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ผู้เขียน: A. Hayat
last update ปรับปรุงล่าสุด: 2025-07-22 01:39:28

A breath of sound, curling through the air like smoke.

My skin prickled.

My fingers twitched against the sheets.

A dull ache throbbed at the base of my skull, deep and lingering, like an old wound reopening.

I forced my eyes open.

The ceiling above me swayed, the faint glow of my bedside lamp warping the edges.

My bedroom—too still, too quiet.

The shadows seemed thicker, pooling in the corners, stretching long fingers across the walls.

I reached for my phone.

3:12 AM.

Just a dream.

Or maybe the meds.

The doctors had warned me about side effects.

Nightmares.

Anxiety.

Auditory hallucinations.

Perfectly normal, they said.

Nothing about this felt normal.

I turned onto my side, and pain exploded across my ribs, sharp and immediate, dragging a strangled gasp from my throat.

My pulse slammed against my skin, my heartbeat fluttering out of control.

The accident.

Flashes hit me like static shocks.

The twisted metal.

The rain.

The weightless second before impact.

The silence after.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Breathe.

My name is Lena Moreau.

I’m twenty-six.

I’m an artist.

I’m fine.

Except I wasn’t.

2

LENA

I had moved to New Orleans four years ago, chasing a dream I could barely afford.

A single bedroom apartment in the Quarter, cluttered with canvases and half-finished sketches.

I made my living painting commissions—portraits, abstracts, anything people were willing to pay for.

On good months, I scraped by.

On bad months, Mira covered my rent.

Mira.

She’d been my best friend since college.

The only person I trusted.

After the accident, she’d practically moved in, making sure I ate, slept, took my meds.

But she had a life too—a new boyfriend, a job that actually paid well.

I couldn’t keep depending on her.

I was getting better.

I had to be.

I curled deeper beneath the blanket, my body stiff with cold.

The whisper wasn’t real.

Just stress.

Just my mind playing tricks.

Then I heard it again.

A soft, velvety murmur, slipping through the dark.

Closer this time.

“Lena.”

My stomach clenched.

I wasn’t alone.

3

CASSIAN

She heard me.

I watched her stir, her lashes fluttering, her lips parting on a shallow breath.

The faintest tremble ran through her body, a shiver just beneath the skin.

Beautiful.

She smelled of antiseptic and sleep, the sterile scent of hospitals still clinging to her.

But underneath—beneath the artificial cleanliness—I could smell something richer.

Something alive.

Fear.

She hadn’t seen me yet.

Not fully.

She wouldn’t.

Not yet.

I traced the curve of her cheek with a whisper of thought, not quite touching, but close enough for her body to react.

She shifted in her sleep, a furrow forming between her brows, her fingers twitching against the sheets.

I liked watching her like this—suspended between wakefulness and dreams.

A part of her already knew I was here.

The body always knows before the mind catches up.

I leaned closer, drinking in the sharp hitch of her breath.

My name was the first thing I had given her.

A gift.

A warning.

She would resist.

They always did.

At first.

4

LENA

The air had changed.

I could feel it.

The weight of it, pressing against my skin, thick and electric.

My heart pounded, blood roaring in my ears.

I wasn’t alone.

I forced myself to move, to sit up despite the protesting pain in my ribs.

The room swam, the shadows stretching and twisting in the dim light.

Nothing.

Just my apartment.

Just the same cramped walls, the half-finished paintings leaning against the easel, the pile of laundry I’d been meaning to fold.

Nothing.

I let out a shaking breath, running a hand over my face.

“Get a grip,” I whispered.

Silence.

Then—so soft, so close it felt like lips against my ear—

“Go back to sleep, Lena.”

I screamed.

5

LENA

The next day, I decided to spend the day painting in my apartment.

The brush glided over the canvas, streaking thick, moody strokes of crimson and obsidian.

 The colors bled into each other, chaotic and untamed, spreading like a wound refusing to close.

My fingers ached, stiff from gripping the brush too hard.

I had been painting for hours, yet I had no memory of starting.

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  • Delirium: A Dark Erotic Psychological Horror Romance   8

    My body would tense, my breath catching in my throat as the air shifted around me.Then, a voice.Low.Amused."You miss me."I would jerk upright, searching the darkness, my fingers curling into the sheets.But there was never anyone there.Just the quiet hum of the night, the soft rustling of my own breath, and the lingering scent of something rich and intoxicating.I told myself I was imagining it.I had to be.But then his touch came.It started as a whisper against my skin—nothing more than a featherlight caress, like warm air moving over my throat.I froze, my pulse hammering against my ribs, waiting for it to stop.It never did.His fingers, unseen but undeniable, trailed over my collarbone, slow and deliberate.They followed the curve of my arm, the dip of my waist.Heat followed in their wake, a deep, pulsing warmth that made my skin prickle."You feel me, don’t you?"The voice coiled through the room, thick with amusement.I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it away, but his to

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    Mira, with her soft touch and gentle voice, the one who always tried to convince Lena that everything was normal, everything was fine.That she wasn’t losing herself.I could feel Mira’s presence, too.She was concerned, trying to fix what wasn’t broken.Trying to make Lena believe in something she could hold on to, when the truth was that Lena was mine.She always will be.I waited, patient as ever, as the conversation drifted to things Lena wasn’t ready to hear.Mira urged her to get out, to meet someone new, to forget about everything that was happening.But Lena wasn’t ready for that either.Not yet.It didn’t matter.Eventually, she would be.She would come to me—because there was no one else left.No one else could make her feel the way I could.No one else could make her feel mine.And as she sat there, trapped in the uncertainty of her own mind, I pressed closer.Just a whisper, just a touch against her mind.The seeds were planted.Now, all I had to do was wait for them to gr

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    “I’m not ready for that,” I muttered, almost ashamed.She let out a quiet breath.“It’s not about being ready, Lena. You have to take the first step. Please. For yourself.”She left without another word, the door closing softly behind her.I was left alone again, the phantom’s touch still lingering in the back of my mind, its warmth and weight still pressing on me.I sat there for a long time, staring into the dark, my mind racing.Had it been a dream?Or was it something else?Something more?I didn’t know what was real anymore.But I was certain of one thing—whatever it was that had touched me, it wasn’t done yet.And neither was I.11CASSIANI watched her from the shadows, hidden just out of her sight, as she fidgeted in bed.Her body, curled beneath the thin sheets, trembled ever so slightly.I could feel her heart beating faster, faster, as she lay there, aware—somewhat aware—that I was close.It wasn’t the first time.She’d felt me before, even when she tried to convince hersel

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    Since everything had started slipping away.I twisted beneath the covers, a thin sheen of sweat making my skin stick to the sheets.My room, my space, felt wrong—too large, too empty.The air seemed heavy, like something unseen was hanging just out of reach, pressing against me.Then, I felt it.It was subtle at first—a light graze across my arm, like a finger tracing my skin.I froze.My heart pounded against my chest as the sensation moved down, drifting across my ribs, ghosting along the curve of my spine.My breath hitched, and I moaned, barely aware of the sound slipping from my throat.Was it a dream?I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it would stop.But the touch lingered, warm and insistent, like someone—or something—was right there with me.My pulse quickened, terror seeping into my veins.My whole body tensed, every muscle screaming to break free, but I couldn’t move.I couldn’t breathe.I opened my eyes.The room was still—empty.The air was cooler now, the oppressive weight l

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    I shut my eyes against the subway’s flickering fluorescent lights.The rhythmic clatter of the train filled my ears.Focus on the sound.Something real.Something normal.A man across from me cleared his throat.My pulse jumped.I forced myself to look at him—just a guy on his phone, scrolling through something meaningless.He wasn’t looking at me, wasn’t even aware of my presence, yet my skin crawled.The feeling of being watched hadn’t left me since last night.No matter how many times I turned, no matter how much I told myself it was in my head, it was still there.Not paranoia.Something else.The subway screeched as it pulled into the station, the sound scraping through my skull.I exhaled sharply and peeled myself off the seat.Dr. Halverson’s office wasn’t far.I just had to get there.9LENAThe waiting room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, the kind that had been sitting in a cheap plastic dispenser for too long.The walls were painted in muted pastels—blue and beige

  • Delirium: A Dark Erotic Psychological Horror Romance   3

    The apartment around me felt distant, a blur of muted furniture and dim lamplight.Shadows pressed against the corners, stretching long fingers across the floor.I exhaled sharply.3:12 AM.I hadn’t even noticed the time.A shiver crawled down my spine, slow and deliberate, like a wet finger tracing my vertebrae.The air had thickened, as if the walls were holding their breath.Then—A flicker in the mirror.My pulse stuttered.The full-length mirror stood against the wall, half-covered by a paint-streaked cloth.In its reflection, my hunched figure was visible, shoulders tense, hair messy.But something moved—just beyond me.A shifting shadow.A presence.I turned sharply.Nothing.The room was empty.My breathing hitched, too shallow, too quick.The silence pressed in, thick and knowing.Slowly, I turned back to the mirror.The reflection stared back, unchanged.Just me.Alone.But I wasn’t alone.I could feel it.A phantom weight, a presence pressing against the air itself, lingeri

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