catch a glimpse. To your left, another doorwayâinside, you can see a grand, mahogany piano that looks so dusty itâs almost an insult. You consider taking a step towards that room when a voice, almost silent, pierces the silence in the softest of ways.
âDonât linger at the door.â Your eyes snap to the arch in the wall, the dark, enticing room ahead now blocked by a figure leaning on the doorway. âI might think you plan on leaving.â
Isaac Night. Your heart skips a beat. This is him. The man that everyone in Jericho fears, the very one whoâs name is never whispered thrice in worry that heâll magically appear and lay waste to the town. The man who lives in that old Victorian farmhouse on the hill that has a room designated for dead bodies that he feasts on when heâs bored, the corpses serving as reminders of past people foolish enough to take this job.
Youâre a little underwhelmed.
He doesnât have sharp teeth or haunting red eyes like the children cry, nor claws or a forked tongue like a snake. Heâs just a man. Admittedly, an extremely handsome one. The kind youâd never see casually, both alluring and dangerous in the most mysterious way. Heâs tall, very tall, easily over 6 foot. A lean, thin frame thatâs pale and sheltered. His face is slim, freckles gracing his chin and cheekbones. A mop of dark, curly hair rests on his headâslightly astray, from what, youâve no clue. And you canât really tell from here, but his eyes look equally as dark, enchanting and almost seductive in the way theyâre trained on you.
Snap out of it.
âOh, IâŠâ You stammer, your voice a nervous breath. You glance back at the open door, and stagger further inside with your suitcase so you can shut it. Your movements are stiff and awkward, fingernails digging into your palm as you try to avoid direct eye contact at all costs. âIâm sorry for barging in like this, Mr. Night, itâs just⊠well, I knocked, you see, but there was no answer, and the door was unlocked, and I thought well, I basically live here now, so I thought Iâd justâŠâ
You trail off when he puts a hand up, effectively silencing you instantaneously. Your mouth remains open, then closes, then opens again like a fish out of water. Eventually, you purse your lips and watch with wide eyes as he takes a few slow, agonisingly slow steps forward. Thereâs an amused tilt to his lips, but an impatient glint in his eyes.
âDonât bother yourself with formalities. Isaac.â His voice is clipped, measured and articulated in a rehearsed kind of way. Not his first time saying these words. âI trust you know you will be living here full-time. I have no patience for tardiness, so itâs preferable youâre here.â His lips curl in a polite, yet forced, smile. âAs said on the flyer.â
You stare at him for a few moments, before nodding dumbly. âYes.. yes, yes Iâm aware.â You glance at your suitcase briefly, practically empty save for clothes and other essentialsâyou didnât think youâd be here long, and if you were, you didnât think.. Isaac would have a certain penchant for your trinkets. Not that you had much. Couldnât afford any since your father got sick.
He offered one curt nod, sending you one last inspecting look before turning and making for the stairs. âIf youâll follow me, Iâll show you to your room.â He didnât wait for you. Your brows raised, and you wasted no time in grabbing the handle of your suitcase and quickly trailing after him.
He climbed the steps with a certain practised elegance, whereas you were all two-left-feet as you tried to balance your luggage and keep up with him at the same time. He didnât glance back or offer any help. He just continued speaking.
âYou can have majority of today with no responsibilities whilst you settle in. I have work to tend to. My bedroom, office, and laboratory are located on the third floor. Youâre strictly prohibited from entering any of them without my explicit permission.â His voice sounds almost bored, and you almost slip as you quickly turn to go continue up the stairs that turn. He glances at you in his peripheral. How humiliating. âEverywhere else, be my guest. Donât go rummaging around past sundown, donât distract me from my work during the day, donât bother attempting to go into rooms with locked doors, and donât bother cooking for me.â
You raise your brow at that last part. Fifty dollars an hour, just for cleaning? The house is big, sure, but surely you were expected to cook as well. Youâd actually prefer the extra work to waste away the hours of the day in this place. You donât say anything.
As you reach the top of the stairs, you slow your steps a little to look around. More stairs continue to the third floor, and past them is a hallway. A singular door at the end, the window on the wall facing you situated so that the morning sun shines directly through and almost blinds you. You turn, watching as Isaac makes his way to the other end of the hall. You bite your cheek, adjusting your grip on the suitcase and trailing after him.
He stops at the end, where two doors are situated on opposite ends to each other. He searches the pocket of his dark trench coat (who wears those inside, at the crack of dawn?) and pulls out an ancient looking key. Whilst he twists the rusted lock, your eyes scan the walls. Theyâre chipped and worn like the ones downstairs, but bare. You forgot to inspect the paintings lining the stairs in your chase after Isaac. Oh well, youâll certainly have lots of free time to later.
Thereâs a soft click as the door finally unlocks. He stands straight, and you back up a little, almost forgetting how tall he is in those few moments. Without waiting or sparing you a look, he steps inside the room, floorboards creaking with strain. You stifle a sigh as you follow him in, immediately looking around your new bedroom. It wasnât all that bigâbut surprisingly, it was cleaner than the rest of the house. The walls were coloured a fresh oyster, not dirtied like the others. On the right wall, a bay window, unlike the other hollow panes that look like theyâve forgotten to blink for decades that decorate the rest of the house. Thereâs a single canopy bed in the left corner of the room, a vintage wooden dresser beside it with a singular lamp on itâsoft whites and cream. Thereâs even a rugâworn, and slightly discoloured from what it used to be, but the floor isnât bare like the other rooms.
Itâs nice. Surprisingly nice. Not as modern as youâre used to, but infinitely better than you were expecting.
Youâre almost breathless with gratitude. He lives alone, from what youâd gathered, so he mustâve cleaned it up nice for you. You blink, turning to face him, readying yourself to thank himâno matter how awkward you find it to speak to him. Your heart jumps when heâs already looking at you, as if studying your reaction. His gaze is clinical, like that of a scientist studying a chemical reaction.
You briefly swallow, feeling the need to fix your posture under his unwavering stare. âThank you for⊠well, itâs really beautiful.â
His lips twitch with amusement, his brow furrowing almost incredulously. âItâs a bedroom.â Is all he dignifies you with, keeping his eyes trained on you as he reaches behind him and places the bedroom key on a small table beside your door. He inhales after a moment, giving the room and you one last look over, before turning and moving to step out. âLock the door at night.â Is the last thing he grumbles, before leaving you to yourself.
You hear the stairs creak as he climbs to the third floor, and you turn to look around your new space once more. You glance from your made bed, to your suitcase, then back to the bed. Then out the window to where the sun has risen.
You shut the door, and abandon your suitcase, beelining for the bed. You kick your shoes off, letting them clutter on the wood below as you sit on the edge of the bed. It sinks beneath your weight, surprisingly soft and comfortable.
Youâve not been used to getting up so early, and well, no responsibilities for today. Might as well relish in one last nap before the real work starts.
The piano is out of tune.
The key groans beneath your finger, vibrating sluggishly. Itâs not been played in a while, if at all, you muse. You trail your fingertips across the keyboard, dust sticking to you like a stain. You sigh as you look at the thing, lamenting its antique grandness going to waste. Forgotten, like everything else in this house.
The bookcase beside the piano is the same. The shelves looking more chestnut with the early evening glow, highlighting the sheer amount of classic literature lining themânovels that youâre practically born knowing the name of. All left to rot.
Youâre bored.
Youâd actually prefer some work. Having slept the morning away, and spending the afternoon in your room doing nothing, youâve began to wander. Exploring the spaces you couldnât before. Youâve come to realise thereâs no food in the house, and by the time you make it to town all grocery stores will be closed. So much for cooking for yourself.
With a sigh, you walk out of the room and back into the main hall of sorts, looking around with boredom. Then, you remember, the paintings. One of the only things that decorate the plain walls of this godforsaken house.
You swiftly turn, making your way to the staircase and rushing up the first few steps, eyes immediately settling on the first.
Itâs a family portrait. You furrow your brows as your attention instantly focuses on Isaac. Heâs young in it. He looks impossibly paler and sickly, lips curled into a shaky-looking smile that looks like itâd drain all his energy. The smile doesnât reach his eyes. No, his eyes appear somewhat more tense than heâs trying to come across asâyou wonder if itâs with frustration, nerves, or just teenage awkwardness. His hair is slicked back, and heâs wearing extremely old fashioned clothes.
The rest of the family is similar. Thereâs a girl beside Isaac, dark locks of brown hair wrapped in two delicate pigtails that rest upon her shoulders. Her smile is more timid, a barely there upward curve of the painterâs brush. She has pale skin to match her brotherâs, you assume, but her cheeks are far more flushed than his could ever be. Her eyes look sad. You briefly wonder what her name is.
A woman stands behind the girl, wearing a white lace dress. Itâs an old thing, with frills and lacy cuffs, but it suits her. She looks just like the girl. The front of her hair is pinned back, locks of matching chestnut waves framing her face. She has more colour to her. Her smile is one that holds class, and name. The kind thatâs worth something. Her hand is settled on the girlâs shoulder, and your eyes flicker to the wedding ring that surely costs more than your entire life.
The father, you like a lot less. He doesnât attempt to smile for the painter, his face neutral and hardened. His eyes expel no emotion like the others do. His posture is upright and rigid, one hand settled on the back of his wife, the other on his son, Isaacâs, shoulder. His grip is tight. So tight that itâs noticeable through a painting. You see where the shoulder pads of Isaacâs blazer scrunch between his fatherâs fingers. You donât enjoy looking at him for long. It doesnât take rocket science to guess what sort of man he was.
Your eyes linger on Isaac a moment more, your employer that seems so clinical and cold, smiling. Albeit a fake one. Youâre tempted to smile back. Instead, you step forward, looking to the next.
Another family portrait. This one is different. Isaac and his sister are older, surely early teenage years. Isaac is sat straight on a wooden chair, feet firmly planted on the floor and his hands scrunched in his lap. His skin is paper white, and his expression is uncomfortable. He looks more like his father in this one, not bothering to smile for the painting, rather staring blankly at you. His hair is still slicked back, curls more prominent at the back of his neck, longer. His sister is stood up, behind the chair with her hands settled on the top of it, right behind Isaacâs head. Her smile is the same as the last. Her hair is still in pigtails, longer now and perhaps darker. She wears a similar dress to the last.
The mother isnât in the portrait. The father stands beside the girl, hands behind his back and heâs wearing that same cold, intimidating glare. His dark hair is shorter. From stress, perhaps, or maybe he had just gotten it cut and youâre reading too much into it.
Your eyes dart down to check for inscription on the bottom of the frame. Context, names, a year perhaps. Thereâs a blotched rectangular outline, like it has been ripped off. You donât let it keep your attention for long. Your eyes trail to the next. This is the last one.
The girl from the others, Isaacâs presumed sister. Itâs not a painting. Itâs a photograph. You step closer, eyes widening with renewed interest at the clearer quality of her face. Sheâs older, surely late teenage years in this one. Her hair is pulled into those same old pigtails, and sheâs wearing the biggest grin youâve seen on her yet. Itâs a candid photo, looks like someone took it right as she was writing something. You glance down at the book. The cover is black, and the book is thick judging from how many pages. You briefly wonder if you saw it on the bookshelf earlier. Then at the surroundings. She looks like sheâs in this house, behind her is a doorway into a room with a clean, mahogany piano. Sheâs in room youâve not seen yet.
Your gaze travels back up to her face. What happened to you? To this house?
You have questions, curiosity swirling behind your eyes like an elixir. You donât hear the footsteps descending the stairs.
âFrancoise.â
You yelp. Your body jolts, and you stagger back a step, then another. You almost stumble and trip down the stairs, reaching behind and gripping the cracked railing with a surprised gasp. You look up to where Isaac is stood, watching you with furrowed brows. Your cheeks burn and your chest heaves as you try to calm your heart.
âWhat?â You ask, your voice coming out more of a snap in your sharp breaths. Your brows furrow in confusion, and anxiousness at having him speak to you directly.
He doesnât move, or stop looking at you, as he gestures with his chin to the portraits. âMy sister. Her name is Francoise.â
Itâs as if he read your mind. You glance between him and his sister, slowly straightening yourself up, removing your hand from the railing. It gives a creaking sound as you let go. âOh.â
You swallow nervously, looking back up at him. Heâs still looking at you, as unreadable as ever. âWhat happened to her?â Curiosity did kill the cat.
His expression doesnât shift. âShe died a long time ago.â
Your face softens, looking back over to the portraits. At her little smile and braids. âOh⊠Iâmâ Iâm sorry.â
His head tilts for a moment, and he hums as he follows your gaze to her youthful face.
You look at him tentatively. âCan I ask how?â
He lingers on her for a moment before slowly looking back at you. Thereâs silence for a moment. Then he shakes his head softly. âNo.â
Your lashes flutter in surprise. But you canât say you really expected different. He gifts you a drop, you ask for an ocean. You wonât get it. You nod once, looking away and pursing your lips.
Isaac eyes you for a few more awkward seconds, before his gaze moves past you. Behind you. Your head turns and you follow his eyes, furrowing your brows when you see nothing out of the ordinary.
âI think itâs time you retire to bed.â He speaks, voice clipped and monotone. âItâs getting dark.â
You glance over, then back behind you to the windows by the door. The sun sets quicker now as autumn is creeping in. Thereâs a few rays of the soft, ambient glow of the sun as it shines its final residue.
âYes, youâre⊠probably right.â You breathe, looking down and brushing down the creases of your shirt. You move to walk by him without looking.
You brush shoulders with him on the somewhat narrow staircase, and you feel him tense. You say nothing. You carry on up, but stop in your tracks when he says something else.
âLock your door tonight.â He muttered, leaving no room for argument. Like he was almost warning you. âDonât come out until morning.â
You turn to face him halfway, eyes trained on the back of his head. You let the words sit in the air a moment as you process them. Heâd already told you thisâbut not like he just did. He seems a lot more serious about it than you thought. You nod, even though he canât see you. âI will.â With that, you go to continue up the stairs. You take a step, then pause. You tilt your body slightly, hesitation inhibiting your movements. After a moment, âGoodnight.â
His head shifts slightly, as if he was going to look at you but decided against it. You can just make out the curve of his sharp jawline. He doesnât reply. You donât know if you wanted him to. You carry on upstairs.
Sleep doesnât come easy that night.
You find that the house isnât all that boring, nor as unsettling, when youâre actually doing things. And there was a lot to be done.
Youâd found a duster in a broom closet, by some miracle, and had spent a total of nearly two hours just clearing the first floor and the stairs. Seriously, how can anyone live like this? Youâre lucky that Isaac hadnât stormed downstairs from his lab to scold you for your relentless sneezing.
Youâre out of breath and practically sweating profusely by noon, despite the gloomy weather outsideârain has been pattering softly at the old wooden walls all day. You consider taking a break to cool off, leave the next two floors for the future you. But knowing that youâll have to deal with it later, topping it up to the total tasks you have: grocery shopping, shopping for a vacuum and other essentials that just arenât here, mopping, wiping the windows, and cooking for yourself? You simply canât win against yourself. So with a sigh and a dramatic groan, you bend down to pick the duster up from where youâd tossed it in frustration. You drag yourself up the rest of the stairs, gaze catching on Francoiseâs face as you pass.
Her smile mocks you.
The air seems impossibly thicker on the second floor, leaving your face damp. Another sneeze ambushes you and makes you stumble back from the sheer force of it. With a grumble on a certain someoneâs probable hygiene in these conditions, you get to work.
As you clean, you think of your new boss. You think of his unwavering nonchalance in every aspect, even when talking about his dead sister. His mystique, how heâs alluring and confusing all at the same time. You think of how he repeatedly told you to lock your door at night, as if someone may come in. But as far as you know, nobody else lives here save you and him. And he certainly seems like heâd like to avoid you at all costs.
You think of his mannerisms as you swipe the duster song the corner of the floor where wood meets drywall. The way his eyes narrow at you when you embarrass yourself. How he keeps them on you when he wants to see your reaction to certain things. Your chest flutters as you recall those dark orbs, gleaming with exhaustion and melancholy. Asking you, begging you, to notice. You have. Youâre not sure he has.
You loathe how enticing he is. You met him yesterday morning, and youâre already making him your problem. You must be insane. Or youâve just gone far too long without a proper, human interaction in the place you live. You need help, you think.
You bite the inside of your cheek as your eyes dry from the dust. Heâs baffling to the core, one big contradiction. You think of how heâs not been seen in a decade, and has had this house for a lot longer than that, yet he doesnât look older than 25 at most. You assume that he lived here with his family, but theyâve never been mentioned in all the rumours circulating in Jericho. Never. You think of how he can even survive up here, no food in the kitchen, telling you to not cook for him. Does he have a fridge in his lab, or something? And why is there no WiFi or TV or any modern technology? Itâs like youâve travelled to the past. And how come the house has gotten this bad? Does he just stay up there constantly, and only ever comes down once to greet his maids their first day, then retire back up there? Who is he?
Is he the man youâve mentally built up in your head? The monster you suspect? Expect? Or is it all wrong, and youâre really the crazy one.
Caught up with these thoughts, you donât realise youâve climbed the second set of stairs as you were dusting them. Your eyes raise as you snap back to your senses, examining the floor youâve not seen yet. He didnât say you couldnât come up here. You just couldnât go into any of the rooms.
This floor isnât long like the one below it, but you donât notice that. You donât notice anything save for how spotless it is. You stand up straight slowly, standing up the last step that doesnât even creak below you. You peer around curiously. The walls arenât chipped or witheredâthey look similar to the ones in your room. The wooden floor is polished and smooth, a long, grey rug with intricate patterns lining the centre all the way down. It feels like youâve travelled to an alternate dimension. You glance downstairs, then back to whatâs before you. Surely your eyes deceive you? How can this be so clean and kept whilst the rest of the house looks practically abandoned? Maybe you werenât crazy, and he really did just live up here.
Then you hear it. A ticking? No, a clicking⊠Is it coming from his lab? You take a tentative step forward, eyes narrowing as you look at one of the doors (you donât even know what room his lab is). Whatâs he doing in there? The sound of metal twisting becomes louder. Your heart rate spikes, a sense of anxiety cloaking you like a blanket.
Then, from the door completely opposite from the one you were looking at, the noise climaxes.
He was just unlocking and opening the door, you idiot.
Your eyes snap to his as he steps out, and you tense very clearly. He pauses, not exhibiting any surprise or anger in his expression, but you see him hesitate to walk further. His hand is frozen on the doorknob.
You blink at each other for a few awkward seconds that feel more like hours, your eyes never leaving the otherâs, yours wide and his narrowed.
You purse your lips. You want the earth to swallow you whole and just rock you to a sleep in which you never wake from.
Then finally, finally, he steps back into the room he came out of and shutting the door. It slams loudly. It snaps you back to reality, and your cheeks heat up so hot you worry your face is actually on fire. You grab your duster and rush down the stairs.
You find that you much prefer being bored.
Your cheeks donât cool for the rest of the day. Not even relentless cleaning can distract you, nor the trek down and back up those uneven, slippery stone steps leading up the hill with grocery bags, nor even cooking the food.
Itâs getting late now. You sigh, twisting your now cold meal with your fork, chin in your palm. You donât have much of an appetite since that awkward encounter. Had you breached some kind of rule? You donât remember him saying you couldnât go up there, so you donât think you did. Are you fired? Your movements freeze at that last thought. If you couldnât hold this job, youâd be literally done for. Youâve tried everywhere else.
Then you began to panic. Youâre such a screw up, always self-sabotaging yourself just because you canât understand boundaries. Now youâre struggling to actually remember whether he told you to not go up there or not. You stand, abandoning your plate, the chair scraping behind you. You are not losing this job. Youâve left your childhood home for it, left the place your father died, left the town despite your better judgement. If this fails, you fail, and you canât have that.
You canât think about it, or youâll back out because of nerves. You have to ignore how scary it is to interact with your boss for now. Youâre walking through the foyer, making for the stairs with anxiously clenched fists when you look up seeing him already walking down. Same time he was yesterday. Another thing for you to wonder about.
You stop, and so does he. You canât hesitate. âMr. Night,â You close your eyes for a second. âIsaac, I just wanted to apologise for, uhâ coming to the third floor when Iâm not supposed to and intruding. I didnât mean to distract you or anything, or seem nosey, I was just dusting and I didnât notice I came up.â
He furrows his brows, glancing around, his mouth opening as if he wanted to speak, but you didnât give him the chance. âPlease donât fire me because of it. It wonât happen again, I swear. I just..â You swallow nervously, voice becoming slower and quieter as you process what youâre actually doing. You dig your nails into your palm. âI really need this job.â
He keeps his eyes on you a moment, eyes flickering between yours. With what? Bewilderment? Amusement? Second hand embarrassment? Your face is hot, and your heart is in your throat. This is it, heâs going to mock you and throw you out. Leave you to fend for yourself in the middle of the night.
But the worst never comes. He doesnât even acknowledge anything else you said. He just questions, âWhy are you down here?â
Your brows twitch, before you frown completely in confusion. You glance behind you. Youâve been on the first floor about a thousand times since yesterday already. âUh.. Iâm sorry, sir, I donât understand.â
His gaze hardens, voice agitated. âWhy are you down here when itâs dark? I gave you explicit instructions to not be wandering around the house after sundown.â
You stammer, checking behind you and seeing that the sun had in fact set. The sky was a twilight blue, hushing the first floor into a growing darkness. You look back to him when you hear him begin to walk down the stairs.
âIâm sorry, I didnât realise- Iâll go to my room now, but I just- I have to know, am I fired?â Your words are desperate, mentally praying that he decides to keep you. Your eyes are wide as you look at him pleadingly. He just stares at you as he reaches you.
He says nothing for a minute, keeping his cold gaze on your anticipated one. Your breath hitches. Finally, âYouâre not fired.â
You visibly deflate with relief, eyes closing and mouth curling up into a smile. âOh. Thank you, sir, really, I wonât-â
Youâre cut off when he reaches up swiftly, gripping your upper hand to steady your relieved swaying. His hand is cold, and you gasp, looking from his tight hold to his eyes. His face hasnât changed. He managed to hold you in place effortlessly. Your chest flutters and your stomach drops simultaneously.
When he speaks next, his voice is grave, goosebumps raising on your arms. âGet to bed.â
You stare at him a second as you replay his words in your head. The look in his eyes is enough nightmare fuel for a lifetime. Theyâre slightly wide and he looks almost furious. But why? Because youâre up past your bedtime?
You just nod wordlessly. He maintains eye contact with you another moment, the only sounds being your shallow breaths and the floor creaking as he shifts his weight. He lets you go, and you nearly stumble. Your arm throbs where his fingers dug into you. He doesnât look away. You do. You rush past him, and up the stairs, feeling him watch you as you go.
A thousand things are rushing through your brain. You feel uncomfortable and youâre unable to suppress the swirling feelings of anxiety, and confusionâthe worst part is you find you didnât hate him touching you, even in such a way. But hey. Youâre not fired.
You only remember that you didnât lock the door the next morning. Then you remember that nothing even happened.
The next few days pass without incident. You get up early, have a shower in the bathroom opposite your room (in which you always take forever, trying to figure out the buttons), then clean. Go to town when you need to stock up on food or get more appliances. Clean some more. Eat alone. Be in bed before sunset.
You havenât had any more run-ins with Isaac since that night. Itâs like the lightbulb of interest has finally clicked off in your mind. Youâre his maid, and heâs your employer. You shouldnât be trying to speak with him, shouldnât be snooping around his portraits, you should just be dusting them. Shouldnât be going up to the third floor, because clearly, your services arenât needed up there judging by how clean it is. Follow his instructions like a good employee. Keep the job.
Except, you donât follow all his instructions. The act of locking your door, and unlocking it, is tedious. The lock is rusted and old, and you have to twist the key so hard that thereâs deep indents left in your fingers afterwards. And after finding out that thereâs no point to it, you stopped. Must be some humiliation ritual. Nothing happens. The key collects dust on that little table.
You know a thing or two about being detached and indifferent. So thatâs what you become.
You even gain a little comfortable routine. You feel as if you live alone in this big house, and instead of being a maid, you fantasise that youâre a rich, classy woman living here and that youâre cleaning your own property. You avoid Francoiseâs smiling face at all costs when you dust the portraits. But your eyes seem to always drift over to Isaac. Not his expressionless face that youâve become accustomed to, but rather where heâs forcing a weak smile. You wonder what his real smile looks like.
You even forget that he lives here too sometimes. Never any sounds coming from up there, never comes down. The only reminder you get is when each morning, you open your door to see an envelope on the floor, containing all the cash you need. He always seems to know how many hours youâd worked that day.
Cash is a little annoying, but you doubt he even has a phone. No service up here, and he seems to think far too high of himself to have a bank card. Itâs money. You canât complain.
But you do get lonely sometimes. Back when your father was alive, whenever youâd feel completely isolated, youâd go and sit with him. Wouldnât speak, wouldnât cry, wouldnât even hold his cold hand like you used to. Youâd just sit in the chair beside his bed, and watch him struggle to breathe properly with his illness. You wouldnât admit it aloud, but youâd mentally tell yourself youâre not alone yet. Heâs not dead yet.
You canât exactly go and sit with anyone here. Your only human interactions are a brief smile and a âthank youâ with people behind tills whenever you pay for whatever. You think youâll probably go insane the longer youâre here. Would probably make you fit in better.
You realise being here has made you a lot more cynical. There are some positives. Like now. The highlight of your day is probably getting ready for bed. The sun shining through your bay window, where youâll sometimes sit with a book youâd taken from downstairs, or just look out at the rolling hills beyond Jericho. Remind yourself that thereâs more to life than this myopic hell.
Your eyes trace where the sun hides behind the horizon, its last rays swirling with the decaying green of the trees. Trees that sway gently with the growing wind, a hint at the colder months that are fast approaching. The sky above is a shade that canât be replicated, a mix of violets and soft blues as night creeps in. You sigh, and stand. Your knees click softly as you do so, and you mentally scold yourself for always sitting so still for so long, even though youâll do the same tomorrow.
You shuffle over to your bed, exhaustion from the days activities catching up to you. Youâd finally gotten a vacuum. Then remembered thereâs no sockets in the house. So you had to take that back to town, refund it, and then buy a wireless one. Vacuuming the entire first floor and second took more effort than youâd care to admit.
And another thing about living in basically the wilderness, is dust settles quick. So with your new companion, the duster, youâd wasted away another hour. Then youâd mopped the floors with the new mop youâd bought a day prior, which isnât as good as the ads make it out to be.
Your arms ache, and your legs. Without hesitation, you clamber under the sheets as darkness begins to infiltrate your room. Fatigue pulls at your eyelids, and you pull the sheets up to your chin. You fall asleep almost instantly.
You donât know what time it is when you wake up. Opening your eyes is too difficult a feat, but youâre awake. You turn over, trying to get comfortable and go back to sleep. But something tugs at you, urging you to get up. Somethingâs off.
You begrudgingly open your eyes, hands reaching to rub them harshly in your frustration. You sit up, your bed frame creaking. You squint your eyes as you scan the room. Itâs pitch black outside, and you can hear rain lashing harshly at the window. You sniffle tiredly. Nothing is wrongâ
Then you see it. Your door is wide open. Your eyes open fully, and you sit a little straighter. It was closed when you went to sleep, youâre sure of it. Fear curls in your stomach as your legs shakily move from beneath your sheets. The floor is so cold on your feet that it practically numbs them instantly.
You take slow steps towards the door. Your hand grabs the doorknob, and you reluctantly peer your head out to look down the hall. The sight is haunting, the hall is empty as usual, but seems longer at night. The window at the opposite end shines with moonlight and raindrops, casting shadows along the length of the floor. But thereâs nothing out of the ordinary. You straighten up, swinging the door shut, fully intending to just go back to bed.
You turn, swiftly beelining for your bed. Just as you grab the corner of the sheet to pull it back, thereâs a booming slam from downstairs. You jump so hard that you accidentally pull the sheets halfway from your mattress. Your wide eyes look back over to your now closed door.
âShit.â You whisper to yourself, voice shaky with fear. You reach down to grab the candle thats on your dresser beside the lamp that doesnât even work, frantically fumbling with a lighter to light it. It takes a few attempts with your quivering fingers, and you sigh with relief at seeing the flame gently grow. You grasp the handle, turning and looking at the door with heavy breaths. Youâre the one who takes care of this house. Itâs your responsibility to go investigate the noise. âShit, shit, shit⊠ohhhhmygod.â You close your eyes and inhale sharply, before walking with reckless abandon, swinging the door open and stepping out into the hall.
The shadows that lined the floor are flushed away with the candlelight. It reassures you slightly. Only slightly. You slowly pad your way down to the stairs, goosebumps raising on your entire body. Itâs cold out here.
You hold the candle in front of you as you take one step down. Itâs just an old house making noise, you tell yourself, or if it is an intruder, itâs just some curious kids. Youâll yell at them and tell them to get lost. Another step. Maybe you left a window open and the draft from outside caused a door to slam shut. Yes, thatâs probably it, youâve not heard anything since.
Another few steps. You inhale sharply as you turn the corner to the last few steps. The part of the main hall you can see is empty. No one is here. No one would dare to come, what with the fear circulating this house. You pause, holding the candle far before you to look further, bending slightly. Still seeing nothing, you continue down the stairs with a little more confidence.
You finish the last step, eyes looking around the room. No sounds coming from the room with the piano, and nothing coming from the connecting kitchen. You swallow as you look to the last room down here. The one that seems to always be engulfed in darkness. The door is shut.
Your breath hitches, and you look behind you. No windows are open. Your heart skips a beat.
You decide you want to go back to bed.
Thereâs been no sounds since, so itâs all okay. Probably. You take a step back, then turn on your heels and moving back towards the stairs. The floorboards squeak loudly beneath you.
And just as your hand grasps the railing, and you spin to step up the first step, you hear the damned door creak open.
You freeze.
You slowly tilt your body to look through the gaps of the railing, squinting through the darkness, but the light of your candle prohibits you seeing very far. With reluctance, you tremble as you bring the candle close. Quietly as you can, you blow it out. The room is immediately smothered in darkness.
You blink rapidly as your eyes adjust to the darkness, and you look back through the gaps of splintered wood. The door is definitely open. You tense and hold your breath as you shift your face closer.
Your shoulders deflate in relief as Isaac steps out. Of course. No one would come here, never here. What else were you expecting? Heâs always downstairs at this time. Youâre about to stand straight and just go back to bed, but something roots you to the spot. You watch closely, as he walks out of the room and the silvery light moon reflects on his face.
Your heart stops.
Blood. Lots of it. All around his mouth like when a child finds chocolate. It dots his neck, beneath his eyes and cheeks.
You tell yourself youâre crazy. You must be seeing things. Youâre tired, or itâs so dark that your mind is playing tricks on you. This house is making you mad.
But he reaches up with a gloved hand to wipe at his mouth, smearing crimson along his chin, and you know youâre not hallucinating or making this up.
Is your boss a fucking cannibal?
Your breath hitches on a gasp. He freezes. You slap your hand over your mouth. His head snaps in your direction, and his spine straightens.
You stare at each other for a moment, not unlike the way you did a few days prior. Your eyes begin to water as you begin to completely register the sheer amount of blood on his face. Your hands tremble violently. You drop the candle.
It smashes on the wood, the resounding clap seemingly breaking you both out of your trances. The step he immediately takes in your direction makes your heart drop to your feet.
You wonât be able to reach the door. Not with him already making his way to you, looking furious. No, murderous. So you do the next best thing. You spring into action, nearly tripping over your own feet as you sprint as fast as you can up the stairs. So hard that your toes bash into the end of the step multiple times. You donât register the pain through the adrenaline, only growing as you hear the stairs creak dangerously behind youâheâs chasing you, and heâs fast.
You reach the second floor, and you waste no time in beelining for your room. You bolt down the hallway that seems impossibly long, ears straining as you hear the staircase railing rattle as he grabs it, turning rapidly to keep up with you. You donât look back. Youâve seen too many horror movies.
Youâve felt fear before. When bullies in the sixth grade would send you notes in class that you were getting beat up after schools out. When you read a question in an important exam on a topic you didnât study. When the doctors first told you that your fatherâs illness was terminal. Youâre no stranger to the feeling of anxiety curling around your stomach and choking the breath from your lungs. But youâve never experienced it quite like now.
You reach your door, springing inside and slamming it shut so roughly the window rattles. You push against the doorknob to keep it closed as you reach for the key. Just as youâre about to jam it in, Isaac slams himself against the door so hard that it hits your head as it swings open. The key clatters to the floor and the door hinges squeak in protest as the door hits the wall with great force. You stumble back, one hand on your temple where the door hit you, the other settling on the wall behind you as you back up against it. Your heart is beating so fast that it might as well jump right out of your body.
He wastes no time. He walks towards you with such rage in his darkened eyes that itâs the most intense emotion youâve ever seen on him. On anyone.
You attempt to sprint past him, but he tuts and grabs your throat with his right hand tightly, his left gripping your elbow as he slams you back against the wall. The back of your head smacks it hard, and you cry out as pain buzzes in the backs of your eyes. The force causes the lamp on your dresser to go tumbling to the floor, the pretty glass smashing loudly, shards flying across the wood.
His heavy breaths are all you can hear. You canât hear the rain, or the wind, or the squeaks of the walls. Just him. Your glossed over eyes narrow with pain and frustration as you look up at him, cold fear taking root in your stomach as you make eye contact. Heâs staring at you with wide, frenzied eyes. Dried blood is still coating his face.
âWhat did I say?â He spits, his voice shaking with fury. His hand tightens on your throat, his glove scratching at your skin as your breath becomes shallow. âHm? Donât come out after dark. Are you so incompetent that you canât follow simple rules?â
You squirm in his grip, one hand reaching to grip his wrist tightly. He just rags you forward before slamming you against the wall again, his chest to yours as he pins you back against it. His harsh breath fans your face. âNow look what youâve done. You just had to go and ruin it, didnât you?â
Your temple throbs. You tilt your head up, trying to find some leverage against his grip for air. You choke on a breath as you squeeze out, âRuin what?â
At that, he scoffs, the corner of his lips twitching as if he were going to smirk but couldnât find it in himself. He shakes his head softly. His words are quieter, but not calmer. âI was going to kill you.â
You muffle out a cry, fighting against him harder, but he just tightens his grip as he leans against you harder, his weight knocking the air from your lungs. He shushes you quietly, the hand thats wrapped around your elbow tightening.
âI was going to kill you,â he continues, lips curling into a sick smile. âI still could.â
You snarl at him. âThen why donât you?â Your voice is scratchy and fraying at the edges.
He sighs through his nostrils. âIâve been watching you. I always play with my food, but Iâve found that playing with you is more exhilarating than it would be to just eat you and be done with it.â
You furrow your brows, coughing in your throat. You attempt to shake your head in disbelief, but his grip just tightens. His thumb reaches up to rub your jawline softly. âNo oneâs ever lasted this long.â
He must see the confusion in your eyes, because he just smiles smugly and tilts his head. âThey always get too curious. Look where they shouldnât.â Irritation bubbles beneath the surface. âThe last snuck into my lab. She was dead before dawn,â You tremble. He doesnât blink. âBefore her, the maid read the portrait inscriptions. She recognised me for what I am, and she tried to leave.â He shakes his head. âBut I knew she would. I stopped her. Her, and all the ones before her that refused to follow a couple simple rules.â
You swallow dryly, straightening your spine in the little space you have. Your eyes dart around his faceâthe blood, the crazed look in his eyes, curls spilling over them. Your breath hitches. âWhat are you?â
At that, his smile fades. Thereâs a pause, an almost imperceptible reluctance in him, but then he does the one thing you expected last. He releases you.
You double over, slumping against the wall as you heave air into your lungs and cough so hard you nearly choke. One hand wraps around your neck, where his was, and you wince at the pain that flashes behind your eyes. You lean your weight against the wall as you straighten up, eyes trailing the mess on the floorâglass shards glinting with the moonlight. You can vaguely hear the rain rattling the window over the ringing in your ears. Your wet lashes are cold on your brows as your eyes meet his, and you tense in preparation, expecting another attack. You canât go for the door. You know it. You just watch him, waiting.
Your heart drops as you see his gloved hand reach for the first button of his shirt. Your gaze is fixated on his movements, and you whimper fearfully through your pants. He doesnât react. He just unbuttons the next, and the next. Your brows knit together, but you donât moveâyou canât, your body is weak and you feel like you could pass out with the dizziness swirling around your brain.
But what you fear doesnât come. But you do think youâve gone mad.
You blink once, twice, thrice for good measure. Your eyes are fixed on the left region of his chest, or, where his chest should be. Thereâs a jagged outline where his skin has been cut, and in the darkness, you make out a blot on his chest where his heart should beâa black hole in his flesh. Whatever is in there glints as he steps closer. You donât notice his movements, unable to concentrate on anything else but the impossible contraption before you.
As he takes another step, youâre able to see more. Itâs some sort of machineâa regular ticking emitting from the metal like a heartbeat. Exactly like one.
You briefly look up at him to see heâs already looking at you, studying your reaction like he had when youâd both first came into this room. You look back down, numbing anxiety mixing with some sort of sick fascination, brows furrowing as you shake your head.
Your voice is hoarse and no louder than a whisper. âWhat is it?â
His lips curl up. âMy old heart was a failing one. A frail, human thing.â His eyes flicker down, fingers gently taking his shirt and pulling further, so that itâs clearer to you. âI invented this clockwork heart so I could live on.â He licks his lips, eyes darting around your face. âFor Francoise.â
You look back to him at that, remembering. Her soft smile, her pigtails. Remembering how sheâd died young. âYour sister.â
He nods once, not looking away from you, not for a moment. âShe was sick. Sick with a thing that had no cure. Those in the past with her⊠condition would die young.â He shakes his head. âI couldnât let her. So I stayed, in this damned world, to try and cure her.â
Your skin crawls, but a sense of intrigue curls in your chest. You relate, no matter how much you wish not to. Except, you werenât some kind of genius scientist. You couldnât invent a cure just because you wanted to. You swallow, and your throat burns. âWhat happened?â
He doesnât hesitate in his answer. âI died.â
Your brows twitch. He doesnât seem the type to jest, ever. You search his eyes for any sort of amusement, or dishonestyâyou only find sincerity.
He nods once, cementing his words and seemingly reading your mind. âI died forty years ago. But I was brought back.â One hand reaches up, his fingertips brushing your shoulder, as if willing you to believe him. âFor ten years, Iâve been living impossibly. Walking the earth as- as an undead. An embodiment of science.â
Your brows knit. You find yourself not shrugging him away. âHow?â
He breathes heavier, simple talk of science igniting his deep-rooted passion. âElectricity.â His hand settles on your shoulder. Not squeezing or gripping, just holding. With his other hand, he gently takes your wrist, guiding your hand to his chest. You both watch his movement. âTwice, I shouldâve been dead. And twice, Iâve surpassed the laws of life by all accounts.â
You hesitate, your hand still shaking with adrenaline and fatigue. Your fingers twitch, and the fingertip of your middle finger brushes against it. His clockwork heart. His breath hitches, and his hand around your waist tightens momentarily.
Youâre breathless with disbelief. âYou built this yourself?â
He nods.
âThen why couldnât you create a cure? For your sister?â
You half expect him to grow angry like before, or for his expression to shift. It doesnât. He maintains his composure, doesnât display any change in emotions. You suppose he must be numb to it by now. âScience is trial and error.â
He says nothing more. You donât think you want him to. You bring your hand away from his heart, feeling yourself become dangerously fascinatedâbecoming deluded in your hallucinating that tension is crackling between the two of you. He lets you.
You divert as you feel his gaze burn into yours, buzzing through your nerves and furling in your abdomen as desire. âIf she died, what are you doing in your lab all day?â
He sighs through his nose, his head tilting slightly, almost in pity. His next words knock the wind out of you. âI wish you came to me sooner. Perhaps your father would still be alive.â
Your eyes widen. He doesnât budge. âI told you, Iâve been watching you.â The hand thats on your shoulder slides to the side of your neck, his thumb rubbing the skin there, almost reverently. âTheir conditions werenât the same. Only the end to their pursuit. Trying to find a cure for your father gave me a scientific purpose Iâve not felt in a long time.â He pauses. âBut I failed.â
Your brain is scrambledâyou are crazy. Because all youâre hearing is not that heâs been stalking you for God knows how long, or heâs a fucking zombie, but that he was trying to find a cure. A cure that wouldâve saved your father. You hear that he silently cared for you when you felt the like the most isolated person in the world. That he cared when no one else did, not even yourself.
You donât feel the dull throb in your temple as a bruise starts to form, or the pain in the back of your skull. Just the feeling of his hand on your neck, not gripping, but holding, his thumb rubbing your bruises that he caused so delicately that you donât half deserve it.
You donât see the glass on the floor, or the slightly crooked door from where the hinges have loosened, but just his dark eyes. Softer and more vulnerable than youâve ever seen on anyone. His machine heart, ticking regularly and rhythmically as yours skips a few beats.
His hand shifts, holding the entirety of the back of your neck now with his large hand, looking down at you through his criminally long lashes. The air becomes electric, snapping with every intake of breath shared between you. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
âI could kill you.â He murmurs, his words lacking incentive. âI was going to.â
The anxiety and desire that have made themselves comfortable in your chest beat at the danger of it all. âYou wonât.â
He exhales quietly. He doesnât say anything else. He just leans in, ducking his head down low as he presses his lips to yours in the softest of kisses. His lashes tickle your cheek as his eyes flutter closed, yours following.
His lips are dry but unexpectedly soft, moving against yours with all the reluctance of a man inexperienced, all the patience of a scientist. You can smell the coppery blood on his face. Youâre weirdly unbothered by it now.
One of your hands tentatively moves upward, gingerly settling on his cheek. He pulls away, looking down at you with a typical unreadable expressionâconfusion, desire? Itâs hard to tell. You guess itâs the latter when he ducks back down, lips connecting with yours. His hand thats on your neck pulls you in closer, his other hand settling on the curve of your back as he presses himself against you reverently.
Your other hand moves to his arm, holding him as you reciprocate. You donât know why you do. Youâll think about it later, you tell yourself as you move your lips against his with growing fervour.
You donât register the iron taste as the kiss intensifies, as your tongue mingles with his in a way thatâs not languid, but rather desperate and needy. Your fingers slide through his curls, softer than youâd fantasised when you grew bored around the house.
You feel him growing more frenzied, lips almost violent against yoursâit should deter you. It should, but it doesnât. You only become more enticed, your morals becoming warped and blurred with every wet brush of his tongue against yours. The hand holding the back of your neck tightens, nails leaving crescents even through his gloves. You find you donât mind it.
When he pulls away, he takes your bottom lip between his teethâbiting so hard that blood spills, crimson drooling into his mouth. He groans low at the taste, keeping his eyes on you as you wince. Your stomach flips. Your own blood drips slowly from the surprisingly deep indents, tricking down your chin like a stream. You nearly moan outright when his tongue flicks out to lap it up, his approving hum vibrating against you as he licks back up to your lips, connecting them with his in a way so sloppy its almost beneath him. A man so composed and indifferent humiliating yourself for a drop of your blood, and he doesnât seem to care. Your cunt drools.
His hand moves from your back to your waist, and itâs like heâs pawing at you. His lips leave yours, and you heave for air. He doesnât. He just kisses along your jawline, down to your neck where he bites hard. You gasp a pained yelp, and he moans, rocking forward, his hips catching yours as you sway with him. Your hand tightens in his hair that tickles your chin, feeling him pressing hard against you.
âYou have no idea,â He sighs, his voice hoarse and whiny as he rocks against you again, unable to stop himself. âThe things I want to do to you.â
Your mouth gapes as your stomach curls at his words, need blooming in your abdomen like a late flower. âTell me,â You breathe, brows knitting when his nose nudges your cheek.
He reaches down swiftly, his movements choppy and desperate, gripping your thigh tight enough to bruise. He positions it right between his long legs. He lets out a gruff whimper when his clothed cock rubs against it in just the right way.
âIâll eat it for hours,â He blurts out, the words coming out breathy as his hips push up against you quicker, heâs choking on his breath. âThe thought of tasting you tears at my mind, and I cannot find reprieve. Not while youâre under this roof.â He bites at your neck again, like he canât stand any skin bare of his teeth. âIâd hold you, keep you down. Or let you sit and ride.â
His words kindle the fire thats already roaring in your core, and you canât help but sigh out a moan of his name.
His hips stutter in their rhythm, and he huffs against the crook of your neck. You shift your thigh to press against him, and the noise he lets out is borderline orgasm-inducing. He continues, âSince I saw you, I knew Iâd do it- anything you asked, and itâs unlike me. But I canât hate it when itâs you undoing me. Iâd do it allâbring you the whole town just for a breath of it.â
Heâs rutting against you like heâll do something wicked.
Heâs panting against you like how the neighbours dog would in the summer heat, a sound that would normally drive you to retire insideâbut now, youâd trade the world for more of it. His chest is heaving up and down against yours so hard that youâre forced up against the wall again. And his thrusts are growing sloppy, fingers digging into you so rough itâs numbing, and heâs choking on a moanâ
You feel it. Warmth spreading along the front of his dark pants, seeping into your thin pyjama pants like honey. And heâs punching out a grunt, grabbing at you, pulling you impossibly close- âOh, thatâsâ Iâm sorry, sweet girlâ Iâm sorry, fuck..â
His voice is shredded, used up. Heâs ruined and heâll thank you for it. Rutting against you and allowing himself to cum in his pants like a schoolboy. Like hes never known dignity, or pride. The inside of your thighs feel sticky with want.
You let him ride through it, his hips pushing shallow against you in a way thatâs so pathetic you canât help but let your need for him grow to a visceral level. His hips tremble. So do yours.
âIsaac,â You whisper, breaking the intimate silence of rain and his uneven breaths. He doesnât reply, but his nose drags along your neck as he breathes you in. âGet on the bed.â
And he looks at you with hesitation, as if he didnât just cum in his pants from a little friction. But itâs inevitable. When he steps over the broken glass as he makes for your bed, you swear you hear his heart skip a tick.
And in this moment, he isnât civilised. He isnât undead. Just yours. And just as crazy as you are.
