The white void had no floor beneath her feet, and yet she stood. No horizon, no wall, no ceiling—just an endless expanse of nothing that somehow held her upright, suspended in a stillness so complete she could hear the absence of sound itself.

He stood before her.

The marble-white man, tall as a doorframe, his skin pale and smooth as polished stone. Sharp cheekbones carved shadows beneath his face, a blade of a nose cutting the air between them. And his eyes—six of them, arranged in two vertical rows on either side of his face, all red, all open, all fixed on her. No pupils. No corneas. Just that deep, wet crimson, like wine held up to light, and they did not blink.

Erica tried to speak, but her mouth moved without sound. She tried to step back, but her feet were rooted to nothing. The stillness pressed against her like water at depth, and all she could do was watch him watch her.

He did not smile. He did not smirk. His pale mouth stayed flat and patient, and his gaze moved over her face with a slow, deliberate attention that made her skin prickle. He was reading her. Every line of her, every breath, every flicker of fear in her eyes. She felt seen in a way that stripped her bare, and she had not even realized she was dressed.

Then he moved.

One of his upper arms lifted—long, pale, smooth as porcelain, with fingers that seemed too many-jointed to be human. The hand reached toward her face with a slowness that made the air itself feel thick. She should have flinched. She should have screamed. But her body belonged to the dream now, and all she could do was watch that white hand approach, inch by inch, until his fingertips brushed her cheek.

The cold hit her like a shock of water. Not the cold of winter air or a cool hand—this was the cold of something that had never been warm, the cold of marble in a deep cellar, of stone that had waited in darkness for a century. It seeped into her skin, through her flesh, down to the bone, and she felt it with a clarity that had no place in a dream.

His fingers traced her cheekbone, slow and reverent, and she felt the touch like a brand. The chill spread from his fingertips across her face, down her neck, into her chest, and she woke with a gasp that tore through the silence of the room.

Her eyes flew open. The low lamp still burned on the bedside table, casting its warm gold glow over the rumpled sheets. The room smelled of cold tea and her fading perfume—familiar, hers, safe. But her hand was already flying to her cheek, pressing against the skin where his fingers had been, and the cold was still there. A phantom chill that clung to her flesh like a residue, refusing to fade.

She pressed harder, as if she could rub it away, but the cold only seeped deeper. Her breath came fast and shallow, and she lay there, frozen, her hand pressed to her face, her eyes wide in the lamplight.

It was a dream. It had to be a dream. The marble-white man, the six red eyes—she had dreamed of him before, that first night, a flicker of something strange and unsettling. But this had been different. This had been real. The touch had been real.

She lowered her hand slowly, staring at her own fingers as if they might hold an answer. They were cold. Not from the dream—from the room, from the night air. But the chill on her cheek still lingered, a small patch of cold that refused to warm.

She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist, and looked around the room. The lamp glowed low and steady. The wardrobe door stood wedged open with a book, its sticky hinge a familiar complaint. The curtains were drawn, the window dark behind them. Everything was as she had left it.

Everything except the door.

Her bedroom door stood open, swinging into darkness. She had closed it before bed. She always closed it. The latch had clicked, she remembered that—the small, satisfying sound of the bolt sliding home. But now the door hung open, a dark rectangle against the black of the hallway, and the air from beyond it was cold.

A thin thread of cold air, like the draft she had felt from the attic hatch earlier. It coiled around her ankles, around her bare shoulders, and she pulled the sheet up to her chin without thinking.

She stared at the open door, waiting for something to move in the darkness beyond it. Nothing did. The hallway was still, silent, empty. But the door was open, and she had closed it.

Her hand found the lamp, fingers brushing the switch, and she almost turned it off—almost plunged the room into darkness so she could see the hallway better. But the thought of the dark closing in around her made her stomach clench, and she left the lamp burning, a small island of gold in the night.

She swung her legs out of bed, the floorboards cold against her bare feet, and stood. The sheets fell away, and she was in her thin nightgown—the one she had worn to bed, the one that had seemed modest enough in the store but now felt flimsy, insubstantial, like it would offer no protection at all.

She took a step toward the door. The darkness beyond it seemed to breathe, to shift, to hold something that was waiting for her to come closer. She stopped at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, and peered into the hallway.

Nothing. The hallway was empty, the same as it had been all day. The bathroom door was closed. The study door was closed. The pull-cord hatch to the attic hung in the ceiling at the end of the hall, a small dark circle against the plaster.

She looked at the hatch, and the cold on her cheek throbbed like a second heartbeat.

She pulled the door closed, her hand on the latch, and pushed it firmly until she heard the click. Then she stood there, her palm flat against the wood, listening. The house was silent. Too silent. Even the old grandfather clock in the hallway had stopped its ticking.

She turned back to the bed, her feet cold on the floorboards, and stopped.

The lamp cast its low gold glow across the room, and in that light, she saw it. A shadow in the corner, by the wardrobe. A shape that had not been there before. Tall. Still. Watching.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the shape. It did not move. It did not breathe. It simply stood there, a darker patch in the darkness, and she felt its gaze on her like a weight.

She blinked, and the shape was gone.

She stood there for a long moment, her heart hammering against her ribs, her hand pressed to her chest. The corner was empty. Just the wardrobe, the book still wedging its door open, the shadows pooling in the angles of the room.

She was seeing things. She was tired, she was on edge, she had dreamed of a monster and woken to find her door open. The house was old, the floorboards shifted, the drafts were cold. That was all. That was everything.

She climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, and lay there, staring at the ceiling. The lamp still burned. She did not turn it off.

The cold on her cheek had faded, but the memory of it remained, a small patch of skin that felt different from the rest. She touched it again, lightly, and wondered if she would always feel it now.

She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come. The silence pressed in around her, full of patience, full of waiting, and she lay there in the lamplight, listening to the house that was not empty.

And then, in the darkness beyond her closed lids, she saw them again. Six red eyes, unblinking, watching her from a face of marble-white. Not in the dream this time. In her mind. In the space behind her eyes where the dream had left its residue.

She opened her eyes, and the room was the same. The lamp glowed. The sheets were gold. The door was closed.

She let out a breath she had not realized she was holding, and the sound of it was too loud in the silence.

She turned onto her side, facing the wall, and pulled the covers tighter around her shoulders. The cold on her cheek had settled into her skin, a permanent chill that no warmth could reach.

She lay there, her eyes open in the lamplight, and she did not sleep. She could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The marble-white man. The six red eyes. The hand reaching toward her face, slow and patient, as if he had all the time in the world.

And she felt, with a certainty that had no place in rational thought, that he was still watching her. Somewhere in the dark of this house, in the spaces between the walls, in the silence above the ceiling, he was watching, and he was waiting.

She pressed her hand to her cheek, where his fingers had been, and the cold was still there.

She did not know how long she lay there, suspended between sleep and waking, before she heard it. A sound from the hallway. Soft. Deliberate. The creak of a floorboard under a weight that should not have been there.

She froze, her breath catching in her throat, and listened.

The sound did not come again. The house was silent, still, holding its breath like she was holding hers.

She waited. One second. Ten. A minute. Nothing.

She let out her breath slowly, her muscles unclenching, and told herself it was the house settling. The old bones of the place shifting in the cold night air. That was all.

She closed her eyes, and this time, sleep began to pull at her, a heavy tide dragging her down into darkness. She did not fight it. She let it come, let it take her, let the dream rise up to meet her.

And in the dream, she stood in the white void again, and the marble-white man stood before her, his six red eyes fixed on her face.

He did not move. He did not speak. He simply watched, and she watched him back, and the silence stretched between them like a thread pulled taut.

Then he lifted his hand, and she felt the cold before he even touched her. It seeped through the air, through the void, through the thin barrier between dream and waking, and she felt it on her cheek like a brand.

She woke with a gasp, her eyes flying open, her hand flying to her face.

The lamp still burned. The room was the same. But the door was open.

It stood open, swinging into darkness, and in the frame, a shape filled the space. Tall. Pale. Still. A silhouette against the black of the hallway, its head brushing the top of the frame, its body too long, too thin, too wrong.

Erica's breath stopped. Her hand pressed to her cheek, the cold burning against her palm, and she stared at the shape in the doorway, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to do anything but watch.

The shape stepped forward, and the lamplight caught it, and she saw him.

The marble-white man. His skin pale as stone, his face sharp and beautiful and wrong. His six red eyes caught the low gold light, and they did not blink. They fixed on her with a patience that had no end, a hunger that had no name.

He moved toward the bed, his legs silent on the floor, his body too tall, too thin, too many-limbed. Two pairs of arms hung from his shoulders, pale and smooth, and his lower body was a spider's—a great, pale abdomen, and legs like spears that carried him forward with a silence that should have been impossible.

She could not move. She could not breathe. She lay there, the covers pulled to her chin, and watched him come.

His legs carried him across the room with an ease that made the distance meaningless. The lamp's glow caught the pale curve of his abdomen, the jointed angles of his limbs, and he seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He stopped at the edge of the bed, close enough that she could see the faint texture of his skin—not quite smooth, not quite porous, like something that had grown rather than been made.

One of his upper hands reached down, fingers curving toward the quilt where it bunched at her hip. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were giving her every chance to look away. She did not look away. She could not. Her breath came in shallow pulls, her fingers white-knuckled on the blanket's edge, and she watched his hand hover there, a breath from the fabric.

His six red eyes fixed on her face, and the low gold light swam in them. He tilted his head, a small, curious motion, and his pale mouth parted just slightly—not a smile, not a word, just the suggestion of something human in that marble face.

Then he spoke.

His voice was not what she expected. It was low, dry, like the rustle of old paper, and it seemed to come from everywhere at once, from the walls, from the air, from the space behind her eyes where the dream had left its residue.

"You dreamed of me. Good."