This book is considered dark and mature. It is not suitable for people under

the age of 18. Triggers include (but are not limited to):

Stalking, death, dubcon, anal, double penetration, impact play, breath

control, mental illness, emotionally and physically abusive romantic

relationship (not with MMC), prescription drug use, alcohol and drug

abuse, sibling death, parent death, cancer (off screen), PTSD, depression,

anxiety, hallucinations, dissociation, traumatic events, suicidal ideation,

attempted suicide (off screen), recording of sexual intercourse without

consent, depiction of a violent car crash.

Birth. Life. Death.

Heaven. Hell. Purgatory.

Good or bad, I will find you. You will not escape me. For I am he. For I am

it.

You will run. They all run. You run thinking I will never catch you. You run

thinking if you hide well enough, I will never find you.

You pray to your god I will never take you. You beg I never find the ones

you love. Each plea falls on deaf ears, because I am coming.

You may think I will chase you to the end of the earth on my chariot, press

my lips to yours and let your body rest peacefully. Even when you come

willingly, you scream and fight for life. Praying and pleading that it is not

your time, that you have more to do, more to accomplish. You claim to need

more years under the sun, but you will never be ready. For what is death, in

the face of life?

You claim I want your soul, that your death is only in my hands. But I donot want it. Your soul is yours to keep until it is not.

I have never wanted a soul until her.

My Lilith. My night monster.

She is a storm on winter’s day, and I will be content with never seeing the

sun again.

She offered me her soul, and I gave it back. Not because I did not want it.

Oh, I wanted it like a flower wants the sun, like a river wants the sea. When

I come to collect her soul, it will not be to take her to the afterlife. No, her

soul will be mine to keep

...****************...

This story will start from tomorrow

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Love you

Love

Love

love

Love

Love

Love

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I have never wanted a soul until her.

My Lilith. My night monster.

She is a storm on winter’s day, and I will be content with never seeing the

sun again.

She offered me her soul, and I gave it back. Not because I did not want it.

Oh, I wanted it like a flower wants the sun, like a river wants the sea. When

I come to collect her soul, it will not be to take her to the afterlife. No, her

soul will be mine to keep.( plz ignore it)

Jkkkl

...(You look beautiful when you sleep..)...

I read the note again, over and over. I’m not crazy. The letter is real.

The harsh glow of moonlight only just makes the words more visible. I

have to hold the thick brown parchment with both hands to stop it from

curling back together. Each swirl of black ink is another coil that winds

tighter around my stomach. The letters taper at each end, as if it was written

with a fountain pen.

He was here again. He was watching me sleep.

I wrote the note in my sleep, I tell myself, just like Dr. Mallory told me to.

It doesn’t matter how many times I say it or scream it into my pillow or

write it down, I don’t believe my own words. The letters are real. I know

they are, even though no one else believes me.

I told Dr. Mallory about the man who visited me on the day of the accident,

face hidden under the shadows of his hood. Then the gifts started appearing.

Then the letters. Then came the symbols. All from him. The Faceless Man.

I tried showing Dr. Mallory that the letters are real, that I’m not

hallucinating like she claims. In fact, I tried to prove to everyone that

someone was watching me and leaving me letters. No one believed me—

they think it’s just the ramblings of a woman gone mad. I’d take pictures of

the letters, only for them to disappear from my phone. Every time I put the

letters in my bag, they become lost to the void, only to appear back in my

bedroom with a note that says:

...(It’s our little secret.)...

I’m not crazy. I’m not.

The gifts he leaves are real. So are the symbols he draws on my body. I

know they are.

“You bought yourself flowers, Lili, you just forgot about it,” Dr. Mallory

said, even though I’ve never been fond of flowers. When I told her about

the symbols, she explained, “You must have been sleepwalking and drew

them on yourself.”

I thought she was right, because the man never visited when I stayed with

Evan, either at his place or mine. I used to wake up in the morning or in the

dead of the night with Evan by my side, and my body would be free from

the marks the Faceless Man would leave. There would be no letters left on

my pillow or on my bedside table. No flower atop my chest or my dresser.

I’d be free from the nightmares of the Faceless Man, if only for a night.

Although, I’m not sure if he is a nightmare or the sweetest of dreams.

Evan was my shield against the Faceless Man.

Too be continued

In next chapter

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Seee i again

Until my stalker stopped caring about Evan’s presence.

Evan’s snore is the only sound to be heard in the small space of my room.

It’s too early for the dog upstairs to start barking or for the kids downstairs

to start watching their shows before school. All the neighbors say that, at

night, I’m the only sound in the complex, wailing or whimpering when the

night terrors hit. Evan says I don’t always have nightmares; sometimes I

just talk in my sleep, but I don’t always remember what the dreams are

about. The only dreams I do remember are of the accident, and that’s when

the screaming starts.

That’s why Evan prefers that we live separately, because he needs to ‘stay

sharp’ for his job. He says he can’t do that if I wake him from his sleep with

my ‘ramblings.’

When I lay next to Evan once a week, I try not to sleep, worried I’ll wake

him. I try so hard to stay awake, I swear I do. But Dr. Mallory’s medication

always puts me to sleep, even for just a few hours.

Inching the blankets down my bare legs, I creep across the room, not daring

to look down at my body until the wooden panels beneath my feet turn to

cold tile and the dull luminescent light of the bathroom glares down on me.

Slowly, my eyes drop from my disheveled dark brown hair, down to the

symbol painted on my chest and the black hand prints around my ample

thighs, not hidden under my singlet and shorts. I can’t see the twenty-

centimeter scar along my stomach, or any of the other scars covering my

body from the accident, but I know they're there.

I bite my tongue to stifle a sob and tear my gaze away from the mirror.

Unfurling my fingers from around the note, I see the letter under the dull

light and foolishly hope no words will look back at me. But as always, the

cursive words taunt me: You look beautiful when you sleep.

I’m not sure which is more foolish: The fact that I’m hoping I’ll find the

words missing, or the fact that I hope the letters never stop.

Squeezing my eyes shut. I reach for a washcloth, not waiting for the water

to warm before soaking the black fabric. I drop the letter on the vanity and

distract myself with my own reflection. I can’t help but touch the marks he

left behind on my thighs. The mark left behind is far larger than my own

hands, which is just more proof that I’m not crazy. I’ve stopped trying to

convince people I’m not insane, but it’s vindicating to have physical proof.

Used to cleaning the charcoal marks from my skin, I’m back in my room

before much time passes and sliding open the drawer holding almost

everything the Faceless Man has ever given me. The letter lands on top of

one of the shoe boxes filled with the hundreds of notes he’s left me. It’s

next to the pile of black bird feathers and the skulls of various animals.

I can’t bring myself to throw any of them away, as some kind of tangible

proof that I have not lost all of my sanity. Well, at least I tell myself that’s

the real reason why.

I’ve given up collecting the flowers he leaves me as they rot in a manner of

days. All except one. My attention darts to the stemless lily sitting in the

corner of the drawer, still full of life even after a year and a half of living in

the cold prison of a wooden drawer. It’s a coffin, just with less space.

With a shaky breath, I push the drawer full of the Faceless Man’s gifts back

into the darkness and slip between the cold sheets to lie next to a man who

doesn’t know those letters are the only reason I’m alive.

I wish I had died that day.

My mind darkens into nothing but white noise as the clock ticks by. Minute

after minute. Hour after hour. It all passes in a blink while I’m safe in the

comfort of my own mind. Until eventually, the clock beeps.