Haters

“Do the dead speak?”

The question cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp and deliberate. I freeze mid-sentence, my fingers clutching the grass beneath me as I look up.

And there he is.

Perched atop my mother’s gravestone, cross-legged in that yoga pose like he owns the place, with a smirk curling his perfect lips.

His blonde hair gleams in the moonlight, strands catching the silvery glow like some divine spotlight has chosen him.

But it’s his eyes that root me in place...golden, luminous, and otherworldly. They’re not just reflecting the moonlight; they’re glowing, as if lit by something deep and eternal.

My throat tightens.

A thousand and one things pass through my head. I could run...I could scream at the top of my lungs so the graveyard keeper would hear me... but no.

A strangled noise escapes me instead, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the nocturnal whispers of the cemetery.

“Well?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, the smirk never leaving his face. “Do they?”

I try to speak, but my tongue feels thick and useless. My lips tremble as I finally manage to stammer,

“W-who… who are you?”

He ignores the question entirely, leaning forward on his elbows, his gaze sweeping over me like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’ve been busy tonight, haven’t you?” His tone is smooth, casual, as though we’re old friends chatting over coffee.

I blink, the fear coiling tighter in my chest. “What… what are you talking about?”

“You know,” he says, his voice almost bored. “Pouring your heart out to dear old Mom. Oh, what was it you said? Something about Dorothy and her posse being bitches?”

My breath hitches.

“And,” he continues, drawing out the word with his smirk deepening, “let’s not forget how they called you a turtle in front of Ryker Heads. The hottest guy on the tennis team, wasn’t it? Very tragic, by the way. I do sympathise with your feelings. I take it that you have a crush on him?"

He looks like he's expecting an answer but as I part my lips, he lets out a soft chuckle. "Ah yes. What was I thinking? Everyone has a crush on Ryker Heads."

The blood drains from my face. “How… how do you know that?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “I have my ways.”

“You… you were listening to me?” My voice rises, shaky but edged with anger.

“Oh, don’t look so scandalized,” he says, lounging back against the headstone with infuriating ease. “You’re the one spilling secrets in a graveyard. What did you expect, privacy?”

I scramble to my feet, brushing the dirt off my skirt with trembling hands. My glasses slip down my nose, and I push them back up, glaring at him through the lenses.

“That’s none of your business.”

His eyes flick to the movement. “Ah, four eyes,” he says with a soft chuckle. “How charmingly retro.”

I grit my teeth, the fear slowly giving way to irritation.

“For your information, talking to my mom helps. And she hears me.”

He snorts, a low, mocking sound. “No, she doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Oh, but I do,” he says, standing so swiftly it’s like the world blinks. One moment he’s lounging; the next, he’s towering over me. “You’re yelling into the void, North. She’s not listening.”

“How do you even know my name?” I demand, my voice shaking with fury now.

He steps closer, his golden eyes locking onto mine. “I know a lot of things about you,” he murmurs. “Like that dress you’re wearing...it’s your mother’s, isn’t it?”

I swallow hard, taking a step back. “Shut up.”

His smirk grows. “What? Sentimental value, I suppose. But really, it’s… outdated. Maybe that's why Dorothy is so mean. Ever thought about that?” His gaze flicks over me, critical and unapologetic. “Oh look, it's also frayed at the hem. Tell me, North, do you often raid the closets of the dead?”

“That’s it!” I snap, my hands balling into fists. “Who the hell do you think you are, judging me? What kind of creep hangs out in graveyards, anyway?”

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for the first time. “Creep? Really? That’s a bit harsh and unflattering."

“Harsh?” I scoff, my fear almost entirely replaced by anger. “You’ve been spying on me, insulting me, and now you’re—”

“I'm not a person,” he interrupts, his voice suddenly cold.

“What?”

“You called me a creep,” he says, stepping closer. “But I’m not a person. That’s where you’re mistaken. You have to be a person to be a creep."

The words send a chill down my spine. My instincts scream at me to run, but my feet refuse to move.

“What are you talking about?”

His smirk returns, sharper than before. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Show me what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he vanishes. Just like that—gone. My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around, searching the shadows.

“Behind you,” he whispers, his breath warm against my neck.

I whirl around so fast I nearly lose my balance, stumbling back a step. There he is, standing impossibly close. Too close.

“How did you—”

He lifts a hand, tracing a finger down my neck with a feather-light touch. “Soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Stop!” I slap his hand away, my voice trembling. “I’m serious. Who are you? What are you?”

He steps back, just a fraction, and tilts his head, studying me with a strange intensity. Then, with a theatrical bow, he says, “Prince Valentine Draven. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, commoner North.”

I narrow my eyes, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

“That’s not what I meant. What the fuck are you?”

He straightens, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, now that’s the real question, isn’t it?”

“Just answer me!”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “A dead man.”