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Another solitary day drifts by in your even lonelier house.

It has become a ritual now — watching shadows shift and stretch in the corners, half-convinced they’re moving just for you.

Living alone is no simple feat, and loneliness itself is a burden so heavy you sometimes feel it pressing down on your chest. You feel it as you move through the rooms, as you wake in an empty bed, as you pour yourself a single glass of wine. Always just one. Each second stretches like an hour, and each day drags its feet like a year.

When you first arrived at this house — just two months ago — it all felt so promising.

A city you’d dreamed of, a job offer you never thought would land in your inbox, an opportunity to begin again. You packed your bags eagerly, smiling at the thought of a clean slate, of building a life where you could finally feel… something. Freedom maybe, or at least some kind of purpose. 

You pictured friends filling your small kitchen, laughing late into the night. You even imagined lovers, imagined mornings tangled in unfamiliar sheets. Imagined a partner, taking care of you like in the romcoms you spent years watching.

But the reality was different.

People in this city move fast — too quickly to notice you, too hurried to stay. Your neighbors are polite but distant. Colleagues remain just that: colleagues. Everyone has a schedule to keep, plans that don’t involve you, some even have children to take care of. And even those you left behind, their calls grow shorter now. Texts are left unanswered longer and longer, until the silence between you and them feels permanent.

So you stay home.

You work from home, breathe from home, live from home.

You prepare meals for one. Music doesn’t fill the quiet, books don’t distract as well as they once did, and hobbies feel like attempts at patching a dam that is already cracking. On your loneliest nights, you lie in bed and pretend you don’t yearn for a warm weight beside you, a breath against your neck, an arm draped carelessly over your waist.

It was dreadful.

But for ellie, it was perfect.

A lonely creature for a lonely creature.

Years of starving herself on the blood of animals had left her restless. It had been her attempt at penance, at pretending she could survive differently, cleanly, at distancing herself from the monster she really was. 

But their blood was never enough. Never warm enough, never rich enough, never filled with the delicious tang of terror and panic that only a human could offer.

And then there was a girl, just like you.

So human it made her teeth ache, so lonely it made her hunger sing.

And she started hunting again.

Hunting girls who slipped through the cracks, unnoticed. Girls who moved to the city to “start over,” but instead sank slowly into isolation, their absence barely a ripple in the ocean of crowded streets and sleepless skyscrapers. Girls with your skin tone, your hair color, whose blood she had learned was the sweetest of all.

Her hunger couldn’t be quieted anymore. Not after years of punishing herself with the thin, bitter and cold taste of foxes and raccoons, deer and birds.

And her next prey was you.

You, who left your windows open at night because you hadn’t yet installed curtains. You, who turned the lights off at the same time every night, made tea at the same hour every evening, moved through your routine with perfect predictability — like a small, skittish hamster repeating itself endlessly in a cage.

She started watching you the very night you moved in. Sat outside, hidden from view, while you unpacked boxes and sang softly under your breath. She learned the cadence of your footsteps on the stairs, the way you curled your body when you slept, the little sigh you let out when you slipped into your pajamas, flicking off the last lamp.

And when the sun dipped below the horizon and the city exhaled into sleep, she stayed.

Whether it rained or the wind howled, whether it was freezing or sweltering, she was there. Her gaze locked onto you, tracing your every move like a wolf in the underbrush — precise, patient, and driven by a growing hunger.

You didn’t notice her, yet. Just a strange sensation every now and then. A shiver that skated down your spine when you passed your own reflection, a little skip of your pulse when you caught something out of the corner of your eye.

But soon it became impossible to ignore.

The feeling grew heavier, like an invisible hand hovering just over your skin. Your chest tight, your mouth dry, even in the comfort of your own living room.

You tried to dismiss it — telling yourself it was exhaustion from work, nerves from being somewhere new. But some primal, deep, instinct part of you knew.

You started googling in the quiet hours of the night, wrapped in a blanket on your couch as the city glowed faintly beyond your window.

how can i tell if someone is stalk-

But your fingers always faltered before you could even hit ‘enter’, your lips twisting into a bitter smile and a scoff as you quickly erased the words. It sounded crazy even in your own head.

Who would bother stalking you, out of all people?

You closed the laptop and shoved it aside.

But the tingling didn’t go away. Not when you slipped on your headphones, not when you brewed another cup of tea, not even when you lay curled up in your bed whispering affirmations into the dark. Calls to friends and family provided fleeting relief, but as soon as the line went dead, the silence returned twice as loud, wrapping around your throat, slithering into your bones.

And then, one night, you couldn’t sleep. The white noise machine couldn’t soothe you, the rain drumming outside couldn’t lull you, the lavender tea grew cold on your bedside table. Your mind felt too loud, your skin too raw.

And thats you turned over — your body facing the window — and froze.

There, just beyond the glass: a girl.

A girl with skin that shimmered pale as bone, almost translucent beneath the moonlight. With eyes impossibly green and impossibly piercing. With hair that shined auburn in the pale light on the full moon.

Your breath caught mid-inhale. Your heart lurched, blood running cold and wild in your veins, rivers of red terror. Your muscles refused to move, paralyzed by the weight of her gaze.

You blinked.

Gone.

You blinked again.

Nothing.

You stare frozen at the window, eyes wide, unblinking, ears pricked for any sound — the creak of a floorboard, the scrape of wind, the whisper of breath that isn’t yours.

Everything feels more real now. Every shadow sharper, every second stretched thin and brittle, ready to snap.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. It’s a trick of the mind, a hallucination brought on by too many solitary hours, too many nights spent alone. You tell yourself you’re going insane.

But deep down, where no comforting mantra could reach, you knew the gaze had never left. It was still there. 

And it had always been there.

There’s a strange, dreadful clarity that settles over you after the revelation, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and doesn’t stop until it’s carved its way through your entire body.

Whereas for ellie, it was the moment she felt her own alarms blaring. She saw me?, she thought, pacing invisible circles outside your walls, her sharp mind working through what this meant. Maybe she should drop it. Abandon the whole game, slip away before things got messy. Find another lonely girl — easier, softer, clueless.

But then, her throat ached and her hunger twisted itself tighter around her ribs. she had been watching you for weeks now. Waiting. Wanting. There was no one else she craved. It had to be you.

So she made the decision to be faster, quicker. Before you moved away, before you put up curtains, before you did anything that might ruin the hunt.

She didn’t think about your fear. She didn’t think about how the air in your house felt colder now, how even with the heat on your fingers still trembled when they brushed against your own skin. How you double-checked the locks, the windows, the corners of every dark room. How you finally called someone to come install the curtains next week — a week too late.

No. You were just blood to her. Sweet, lonely, undefended blood.

But in your mind… in your mind, even if your actions said otherwise, it became an obsession.

The image of her was imprinted — scorched into you like lightning seared across the night sky. Her pale skin, her mossy piercing gaze, the impossible way she stood there, still as death itself.

Not human, you told yourself again and again. Maybe a lost woman? a vagrant? a hallucination? no google search could untangle what had wrapped itself around your thoughts.

You didn’t tell anyone. 

But the next night, as darkness gathered again, something inside you shifted.

You were about to undress in the bathroom, like always. Habitual, safe, routined,  when a strange heat unfurled in your belly. An intrusive thought, sharp and wicked:

What if she's watching?

Your fingers hesitated at the hem of your shirt. You turned toward the window instead. Slowly, almost dreamlike, you stepped into the center of the room, right in view of the glass.

Your heart raced. Your mouth went dry.

Am i sick?

The question flickered in your mind as you lifted your shirt, slowly peeling it away, revealing a flash of red — a bra you hadn’t worn in weeks.

You stood there, framed by the dark, illuminated by nothing but the pale glow of the city outside, your skin exposed, your breath shallow.

You should have been horrified. Instead, your pulse thrummed with dark excitement. Your stomach knotted with a heat you didn’t dare name.

Sick, you told yourself. You’re sick in the head. Twisted. Insane. Who wants to be watched like this?

But even as your mind repeated that, you slid your jeans down next, deliberate and slow — red thong matching the bra. Like the color of blood, you thought suddenly, dizzy with the comparison.

Your cheeks burned with shame, but your body hummed with lust and made your knees weak and your breath catch.

And Ellie didn’t think you were sick at all.

Hidden just beyond the veil of night, she watched every second. Each flick of your wrist, each gentle arch of your back as you stripped away the layers of fabric that shielded your soft skin from her gaze.

Her hunger, already sharp, turned molten. But there was more now. Something that curled hot and tight in her chest, something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time — longer than you had even been alive.

Desire.

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen you undress. She’d watched countless times from the shadows, her sharp eyes following your routine, memorizing every inch of your body, every idle gesture.

But this time it was different.

This time, you wanted her to see.

Red lingerie, the color of her hunger, the color of your blood — was this a game to you?

Her mouth watered at the thought of your skin beneath her palms, the scent of you — warm and terrified — of your hair brushing her cheek as she leaned in, her lips parting over the delicate pulse in your throat.

She could feel it already. The way your body would tremble, the way you would squirm and panic and plead.

But her craving was no longer about blood alone, not now. It was about you. About the curve of your back as you undressed, about the heat she imagined searing your skin as you realized what you were doing.

She always knew you were precious in a way none of her preys had ever been before. 

Graceful, fragile, wicked. Ripe for the taking.

She wanted to slip inside your house, press her cold fingers to your burning skin, whisper into your ear just how beautifully twisted you truly were.

And you — you, standing there in your red lingerie, knees shaking but chest rising in bold defiance — didn’t even realize you were feeding something much darker than fear before scoffing and turning off the lights, mentally insulting yourself.

The next days passed with no ceremony, but you kept the little ritual. What were you expecting, anyway? 

Each evening you tell yourself you won’t do it. You’ll go to bed early. You’ll keep the lights on. You’ll ignore the way the night presses against your windows like a mouth against glass.

But then you catch your own reflection in the mirror — hair mussed, shirt hanging loose on your frame — and the thought comes slithering back:

What if she’s watching?

So you do it again.

Ellie learns this new little routine. Sometimes she had to fight not to laugh — a sharp, delighted sound that would have given her away instantly. 

You really were that lonely. That willing.

The monster in her savors it. Every night you step closer to the edge, and every night she imagines stepping forward too — closing the distance, opening the window, pulling herself inside.

Sometimes she does more than imagine. Sometimes she tests how close she can get without being seen. A shadow that wasn’t there before, a faint sound in the yard, the softest scrape of boot against concrete.

And each time, your body reacts. A shudder, a sudden hitch of breath, goosebumps even in the warmth of the sheets.

You tell yourself you’re terrified.

But terror and desire are closer than you’d like to admit.

It's well past midnight when you finally drag yourself to bed. The suburb outside hums faintly, a lullaby too thin to soothe you.

Your bedroom is dim except for the small mirror propped across from your bed. You hadn’t meant to leave it there when you unpacked — it faces you directly, its reflection capturing every twist and turn of your body as you sleep.

You sit on the edge of the mattress for a long time, staring at yourself. Your own eyes look strange in the low light, glinting with something you don’t want to name.

You switch off the lamp.

Darkness folds over the room, thick and complete. The only thing left is the mirror — reflecting the shape of your body under the cover and the faint glimmer of your eyes, wide open.

You keep looking. An instinct won’t let you look away.

Your breathing grows shallow. Your fingers grip the sheets.

The mirror feels like a threshold tonight, like its made of more than glass. As if if you stare hard enough, you might catch a glimpse of the thing that’s been haunting you.

You're alone. Your body,curled in the middle of the bed, is the only thing reflected back at you.

Instead, you feel it. The weight. The shift of the mattress, subtle but unmistakable. The whisper of cold air against the back of your neck, too deliberate to be a draft.

Slowly, like a creature afraid of its own shadow, you turn your head — not toward the mirror, still showing only your lonely shape — but toward the space beside you.

And there she is.

At first, she doesn’t even seem real. Just a suggestion of a figure, darker than the darkness around her, as if the night itself had gathered and shaped itself into something with a face.

But then you feel her. The cold radiating off her skin is sharper than winter air, cutting through the warmth of the blanket. The coppery tang of blood clings to her like perfume, sweet, metallic and dizzying.

She sits so still as death itself, head dipped slightly, a hunter’s patience in every line of her body.

Your pulse hammers against your throat — fast, frantic, almost painful. You can’t move. Can’t even swallow.

Ellie tilts her head toward you, and the shadows part just enough for her eyes to catch the light. It’s not human, the way they glow — that terrible, green brilliance, the kind of brightness that feels both right and wrong.

You are struck silent, breath stalled in your chest, as if your body has forgotten how to be alive in her presence.

She is the most beautiful hallucination you’ve ever seen. Too sharp to be a dream, too impossible to belong to waking life. Your mind scrambles uselessly: am I asleep? am I awake? am I dying?

The terror in you coils tight — but so does something else, something hotter, something that makes your skin prickle as though you’ve been set alight.

When she finally speaks, her voice is low enough to feel rather than hear, a vibration running through your chest.

"Finally," she says.

A cruel little invitation, as though you’d been expecting her all along.

The shift is silent but predatory — the way a shadow creeps across a wall, the way hunger slips under a locked door.

You jerk back instinctively, but her hand moves faster, cold fingers wrapping delicately around your jaw.

"Don’t," she says, almost lazily, as if she’s bored you even tried. Her thumb presses against your chin, tilting your face toward hers until you’re looking straight into those unnatural eyes.

"I’ve been watching you," she murmurs. Her breath is cool when it brushes your cheek. "Every night. But you know that, don’t you?"

Your throat goes dry. You manage the smallest shake of your head — a weak denial, an instinctive plea.

Her mouth curves into a sharp, humorless smile.

"Liar."

The mattress dips as she moves closer, her knees bracketing your thighs. Her other hand presses flat to the center of your chest, pinning you back against the bed with startling strength.

"You undressed in front of the window every night, begging me to come closer. Didn’t you?"

Your breath comes quick, shallow, your body caught between fear and the darker desire that coils low in your belly.

"I—" you start, but she cuts you off, leaning down until her lips are a whisper from your ear.

"You wanted this," she says, the words soft but merciless. "All that pretending you were scared—but I could smell you from the yard. You weren’t scared at all, you were waiting."

Your hands twitch at your sides, trying to push her off, but she doesn’t budge. Her grip on your jaw tightens just enough to remind you she could break it if she wanted.

"Don’t fight it," Ellie says, quiet and cold. There’s no threat in her tone, just inevitability, as though your resistance is nothing more than a formality before she takes what she’s owed.

Her head tilts again, and for a terrible, suspended moment, she just studies you. The pulse fluttering frantically at your throat, the way your chest heaves under her palm.

"Perfect," she breathes at last, almost to herself.

Then she lowers her face toward your neck.

And strikes.

The pain is blinding. Her fangs sink in with a white-hot sting that rips a gasp from your throat, your back arching off the mattress before her hand flattens you back down again.

"Shhh," she breathes against your neck, her voice almost tender as she drinks, as if this is the only comfort you’ll ever need.

Your fingers clutch helplessly at the sheets, twisting the fabric as the ache spreads, molten and unbearable. Your whole body feels caught between two extremes: the sharpness of the pain and the dizzying heat pooling low.

Your breath stutters, breaks, and then turns into a soft, involuntary moan.

Ellie makes a sound at that — a low, feral noise against your throat — and drinks deeper, her hand sliding from your chest to your waist, holding you in place as your hips twitch helplessly under her weight.

"Knew it," she mutters against your skin, her mouth slick with your blood. "Knew you’d sound like this."

Every pull of her mouth feels like it’s dragging something out of you — not just blood but breath, thought, reason. Your vision swims, darkens at the edges, but you can’t stop the quiet sounds spilling from your lips.

It should scare you, the way you’re melting under her grip, but it doesn’t. It only makes the heat worse, makes your thighs press together as if you could smother the ache between them.

Ellie notices.

Of course she notices.

Her mouth slows, her tongue swiping lazily over the wound before she pulls back just enough to look at you. Her lips are wet, her fangs shining faintly in the dark.

"You liked it," she says, not a question, just a quiet, wicked fact.

You can’t even deny it. Your breath is ragged, pupils blown wide, body trembling with something far from fear.

Ellie smiles then — a sharp, hungry curve of her mouth — and presses her palm lower, right over your stomach, pinning you down in every way that matters.

"Say it," she demands softly.

You swallow, throat dry, the word breaking free before you can stop it.

"Yes."

Ellie’s grin widens, bending down and biting again, drinking deep as you whimper into the dark.

She doesn’t stop until your head feels light, until the pounding of your heart is a dull, faraway sound in your ears. Every pull of her mouth leaves you weaker, more helpless beneath her.

When she finally lifts her head, her breathing is steady — yours is not.

"Perfect," she murmurs, smearing your blood across her mouth with the back of her hand. "Could drain you dry right now. Leave you empty."

Her eyes glint, hungry and cruel.

"You’d let me, wouldn’t you?"

Your lips part, but you can’t form words. You just tremble beneath her, your body answering for you — hips shifting, thighs pressed together.

Her hand slides down your stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear before you can stop her. Not that you’re trying very hard.

Her touch is cold at first, then devastating as she drags two fingers slowly through the wet heat of you. The sound you make is shameless, needy, your hips jerking up into her hand. Your face burns, humiliation and arousal twisting together until you can’t tell them apart.

Her fingers slow, then drag back, gathering everything slick and warm between your thighs until her hand shines in the faint light.

Ellie pulls her fingers free, holding them up like she’s studying a painting, as though every drop is precious. Her expression is sharp, hungry — and unbearably calm.

Your stomach knots so tightly it almost hurts. Your throat feels like it’s closing, but you force a sound out anyway, a breathless, cracked whisper that surprises even you.

"Who—" your voice breaks, your chest heaving. "Who are you?"

Ellie’s mouth curves, slow and wicked.

"Does it matter?" she asks softly, and before you can answer, she’s already moving down the bed, her weight sliding between your shaking thighs.

"Please—" you manage, unsure if you’re begging her to stop or begging her not to.

Her hands hook under your knees and drag you open with startling strength, your panties peeled down in one smooth, unhurried motion. The cold air hits your skin and you gasp, your body thrumming with terror and something darker that makes your toes curl.

"Don’t look so scared," she murmurs, almost gently. Her voice is softer now, a low sound that sinks into your bones. "I’m not gonna hurt you."

The words should soothe you, but they don’t — not fully. Because you believe her. And that frightens you more than anything.

Your lips part, another shaky whisper breaking free.

"Then why—" your voice catches as she settles between your legs, her breath ghosting over you. "Why does this feel like I’m about to die?"

Ellie glances up, her eyes catching what little light there is.

"Because you are," she says simply, and the smile she gives you is sharp enough to make you tremble — not from fear, but from the terrible, shameful want pooling hot in your stomach.

You barely have time to breathe before she’s lowering her head.

The first swipe of her tongue feels like being struck by lightning. Your whole body jolts, back arching off the mattress, hands flying to the sheets then tangling in her hair, desperate to anchor yourself to something as the shock rolls through you.

Ellie groans against you, a low, guttural sound that seems to vibrate straight into your bones, and licks again — slower this time, savoring you, dragging her tongue up until she finds your clit.

Your hips jerk, an unholy, helpless cry spilling from your throat.

"That’s it," Ellie mutters against your hot core, her voice rough with hunger. "Let them all hear who you belong to."

Her mouth moves with merciless focus, not just tasting you but devouring you, drinking you down like the starving thing she is. You can feel the faint drag of her fangs against your inner thigh as she eats, not enough to pierce but enough to make your last blood pound louder in your ears.

She laps at everything, slow and obscene, and you realize — dizzy, breathless — that she’s savoring it, that this is more than hunger. This is gratitude.

"Fuck," she groans between licks, her words hot and wet against you. "You have no idea what you’re giving me right now."

Her hands grip your thighs tighter, pulling you open wider as if she’s afraid you’ll change your mind, as if she has to hold you in place to keep feasting.

Every stroke of her tongue is deliberate, worshipful, relentless — teasing you until you’re panting, until your thighs are trembling so hard you think you might snap apart.

When her fingers finally slide inside you, it’s almost too much — two of them, cold and sure, curling until they find that spot that makes your vision blur white.

You sob, the sound ripped out of you, but Ellie only groans again, louder this time, the noise vibrating against your clit as she works her tongue harder.

"So good," she whispers against you, her voice breaking into a feral rasp. "You’re so fucking good for me. Bleeding for me. Letting me have you like this."

You want to answer her, tell her yes, tell her anything, but you can’t — your body is too far gone, shaking under her mouth, pleasure ripping through you in violent waves.

The orgasm tears out of you like something primal, leaving you boneless beneath her, but she doesn’t stop. She keeps licking, keeps drinking, keeps making those soft, sinful sounds like she’s thanking you with every swallow.

By the time she finally pulls back, you’re wrecked — trembling and flushed, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

Ellie’s chin and lips are shining, her mouth wet with your slick and blood, her tongue darting out to catch what’s left like she can’t bear to waste it.

"Knew you’d taste better than anyone," she says softly, oddly gentle. Then she leans forward and presses her thumb over the bite on your neck, smearing it in, marking you with the same blood she just drank.

And you can’t deny it — not when your body is still shuddering, not when you can feel the faint wetness cooling on your thighs, not when every nerve ending in you is still sparking like fire.

Ellie smiles down at you like she’s pleased with her own work, and already planning to come back for more.

"You’re mine now,"

She murmurs, and you shudder at the words, already aching for the next time.

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