#subtle aggression

Oh you’re being aggressive and it’s openly visible, but in small ways.

When someone moves all of your stuff over by a half an inch and openly admits to doing it without any qualms, or deliberately keeps buying you decaf coffee and when you bring it up they tell you they know what you asked for

It was 3:03 AM when I woke up. I know because I checked twice.

At first, I thought I heard something. But it wasn’t a sound exactly—it was that feeling. Like my nervous system sat up before I did.

I stared at the ceiling too long, hoping it would hypnotize me back to sleep. Didn’t work. So I got up.

The house creaked. Not in a spooky way, just in that old, breathing way. You know? Like it’s adjusting to having someone inside again.

I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Tap’s cold. Good sign. Probably means the pipes won’t betray me for at least a month.

I checked the front door. Twice. Deadbolt locked. Chain latched. But I still turned on every light in the house like I was trying to scare off a ghost with ambiance.

The living room's still half-unpacked. Boxes labeled “Books and Vibes” stacked like drunk Tetris. I pulled my favorite black fur blanket out of the mess and curled into a corner of the couch that didn’t judge me.

I opened my phone. Just a scroll. Nothing too deep. Just enough to numb the static in my head.

And then I remembered—

That’s what the girl in my dream was doing. Scrolling. In bed. Wrapped in blue light like a noose.

And then—

There it was.

A story I’d never seen before. One of those random local Instagram accounts that posts about fires and break-ins and obscure community events.

“Young woman found deceased in her stairwell. Suicide suspected. Bite marks found on her neck.”

I dropped my phone like it burned me.

But I had to know. I needed to know.

I picked it up and read every word. She was well-known. Had a big circle. Part of the city’s social scene. The kind of girl people pretend to adore.

But no one came looking. Her body wasn’t found for days. The bite marks. The hanging. The decomposition.

And the strangest part? No major outlet covered it. Just this one eerie post from a barely-followed page.

Why wasn’t this everywhere?

Why wasn’t she everywhere?

I sat there, breathing too fast. The light felt too bright. The room too still.

Why did I move here? Why didn’t I just leave when I had the chance?

I couldn’t sit still anymore. I needed out of my head.

I grabbed my keys.

The city at night is a different kind of beautiful. Not alive—aware. Like it’s watching. But not in a bad way. Just... keeping score.

I drove with no real plan. Coit Tower. Alamo Square. The Presidio. Everywhere looked like a postcard but felt like a secret.

I ended up at China Beach. Sat there. Watched the ocean breathe. The sky was still dark.

I looked at my phone. Hours ‘til sunrise.

“This is just stress,” I whispered.

Held my head in my hands. “Okay. We’re in a new city. We’re young. We’re beautiful. We’re fresh meat.”

I tried to laugh. It didn’t land.

“I just have to get used to this. Something like that won’t happen to me. This is normal. I’m good.”

A pause.

And then: “I’m also hungry. And a bitch. And I need to get my ass back home before I end up sick and nuts.”

I climbed the hill from the beach, instantly regretting it. All you could hear was my voice echoing in the dark:

“Shit—fuck—crap—fuck—UGHHHHH.”

Why didn’t anyone warn me the real horror movie was walking back uphill in the middle of the night like a dumbass woodland creature with trauma.

Finally reached my car. Turned the heater up all the way. “Layers,” I muttered. “Dad was right.”

On the way home, I stopped at a red light. Pulled up Google Maps to adjust my route.

That’s when I saw him.

Just standing at the corner. Black hair. Tall. Beautiful in that “late-night jazz station” kind of way. Wearing a sleek raincoat. Like he belonged to the fog.

He was waiting to cross.

He looked at me. I looked at him. And then—he smiled.

Kind. Warm. Like he meant it. It lit something up in me I didn’t realize had gone dim.

The light turned green. I drove.

Checked my rearview mirror— There he was, in the crossroads, standing under the streetlight, waving at me.

The streets were still empty. Except for him. And the light.

And the crossroads.

Hecate’s crossroads.

I made it back home.

Pulled into the garage.

Went inside.

Didn’t even undress. Crashed into bed fully clothed.

Pulled the black fur blanket over me like armor.

Shook my head.

Whispered into the dark: “I’m fine.”

And for now, that’s all anyone needs to believe.

I wanted the bed to be right.

Not “hotel-room-right.” Not “Pinterest-board-perfect.” Something between come-hither and don’t-touch-my-pillows. The blanket had to be the blanket: my favorite black faux fur one that looks like it was stolen from a vampire’s guest room. It’s dramatic. It’s unnecessarily heavy. It makes me feel safe.

Silk pillowcases. Little spritz of rosewater on the sheets. And that candle I light when I want to feel powerful but soft, like if a Lana Del Rey lyric moved into a rent-controlled apartment.

I stood back. Looked at the room like it might look at me back. Good enough for a first night in a haunted witch-house? Yeah.

Texted my dad: “First night looks like a success 💫”

He texted back faster than expected: “Don’t get mugged. SF is nuts.”

Classic him.

So I sent: “Calm down. It’s Twin Peaks, not the Tenderloin.”

He read it but didn’t answer.

I stared at the screen too long. Thought about calling. I didn’t. Instead I typed:

“I’m really okay. I want you to be okay too. Call me. Any time. Even if you’re not okay.”

No response yet. But I left it there. Open door. No pressure.

He’s still grieving. I get it. But sometimes grief makes people sharp when they used to be soft, and I can’t keep slicing myself open trying to hug him. Still... he’s my dad. I just want to know someone’s holding him for once.

Anyway, I laid in bed. The fur blanket covering my sins. My bones. My hopes.

And I fell asleep to the quiet hum of the city breathing.

My first dream in the house......

There was a girl. I didn’t know her. But I knew her. She was doomscrolling in bed—blue light turning her skin into paper.

Her thumb flicked so fast I could hear it. Comment after comment. Hate after hate.

“Ugh, she’s so fat.”

“She wishes she looked like me.”

And then she whispered, teeth glinting like knives: “Look at me. I’m so fucking perfect.”

Then the house exhaled.

Three steady, silent knocks.

KNOCK

KNOCK

KNOCK

Not at the door.

Inside.

Somewhere deep.

She froze.

The phone light blinked out.

And then… A clawed step on the hardwood floor. Not loud.

Just wrong.

She got up.

Alone. Bare feet.

Pale legs.

She moved like someone pretending not to be afraid.

The stairs creaked under her weight, but the sound was... swallowed. The further down she walked, the darker my vision got. Like the air was thick with shadow.

Then— Her legs. They slowly raised to the air. Something had pulled her up? It was too dark to see. All I saw was her pale legs. She gasped.

A jolt.

Her body convulsed like something inside her snapped.

No sound.

The silence vibrated through my body and I couldn't breathe.

There was the kind of dead silence you hear in a forest right before something awful happens.

Her legs twitched.

Tensed.

And blood began to trickle down—slow, dark, deliberate. I could smell the blood? Like iron and warm.

Then a gurgle.

Not words. Not yet.

Just wet ruin.

Then— “I’m... so... perfect...” I felt a snap in my mouth? More warm goodness flowing into my throat?

And she went limp.

I looked up.

She was hanging.

Suspended from the second-floor railing.

Throat torn. Gnawed. Bloody crescent bite marks blooming across her neck like grotesque lace. Flesh ruined so badly she’d never spit cruelty again.

......there it was.

A black dog.

Big.

Solid.

Watching. Not angry. Just… there.

Ancient.

And as it left— One by one—the house lights clicked off. Room by room.

Until the door shut.

And it was over.

I woke up with my hand on my throat. The ring was cold. The blanket heavy. The room... still.

I’m not scared. Not yet. But something followed me here.

There’s a bodega three blocks down the hill from the house. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you lived here. It hides between two squat buildings like it’s trying not to be noticed. The sign is faded and the door sticks just enough to make you wonder if it’s locked, but once you’re inside—there’s warmth. There’s life.

It smells like incense and oranges and maybe something else… like a story.

I went there tonight. I hadn’t eaten anything real all day. Just coffee and memory. So I grabbed a basket and started wandering the tiny aisles. Plantain chips. Cheap wine. A microwavable risotto that definitely lied on the label but still made me feel fancy.

Then I saw him.

Not directly—no. I caught him in the mirror above the fridge case. You know those weird convex ones that make everything look a little off, like you’re already in a dream you haven’t woken from?

It was the man from earlier.

The one I passed on the sidewalk near my garage when I was carrying that box of books that felt heavier than it should’ve. He didn’t say anything then. Just nodded. Soft. A quiet hello that said, I see you, but I won’t ask more than you’re ready to give.

In the mirror, I could see he was watching me. And something stirred in me like a match that didn’t quite catch. I wanted to say hi. But my feet didn’t move.

Because I felt it—that stare. Not creepy. Not predatory. Just... known.

I turned toward the entrance, toward the feeling. And when I looked back, he was gone.

I made my way to the counter with my little collection of single-girl dinner sadness. And he was there. Just leaning against the lotto machine like he’d never left.

He tilted his head slightly. Not mocking—more curious. Almost amused.

I smiled without meaning to. “Hey,” I said. “Just moved in. Twin Peaks.” He raised an eyebrow. “The house with the weird door?” I laughed. “Yeah. It kind of looks like it used to belong to a witch. Which is probably why I like it.” He nodded, like he knew exactly what I meant.

“I grew up not far from here,” he said. “Left for a bit. But the city calls you back.” “Does it?” I asked, placing the ring box on the counter to grab my wallet. He saw it.

“That’s a beautiful ring.” “Thanks. It was a housewarming gift.”

He tilted his head again. “What kind of stone is it?” I looked at it. Black, with a shimmer that only showed up when the light hit just right. “I think it’s labradorite?”

He smiled, slow. “You know what that stone does, right?” I shrugged. “Makes me look mysterious?”

He shook his head. “It’s a protective stone. Ancient cultures believed it guarded the aura—kept dark things out. But more importantly… it reveals truth. Especially the kind that hides in shadows.”

I didn’t say anything. Just slid the ring back on. It fit even better this time. Like it heard him.

“Someone wants you to feel protected,” he added.

I didn’t ask what he meant. I already knew.

BATH TIME!!

I lit three candles and one accidentally sparkled. Not like sparkle-sparkle, but like it hissed at me—like it had something to say and then forgot mid-sentence.

The tub in this house is small but deep. The kind meant for one person with a lot of feelings. Bubbles. Lavender. A playlist that started sexy and accidentally slid into sad.

I slid under, exhaled, and stared at the ceiling like it might answer back. My hands floated. My knees peeked out of the water like shy islands.

And then— Silence.

The kind that isn’t peaceful. The kind that makes you remember who you’ve lost, what you escaped, and how loud your thoughts are when no one else is home.

The kind of silence that scratches.

I closed my eyes. I waited. And then I sighed.

I finally started packing today.

You know that moment when something shifts—not loud, not dramatic, but like a soft click in your soul? That happened this morning. I put on the playlist I used to dream to when I was sixteen and I just started putting clothes in bags, not overthinking it for once. I wrapped a cracked ceramic mug in an old t-shirt and said goodbye to the ghost of who I was in this house.

The air in my room didn’t fight me. It felt like it knew.

I didn’t cry. I thought I would. But the truth is, grief already lives here and has for too long. It’s sitting in my dad’s recliner and sleeping in my old twin bed. This place is a haunted scrapbook of should-haves and too-lates.

So I left.

The car was stuffed—trunk, back seat, even the passenger side if I leaned hard enough against the door. I took the 101 North, just like every moody Tumblr post told me to, but this time I wasn’t running away. I was moving toward.

I passed Gilroy, that weird garlic town that always smells like a vampire’s worst nightmare. Then San Jose, which felt like the boyfriend I should’ve never dated—too clean, too fake, too techy. Somewhere after Palo Alto, the skyline started to flirt with me. The fog was lifting in just the right way, peeling back the city like a secret being shared.

And then there it was—San Francisco.

Not the Instagram version. Not the tourist map. The real one. The one with cracked sidewalks and jasmine in the gutters. The one that makes your breath catch even if you’ve seen it a hundred times.

I drove up toward Twin Peaks. That hill still feels like it’s holding its breath, like it remembers earthquakes and lovers and house parties from the ‘70s that never really ended. I found the house. My house. Well, sort of. It's been in the family long enough to count. Some distant aunt left it behind like an heirloom wrapped in cobwebs.

It’s small. Awkward. The garage door sticks when it rains. But it’s mine.

And the front door? God, it’s a whole poem by itself. It doesn’t match the rest of the house. Looks like someone stole it off a broken-down Victorian on Divisadero and slapped it on this otherwise forgettable box of a building. It’s too tall. The wood is weathered like an old theater prop. But the knocker—that’s the part.

It’s on the inside of the door. Yeah. Inside. And it’s shaped like a black dog or a wolf. Something feral. Something protective. Like someone expected danger from within.

I touched it and felt... watched, but not in a scary way. More like... guarded. Like the door knows something I don’t yet.

I unpacked what I could. A few boxes. My altar. A photo of my mom I never hung up in the last place. There's already a pan in the kitchen, clean and ready. A chipped plate that looks exactly like the ones we had when I was a kid. Someone left a jar of lavender tea in the pantry and I almost cried, because I don’t even remember telling anyone I drink that.

This house—this weird, crooked house—has everything I need.

Maybe that’s what home is. Not where you came from. But where your soul finally exhales.