Inside a dimly lit room, a small bed was squeezed into the corner, barely large enough to fit two people. The headboard was a rotting brown wood, its white paint peeling off in crusty, yellowed flakes that littered the mattress. In stark contrast, the bedsheets were pristine and new. It was a jarring mixture, a clean bed in a decaying room.

  The floor was made of smooth black rock, cold and unforgiving.

  Kneeling on that hard surface was a child. She wore a white dress with delicate white flower designs, a fabric that matched her pale skin and snow-white hair perfectly. Beside her sat a small silver tin plate. Inside, a thick, viscous substance sat cold and stagnant. It looked like black porridge or heavy tar.

  She held a small brown cloth, already sodden with the dark liquid. She dipped it into the plate, staining her small white fingers ink-black, and pressed the cloth against a patch of grey stone on the floor.

  She rubbed the black substance into the grey in a frantic circular motion, trying to force the floor to be uniform, to make it all black.

  Her red eyes were focused, narrowing in concentration. The hard rock bit into her knees, bruising the bone, but she didn't seem to care. She just kept scrubbing, the wet cloth slapping rhythmically against the stone.

  When she finished the last grey patch, she let out a long sigh and stood up.

  She looked down. Her knees were stained black. Smears of the dark sludge had ruined the hem of her white dress.

  "Oh no," she muttered, her voice trembling. "Mom's gonna get mad."

  She quickly dropped the dirty cloth back onto the plate, trying to hide the evidence.

  She turned to the window, which was choked by heavy black curtains that pooled on the floor. She approached them slowly.

  She stared at the thick fabric, her hand hovering inches away. She looked torn, burning with curiosity to see what was behind them, yet paralyzed by a deep, instinctual fear of what lay on the other side.

  Closing her eyes she took a deep, steadying breath. Immediately, she planted both hands on the heavy black fabric and shoved the curtains apart.

  A blinding, searing white light poured through the window, obliterating the room instantly. It felt brighter than the sun, a wall of pure radiance. She let out a small, terrified scream, squeezing her eyes shut against the burn.

  A gasp filled the room.

  David jerked upright in his bed, his chest heaving. He coughed violently, his throat feeling like he had swallowed a handful of dry sand. He was breathing heavily, sweat cooling on his forehead.

  His head pounded with a splitting headache, a rhythmic throb behind his eyes that felt like a hangover from hell. He rubbed his forehead, groaning at the pressure.

  "Oh... What the hell was that?" he rasped. "A dream? It felt like a nightmare."

  He stared at the wall, waiting for his heart rate to slow. It felt strange. It hadn't felt like a normal dream; it felt like a memory that didn't belong to him. He wasn't in it. There was someone else.

  A little girl.

  The thought of the girl caused his eyes to widen. The pale skin. The snow-white hair.

  The image acted like a trigger, causing the events of last night to replay in a violent loop. He remembered the robbery. He remembered the iron wrench smashing his shoulder. And most of all, he remembered the rope and the girl.

  He immediately swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up quickly.

  His bare feet met the cold floorboards.

  "What the hell happened last night?" he muttered to himself.

  He looked down at his body. He touched the dark blue shirt, realizing with a jolt that he was fully dressed. He was wearing the same clothes he had put on after the funeral.

  "I was in my boxers when it happened," he whispered.

  He reached up and touched his left shoulder, squeezing the muscle. He rotated the arm.

  "The pain... it's completely gone."

  The memory washed over him cold and heavy. He remembered the girl telling him that she loved him. He remembered her face, that smiling expression filled with genuine satisfaction and an unnerving, terrifying joy while the bodies lay at her feet.

  He grabbed his forehead, shaking his head slightly.

  *No, it wasn't real. It couldn't have happened. I mean, this is probably just one of those dreams, right? Yeah, it's probably because of all those action movies I've been watching lately.*

  He looked around the room, searching for evidence of the nightmare.

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  The bed was made, the sheets crisp and clean. The floor was spotless. He remembered bleeding there, his nose had dripped red onto the wood when he fell, but now, there wasn't a single drop. It was immaculate.

  He walked to the wardrobe in the corner and leaned into the mirror. He inspected his face. No bruised nose. No split lip. He looked the same as usual, just tired...

  He sighed, scratching his head aggressively.

  I have to go outside. I have to confirm it.

  He let out another shaky breath and turned to the white bedroom door. He froze.

  He stared at the doorknob. It had always been a dull, tarnished dark grey, coated in years of grime and cheap manufacturing. But now, it was polished silver. It shone brilliantly, catching the faint morning light filtering into the room.

  He walked to the door and placed his hand on the cold, clean metal.

  He paused. He heard a sound coming from the other side. It sounded like rain, a steady, rhythmic hissing. Or maybe something else...

  *What is that sound? Is it from the TV?*

  He strained his ears. *No, it feels like... something frying.*

  A pleasant odor drifted through the crack of the door, hitting his nose. It smelled rich and savory.

  He turned the knob and quickly pulled the door open. He stepped out into the hallway and slowly closed the door behind him, the latch clicking softly.

  He walked down the narrow corridor, his heart rate picking up with every step.

  *That thing... I'm not going to find it, right? It was using the rope to kill those guys.*

  The memory forced its way to the front of his mind. He saw the girl smiling again, telling him she would go far to prove her love.

  He shook the thought away, brushing his left hand anxiously against the side of his head.

  *What the hell am I talking about? What is she?*

  He took careful, quiet steps and exited the hallway into the living room. He stopped dead, surprised by the scene before him.

  The living room was spotless. There was no blood on the floor, not even a speck. The floorboards weren't just clean; they were glistening, coated in a fresh layer of polish that caught the morning light. The TV screen, usually caked in a layer of brown dust, was now immaculate, reflecting his shocked face like a dark mirror. The fake flower pot and the stray items on the TV stand were neatly arranged, aligned with military precision.

  Suddenly, his heart rammed against his chest with a painful jolt. He heard a sound. A small, soft humming was coming from the kitchen.

  His head snapped toward the direction of the sound. His breath started hitching, coming in slow, heavy gasps.

  *Shit,* he thought, the panic rising like bile. *It was real. Everything that happened... it was real. I have to get out of here.*

  He bolted. He lunged for the front door, his hand slamming onto the knob. He twisted it hard.

  "Come on," he hissed, rattling the metal.

  It wouldn't open. It felt fused to the frame. A faint, terrifying memory revived in his mind, the scrawny thief frantically trying to exit the house, kicking the door, smashing his boot against the glass that wouldn't break.

  He looked around wildly, his chest heaving. *How do I get out of here? There has to be a way. What if this thing kills me? What if I'm next?*

  The sound of the kitchen door latch sliding open echoed in the silent room.

  David’s head snapped toward the noise as the door drifted ajar. He faltered, spinning on his heel and sprinting for the storage room next to the hallway. He needed a weapon, a tool, anything. His bicycle was in there. He grabbed the handle and yanked with all his weight, but the door refused to budge. It was sealed tight, just like the front door. He was being corralled.

  He looked toward the kitchen once more as the door swung fully open.

  What emerged stopped his breath in his throat.

  It was the rope. It had extended its length impossibly, slithering out across the floorboards. The golden braid held a large silver tray elevated in the air, its two knotted ends wrapped tightly around the handles to keep it steady.

  On the tray sat a ceramic mug, steam curling from the creamy coffee surface, and a glass plate covered by a matching glass lid. The rope moved with a smooth, unnatural rhythm, carrying the heavy load effortlessly. It looked like a serpent carrying a tribute in its jaws.

  David watched this, his spine pressing hard against the wood of the storage room door, trapping him.

  What surprised him even more was the sound. The soft humming wasn't coming from the kitchen anymore. It was emanating from the rope itself, vibrating through the golden fibers as if the object was alive and singing to itself.

  The rope’s body wiggled across the floor, sliding up the leg of the coffee table. It deposited the tray gently onto the wood with a soft clatter.

  David stared, his legs trembling.

  Immediately, the two knotted ends loosened themselves from the handles. They rose into the air, twisting and turning like a two-headed snake, orienting themselves to watch him.

  His eyes widened. In front of the rope, the air began to distort.

  It shimmered, like a heat mirage on a highway. The girl from the night before started to form within the distortion, slightly transparent at first, a ghostly overlay on reality. Then, the image sharpened. The transparency faded until she looked completely solid.

  She stood there, fully formed. Her snow-white hair hung loosely around her face. Her pale grey eyes were framed by deep, dark bags, heavy bruises of exhaustion that suggested she hadn't slept a day in her life. Her pale skin seemed to blend into the white fabric of her flowing nightgown.

  She looked at David, a genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion, radiating a terrifying, plentiful joy.

  "Good morning," she said softly.

  The rope behind her moved on command. One end lashed out and lifted the glass lid off the plate, revealing the source of the savory smell, sunny-side-up eggs, crisp bacon, and a thick slice of toasted bread.

  "I made breakfast," she said.

  David’s eyes darted to the plate. The eggs were fried perfectly, the yolks sitting high and yellow, nestled next to the crispy bacon. The daring care and affection radiating from the thing, compared to the slaughter that had happened the night before, sent a fresh wave of panic crashing through him.

  "Stay away," he hissed, backing up until he hit the wall. "Get the hell away from me."

  "Stay away," he hissed, flattening his spine against the wood of the storage room door. "Get the hell away from me."

  The girl tilted her head, her white hair shifting. "Huh?"

  She looked down at the food, then back at him, her brow furrowing.

  "Is... is something wrong?" she muttered. "But... it's perfectly made. Should I... should I go throw it out and make it again?"

  "You killed people right in front of me!" David shouted, his voice cracking with the strain. "Are you insane?"

  She turned her attention fully to him. Her expression didn't darken; it just became matter-of-fact.

  "Oh," she said softly. "That was because they w-wanted to hurt you."

  David stared at her. "You made a man eat his own gun."

  The girl looked down, slightly disappointed that he wasn't eating. Then, a faint blush crept up her pale cheeks, coloring the grey skin.

  "I... I cleaned the house," she said, her voice dropping to a shy whisper. "And... and I did your l-laundry. I even folded some of your clothes and refilled all the water jugs."

  David’s eyes widened.

  "What?"

  His mind reeled.* She did all of that? When? Was it when I was unconscious?*

  He pictured this entity, this murderer, moving through his house while he slept, scrubbing floors, folding his boxers, carrying water jugs.

  Nonetheless, he wasn't feeling grateful. He was feeling pure, unadulterated panic. His heart throbbed aggressively against his ribs. This thing standing in front of him, no matter how much toast she made or how many floors she scrubbed, wasn't human. She was a monster.

  "Don't change the subject!" he snapped. "You killed people!"

  "That is because they were going to kill you first!"

  The scream tore out of her. Her voice pitched higher than she intended, a sharp, distorted sound that vibrated the air in the room.

  The rope on the table lashed out like a whip, cracking against the wood in sync with her anger.

  Her eyes widened immediately, as if surprised by her own outburst. She shrank back, clasping her hands together against her chest, her posture instantly submissive.

  "S-sorry," she whispered.

  David watched her, but his mind drifted, refocusing on the memory.

  He felt the phantom weight of the crowbar slamming into his back. He remembered the men, the knife, the threat to chop off his finger. He remembered how powerless he felt. How afraid he was. And most of all, the painful, heavy emotion he felt when he accepted that he was about to die.

  But then, the rope.

  It had helped him. It stopped the man from hurting him more. It was brutal, it slaughtered them, but it stopped him from getting killed.

  Her scream was right. It felt wrong, twisted, and violent, but it was the truth.

  He took a sharp inhale and let out a long, shaky breath. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt dry as dust.

  The girl looked at him, blinking, waiting for him to say something else.

  But then, the silence was shattered by a loud, guttural growl from David's stomach.

  The girl blinked again, surprised. Then, a smile returned to her face, soft and accommodating.

  "You're hungry," she said gently. "You should eat. I made it for you."

  David didn't move toward the food. He looked at her, scanning her form from her bare toes planted on the floorboards all the way up to her pale face

  "Just what are you?" he whispered.

  The girl smiled, her teeth showing in a wide, radiant expression. She took a step forward.

  David instinctively pressed his back against the storage room door, trying to retreat through the wood.

  She chuckled, watching him. Then, she pressed her fist against her mouth, the chuckle bubbling into a soft giggle. It sounded like pure joy, or maybe relief, that he had finally asked the question.

  She lowered her hand, and the atmosphere shifted. A wave of gentle, radiating warmth filled the room, chasing away the morning chill instantly. It wrapped around David like a heated blanket, soothing the tension in his shoulders.

  She clasped her hands behind her back, locking her gaze on his.

  "Isn't it obvious?" she said, her voice soft in the warm air. "I'm yours."