Sunlight hit my face, warm and blinding.
I sucked in a sharp breath and sat up so fast my head spun.
“The fucking robber!”
Last night came flooding back in pieces — the creaks, the crash, the pale mask, the hands on my neck.
I whipped my head toward the corner of the room where Michael had been sitting.
Nothing.
Just the wall.
I blinked, heart thudding, scanning every shadow, every corner. No hulking figure. No white mask.
My hoodie lay crumpled on the desk. I snatched it up with shaking hands and pulled it over my head, then crept to the door.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
I padded down the stairs, every step slow, waiting for some noise, some sign of life.
Nothing.
No body.
No intruder.
Not a single thing out of place.
The kitchen door was still locked. The porch light worked. No broken glass, no footprints, no blood.
It was like last night hadn’t happened at all.
“Maybe…” I whispered to myself. “Maybe it was just a bad dream.”
But then my hand brushed the back of my head.
A sharp sting flared under my fingers.
I pulled my hand back and stared at the faint smear of red on my fingertips.
Flinching, I touched the bandage again. It was there. Neat. Real.
Not a dream.
I swallowed hard, the kitchen spinning slightly around me.
If there was no robber, no sign of a break-in… then how had I ended up bleeding?
And who had patched me up?
"Michael "
The air in the house felt heavy again, charged, like someone had just left — or was still here.
I turned slowly, scanning every doorway, every corner.
The sunlight pouring in from the window only made the shadows darker.
Michael might be gone.
I walked to the kitchen and grabbed a cup from the cupboard and poured in some water
The water upstairs kept rushing, a steady roar that made my skin crawl.
I sat there, nails digging into my knees, my whole body buzzing with indecision.
If I run and he’s upstairs… maybe .
A bead of sweat slid down my temple.
I forced myself to stand, every joint stiff, and crept toward the stairs. Each step groaned under my weight, the sound like thunder in the silence.
By the time I reached the top, the bathroom door loomed ahead. Steam curled out from the narrow gap at the bottom, spreading across the hall like smoke.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
“Michael?” I whispered before I could stop myself.
The shower hissed back. Nothing else.
I edged closer, heart slamming against my ribs, until I was standing right outside the door. My hand hovered over the knob.
The steam was thicker now, warm against my skin. I could see droplets sliding down the painted wood.
I clenched my jaw, turned the knob, and pushed.
The door creaked open.
The bathroom was a cloud. Hot mist swallowed the air, blinding me. The shower curtain was pulled tight,
I froze.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The water beat down, masking the sound of my breath.
Then —
The curtain snapped open.
The shower was empty.
Water pounded into the tub, steam curling up into the room. No one stood inside.
I staggered back, confusion crashing into me.
And that’s when I saw it.
On the fogged-up mirror above the sink, a single word had been traced with a finger.
STAY.
The steam clung to my skin, but a chill ran deeper, straight into my bones.
I spun toward the mirror, still staring at the word scrawled in the fog.
That’s when it happened.
A huge hand clamped around my neck, cold and unyielding. Before I could even gasp, my back hit the wall hard, the breath knocked out of me.
Pain shot through my spine, my feet barely touching the tile floor.
Water dripped onto my face.
I blinked up through the steam — and saw Michael.
The white mask glared down at me, features warped by droplets sliding off its surface. His dark eyes were nothing but pits, watching me without a flicker of emotion.
He was standing there, still wet from the shower, a towel wrapped low around his hips.
It made no sense, my brain snagging on the image even as his fingers tightened at my throat.
I clawed at his wrist instinctively, but it was like iron — no movement, no give. The pressure built until black dots swam at the edges of my vision.
“Mi—Michael—” My voice came out a cracked rasp.
He tilted his head slowly, the way he always did before a strike, the mask dripping, water running down his chest onto me.
I tried to focus, but the dizziness swelled. My hands slipped against his arm, too weak to pry it away.
His grip loosened just enough for me to suck in a ragged breath.
He didn’t step back. He didn’t speak.
He just held me there, pinned against the wall, staring at me through the dripping mask.
_____________
Hello everyone how have you guys been!
First off, I just want to thank each and every one of you who voted and for helping this story reach almost 3k views. I’m honestly so honored and grateful for the support it really means alot
I know this chapter is a bit on the shorter side, but I promise I’m working hard to make this a slow burn. I’ll admit, slow burns aren’t my strongest point, but I’m giving it my best shot! If you guys have any ideas or things you’d like to see happen, let me know in the comments I wil love hearing your thoughts.
Also
Should Michael be more violent, or should he lean toward the “hate everyone but you” type
And lastly, I’m curious who are your favorite slashers? 👀 I’ve been thinking of starting a new book once this one is finished , so let me know which slasher you’d be most interested in reading about next
Thank you again for all the support you guys are amazing. ❤️