Deadly touch

Evelyn

“Don’t be such a coward!” The taunt echoed in my mind, a cruel whisper of my own making, as I shivered, my gloved hands gripping the cold, wrought-iron gate. Before me loomed the largest, most unsettling mansion I had ever encountered, far grander and more formidable than any digital image could convey. It wasn’t the sort of luxury that invited one to dream of living there; rather, it exuded an ancient, menacing beauty, a silent warning to flee. The slivers of moonlight piercing through the gnarled, skeletal tree branches, coupled with the distorted glow of distant streetlamps, cast monstrous, shifting shadows across its decaying façade. These weren't mere shadows; they writhed and pulsed, conjuring images of grotesque creatures dancing a macabre waltz on the moss-stained walls, an illusion so vivid it felt like a living nightmare.

"I’m crazy," I muttered, the words barely audible over the frantic beat of my own heart. What madness had possessed me to venture alone, at the witching hour, to a place rumored to harbor not just ghosts, but far more sinister entities? This wasn’t just dangerous; it was an act of profound, suicidal folly.

Curiosity. The single word whispered itself from the deepest recesses of my mind, a phantom voice answering questions I hadn't even consciously formed. Of course. It was always curiosity. I’d always been drawn to the shadowed edges of the world, a girl obsessed with the arcane mysteries and forgotten legends passed down through generations. Tales of fire-breathing dragons, shapeshifters capable of transforming into wolves or other monstrous beasts, whispers of ancient vampires, and other magical beings that defied mortal comprehension. Most believed these were mere fictions, quaint fantasies spun to entertain and enthrall. Mortals, in their blissful ignorance, dismissed it all as elaborate bullshit. But I knew better.

My own story, the one that irrevocably altered my perception of reality, began on a day that ripped the veil from my eyes forever. It was then I understood: nothing in this world truly happens from nowhere. Nothing is born of pure fantasy. I felt the truth sear itself onto my very skin, and from that moment on, I realized I was not the only one who was… different.

I had known since childhood that I was an anomaly. I shied away from the bustling crowds, a natural loner. Yet, ironically, my quiet demeanor and unusual appearance seemed to draw people to me, a constant stream of hopeful friendships I found myself forced to repel, no matter how much it pained me. How could I explain it? I possess a peculiar… ability to defend myself. I’d rather call it a curse, a cruel twist of fate that leaves me perpetually isolated. I can kill with a simple touch. Every living creature I have ever truly admired, truly touched without the barrier of my ever-present gloves, has withered and died before my eyes.

The memory of those moments, the spark of life extinguishing beneath my fingertips, still brought hot tears to my eyes, a constant well of sorrow that never truly dried. I was truly alone in this world, a pariah in plain sight. My existence was confined to places where my touch couldn't harm: my small, sterile apartment in Boston's bustling heart, or the comforting, dusty confines of my grandfather’s library. He was the only soul who bore the weight of my secret, the only one who truly understood. In his sanctuary, I was often found, nose buried in a book, lost in the fictional worlds I craved, a genuine book lover finding solace in ink and paper.

But now, in the chilling present, a primal fear gnawed at me. I stood utterly alone in this spectral domain, a forgotten cemetery looming ominously to my right – its ancient headstones like jagged teeth against the night sky, their silence more terrifying than any scream. That alone was almost enough to shatter my resolve, to send me bolting back to the false safety of the city.

But no. A stubborn, defiant ember glowed within my chest. I had come too far, allowed my curiosity to drag me through too many shadows, to succumb to cowardice now. Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. This was the place, whispered only in hushed tones, written about in the cryptic texts my grandfather and I sometimes unearthed.

The mansion, I knew from my research, had once pulsed with life, hosting a grand ballroom every year, its halls echoing with laughter and music until, one fateful day, everything simply ceased. The man who owned the property, a figure veiled in mystery, was said to have lived a life of exceptional splendor. Then, without explanation, the balls stopped, the people vanished, and all activity dissolved into the thin, cold air. The once-manicured gardens, famed for their exotic beauty, were abandoned, left to decay into a tangled, overgrown wilderness where age consumed all that was once vibrant.

Gazing at the desolate scene, I realized the futility of my quest to understand what happened if no one had lived here for decades. Yet, the compulsion to try, to simply see, was undeniable. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I fought to calm my racing nerves, to steady my resolve before doubt could truly settle in. My gloved hands tightened on the cold, ornate bars of the gate, and I began to climb. I had barely ascended halfway when the gnarled, shadowy vines, which until then had seemed merely part of the ancient metalwork, began to stir. They writhed, coiling and uncoiling with an unnerving, deliberate slowness, winding along the gate and up towards me.

Shock and a raw, primal terror seized me. A strangled scream tore from my throat as I scrambled higher, my fingers tearing at the metal. There was no escape downwards; the base of the gate was a solid wall of dense, grasping foliage, a living net. I didn’t even have a moment to question this impossible, horrifying development. Up was the only option, the only place the monstrous flora hadn’t yet reached.

Gasping for breath, muscles screaming with effort, I finally hauled myself to the very top, teetering precariously on the sharp-edged railing. Below, the other side of the gate plunged into darkness. The vines, like a swarm of hungry serpents, were now slithering around my feet, tightening their grip. I knew, with sickening certainty, that they would strangle me if I didn't act. So, with a desperate prayer, I pushed myself off the railing and fell forward, plunging into the overgrown expanse of the mansion’s neglected grounds.

A searing, blinding pain exploded through me as I hit the ground, the impact a jarring symphony of bone and jagged stone hidden beneath decades of tangled grass. I felt a sickening jolt, a sharp, twisting agony that told me something had undoubtedly broken. A raw moan clawed at my throat, but I bit it back, tasting blood as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw them: the plants, a dark, undulating tide, already creeping across the bruised earth, their tendrils sinuously reaching for me. There was no time for hysteria, no luxury of passing out and letting those aggressive twists consume me. But moving felt impossibly, agonizingly hard.

The moment I tried to lift my leg, a fresh, excruciating wave of pain washed over me, sharper than anything before. Biting down harder on my lip until the metallic tang of my own blood filled my mouth, I tore one glove from my left hand. My gaze, swimming with tears, fixed on the encroaching mass of vegetation.

"I’m so sorry," I whispered, the words ragged. "I have no choice." With a heavy heart, I extended my bare hand and, closing my eyes tight, touched the nearest, thickest vine. I couldn’t bear to watch, to witness the life drain from yet another living thing, no matter how malevolent it seemed.

The instant my skin made contact, a violent tremor ran through the plant, as if it had received a powerful, electrical shock. My eyes snapped open, wide with disbelief. The entire mass of vines recoiled, not in a slow retreat, but a sudden, unified flinch, pulling back with astonishing speed, leaving not a single scratch on me. They simply drew away, as if struck by an unseen force. But one detail burned into my sight, even in the moon-dappled darkness: the vine I had touched bore a small, perfectly round, black burnt hole right on its tip. Yet, it was undeniably alive, its leafy mass still swaying slightly. That didn't stop the terror.

Then, my world truly careened. A cacophony of whispers erupted, an ethereal chorus that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. From the right, the left, behind me, in front – a thousand voices, shifting in pitch and tone, filled the air, as if the very plants, the very mansion, were speaking to me.

"Can’t be. She’s the one," hissed one voice, ancient and dry as rustling leaves.

"It’s the Queen. The Master will be quite happy," another echoed, softer, like petals unfolding.

"Welcome back, our Queen. We didn’t know it was you," a multitude chanted, growing in intensity.

"We apologize for the attack. We’re just protecting the Master’s property," came the collective plea, a strange, deferential hum.

The whispers continued, a dizzying onslaught of information I couldn't process. My head swam, my eyelids growing impossibly heavy. All I wanted was to close my eyes, to surrender to the seductive pull of unconsciousness. But the sudden shift in the whispers, from reverent awe to frantic panic, jolted me back to a terrifying awareness.

"The Master is coming! The Master is coming!" they shrieked, a chorus of terrified urgency.

"He’ll be angry if he finds out we’ve hurt his Queen!"

The meaning of their words remained a terrifying enigma, but then I felt it. A presence. Not a whisper, but a palpable weight in the air, a cold, ancient power far more dangerous than anything I had ever encountered, infinitely more menacing than the sentient plants now cowering before me. It approached, swift and silent, from the deep shadows of the mansion, and in that instant, all my hard-won bravery, my defiant spirit, froze solid.

I was trapped. And the hunter was coming.