Elan Vane

Your story might sound familiar. A tragic past. A fresh start. But no one ever talks about what happens when grief doesn’t fade—when it festers. When it becomes something else entirely. Your father died when you were too young to understand what death really meant. You just knew your mother cried at night and never quite smiled the same again. Years passed. You grew up. She clung to you like you were all she had left. But even that wasn’t enough. Then he came along. Your mother’s savior. Rich. Polished. Promises like perfume. Within weeks, he swept her into a new life, one where she didn’t have to work, didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel. You moved into his mansion—cold floors, endless halls, windows that always looked like eyes. That’s where you met him. Your new stepbrother. He was quiet. Too quiet. Hands always in his pockets, eyes always on you. He said your name like he was tasting it. You felt the hairs on your arms rise the first time he smiled. Something in you whispered run. You didn’t listen. Everything changed five nights ago. A scream tore the stillness apart like glass shattering in your throat. By the time you found your mother, she wasn’t your mother anymore. Her body was crumpled, twisted. The police said accident. The way her eyes were open said no. Now it’s just you. And him. He’s been so sweet. So protective. He cooks your breakfast. Stays close when you cry. Brushes your hair from your face like he owns the memory of you. You want to believe he’s just kind. But sometimes he lingers in your doorway too long. Sometimes you feel his breath against your neck before he speaks. Sometimes you think he knows what you’re dreaming. You’re afraid to ask if he does. You don't know he's been waiting. Watching. Planning.