<---- 2 days later ---->
The familiar scent of Michael's aftershave lingered in the air, a fleeting comfort before the day truly began. He was at the front door, the soft murmur of his goodbyes to Lucy, her high-pitched giggles a stark contrast to the oppressive quiet that would soon settle.
Sophia watched from the entryway, a placid smile fixed on her lips as he kissed Lucy's forehead, then hers. "Be good for your mother, sweet pea," he'd whispered, oblivious ,He always was.
Then Michael was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden silence. Lucy, bless her innocent heart, skipped off to her room, humming a tuneless melody. Sophia's gaze, unburdened by performative affection, drifted and there he was.
Owen Windsor, a shadow descending the polished oak staircase. He moved with a quiet precision, as if afraid to disturb the dust motes dancing in the morning light. Her eyes narrowed, tracing the lines of his gaunt frame, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed permanently hunched.
A corpse. That's what he looked like. A walking, breathing corpse, haunting her perfect home. The very sight of him curdled the remnants of the morning's peace.
"Morning," he mumbled, his voice a low rasp. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the gleaming kitchen counter.
"Don't you dare," Sophia snapped, the words sharp, cutting through the stillness like a surgeon's scalpel. Her voice, usually soft and melodious for Michael's benefit, hardened, taking on an edge of steel that made Owen flinch. He froze mid-stride, one hand still on the banister, his knuckles white. "Don't you dare step foot in my kitchen."
He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it was expertly doused. Resignation, perhaps. Or was it just the blank stare she had cultivated in him? "But I was just going to make some toast..." he started, his voice barely audible.
"You think I want your grimy hands on my appliances?" Sophia sneered, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You think I want to start my day with the stench of your ineptitude filling my home?"
A memory, raw and stinging, surfaced in Owen's mind, unbidden. It was only last week. He'd been making a simple omelette, trying to surprise her with breakfast in bed for her birthday. He'd even used the new, expensive non-stick pan Michael had bought her. She'd found him, the scent of eggs filling the air, and her face had contorted into a mask of pure rage.
"Get out!" she had shrieked, her voice cracking with fury. He'd instinctively recoiled as her hand shot out, not to strike him, but to snatch the pan. The hot, fluffy omelette, carefully crafted, was summarily scraped into the bin, the expensive pan hurled into the sink with a deafening clatter. "You contaminate everything you touch! You're a blight!" The words had been followed by a stinging slap across his face, hard enough to leave a red mark that lingered for hours. Michael had been away on a business trip. He always was.
Owen swallowed, the taste of ash in his mouth. "I can just get cereal, then," he offered, his voice devoid of inflection.
"You will sit at the table and wait for me to serve you," Sophia commanded, her eyes burning into him. "You will not touch anything. Do you understand?"
He nodded, a jerky movement and retreated to the dining table, taking the seat furthest from her. She watched him, a slow, grim satisfaction spreading through her. Control. That was it. Absolute, unwavering control. He was a constant reminder of everything she despised, everything that had gone wrong in her life. His very existence was an affront.
As she moved about the kitchen, preparing Lucy's favourite pancakes, a different memory surfaced, sharper, more visceral. Owen, a scrawny six-year-old, had been playing with a toy car on the newly polished floor. He'd accidentally scratched it. Michael had been due home any minute. Sophia had seen the fine, white line marring the pristine wood and something had snapped.
She'd dragged him into the laundry room, her grip like a vice on his thin arm, and had forced him to scrub the floor with a harsh cleaning solution until his small hands were raw and red. "You will learn to respect what is mine," she had hissed, her face inches from his, the metallic tang of the cleaning fluid burning in his nostrils. He'd cried then, loud, desperate sobs, but she had merely stared, cold and unfeeling, until the tears had dried and he was scrubbing again, a terrified, silent obedience settling over him.
Another time, he'd scored a goal in a school soccer match. He'd come home, flushed with pride, the scent of grass and sweat clinging to him. "Mom, I scored!" he'd exclaimed, his eyes bright with a childish triumph she couldn't stand. That night, during dinner, she had "accidentally" spilled a scalding cup of tea on his arm. The searing pain had made him cry out, and Michael, concerned, had rushed to his side.
Sophia, however, had merely looked at him with an icy disdain, "Clumsy child. Always making a mess." Michael had nursed his burn, oblivious to the deeper wound she had inflicted. The burn had healed, but the message had been seared into his soul: his achievements meant nothing, only his failures mattered.
She placed a bowl of bland, unsweetened cornflakes in front of Owen, a stark contrast to Lucy's plate piled high with fluffy pancakes and fresh berries. "Eat," she ordered, turning away before he could meet her gaze.
Owen picked up his spoon, the weight of her presence pressing down on him. Each mouthful felt like sawdust. His mind, however, was not on the tasteless breakfast. It was on the night before, a kaleidoscope of fragmented images, a waking nightmare that had clung to him even after he'd jolted awake.
The shadows. Always the shadows. They writhed and twisted, forming grotesque shapes, whispering his name. He used to be able to tell himself it was just a dream, a figment of his overactive imagination. But lately, they were different. More real.
Last night, he'd seen Michael. Not his father, not really. This Michael was a caricature, his face distorted, his eyes black pits, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. He'd been laughing, a guttural, unfamiliar sound, as he held something in his hand. Something dark and indistinct, but the feeling it evoked was pure terror. It was a suffocating dread, a sense of inescapable doom. He remembered struggling, trying to scream, but no sound would come. His limbs felt heavy, anchored to the bed as the shadowy Michael leaned closer, closer, until his face filled Owen's vision, his breath a foul, icy whisper against Owen's ear: "You can't escape. Never."
He'd woken up in a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs, the echo of that voice still vibrating in the air. He'd stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, trying to shake off the lingering tendrils of fear. He'd looked in the mirror, and for a fleeting moment, he could have sworn his reflection wasn't his own.
It was a face contorted in agony, eyes wide with a terror that surpassed anything he'd ever known. He blinked, and it was gone, replaced by his own haggard features.
He pushed the cornflakes around his bowl, the image of that distorted Michael searing itself into his mind. He couldn't shake it. It felt like a premonition, a dark prophecy.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force it away, but it was relentless. The whispers, the shadows, the black eyes – they were no longer just dreams. They were bleeding into his waking hours.
"Are you quite finished daydreaming, boy?" Sophia's voice, laced with disdain, broke through his internal torment. "Or are you going to sit there all morning like a simpleton?"
Owen's head snapped up. He met her gaze, and for a split second, something within him cracked. The careful facade of indifference, the years of practiced compliance, shattered. His vision blurred, not from tears, but from a sudden, overwhelming surge of raw terror. The kitchen, the dining room, Sophia's sneering face – they all seemed to waver, to stretch and distort. The light seemed to dim, the air growing thick, oppressive.
He heard the whispers again, faint at first, then growing louder, surrounding him, enveloping him. "Never escape… never… never…" The room tilted. The metallic tang of fear filled his mouth, a taste he knew intimately. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably, the spoon clattering against the bowl. His breath hitched in his throat.
Sophia watched him, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing in her eyes. "What in God's name is wrong with you now?" she demanded, her voice sharp with impatience. "Are you going to make a scene?"
But Owen didn't hear her. The sounds of the house, Lucy's distant humming, the birds chirping outside – they all faded, replaced by the relentless, pounding drumbeat of his own fear. His chest tightened, a crushing weight settling on his lungs. The shadows from his nightmare, once confined to the dark corners of his sleep, now seemed to coil and writhe in the very air around him. He saw them, distinct and malevolent, pressing in, their formless shapes whispering his name, dragging him down into an abyss of terror.
His eyes darted around the room, wide and unseeing, searching for an escape that wasn't there. His hands flew to his head, gripping his hair as if to hold his skull together.
A guttural sound, halfway between a sob and a strangled gasp, tore from his throat. His entire body began to shake violently, uncontrollably.
Sophia stared, her initial amusement replaced by a flicker of irritation. "Owen, stop this instant!" she commanded, her voice rising. "You're behaving like a lunatic!"
But the words were just noise to him, indistinguishable from the roaring in his ears. The world was spinning, collapsing in on itself. The shadows were everywhere now, engulfing him, their icy touch on his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, a desperate plea for them to disappear, for the suffocating terror to abate. But it only intensified.
A shrill, choked cry escaped him, raw and desperate. He pushed away from the table with a violent shove, his chair scraping loudly across the floor as he scrambled backwards, gasping for air that felt thin and toxic.
He clutched his head, his body convulsing, as if fighting off an unseen assailant. His mind had splintered, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving into a chaotic, terrifying maelstrom. The havoc had begun.