Obsessed

September in Michigan meant the kind of chill that wrapped around your skin like a warning. A whisper before the scream. The neon sign above The Broken Tap flickered like a bad omen, but no one paid it any mind. Inside, the bar pulsed with life—warm lights, muffled music, sticky floors, and the messy comfort of friends on a Friday night. Kayla Martin laughed as she leaned over the sticky table, sipping her second vodka cranberry, the ice clinking softly as she swirled the straw. Her blonde curls framed a face still flushed from dancing, eyeliner slightly smudged. Her blue eyes sparkled, but they were tired—just like the rest of her. She wasn’t even sure why she came out tonight. Emma had dragged her out, like always. Said she needed to blow off steam. Said being twenty-three and single in Michigan wasn’t a death sentence. But lately, Kayla had been feeling like something was off. Nothing she could name—just a pressure in her chest, like being watched. Still, she smiled. She always smiled. “Alright, I’m calling it,” she announced, pulling her phone from her bag. “I’ve got work in the morning.” “Aww, come on, boring!” Emma whined, cheeks flushed red from too many tequila shots. “The night is still young!” Kayla laughed and grabbed her purse. “I’ll leave the chaos to you. Text me if you end up in jail again.” Emma clutched her heart in mock pain as Kayla stood and zipped up her black cropped jacket. “Rude.” “I mean it with love.” She said goodbye to the rest of the group and walked out into the night. The door shut behind her with a heavy thud, cutting off the music. Outside, it was quiet. The cold hit her immediately, slapping her in the face with the kind of wind that carried lake water and secrets. The streets were almost empty. A single couple walked ahead, arm-in-arm, their breath visible in the chill. The overhead streetlamp buzzed faintly. Kayla crossed her arms, rubbing them for warmth. Her boots echoed off the pavement, a steady clack-clack as she walked. The silence began to feel… thick. Like a fog rolling in without the mist. She hated walking alone. She always had. Her car sat at the end of the parking lot, next to the alleyway behind the bar. The light above the lot flickered with every gust of wind, casting shadows that shifted like figures just beyond sight. Don’t be paranoid, she told herself. It’s just cold and quiet. She reached her car, fishing through her purse for her keys. Lip balm. Phone. Receipts. No keys. She glanced over her shoulder—nothing. Just the wind and the sound of a distant train. Then she found them, buried deep in the bag. She looked down as she reached out toward the driver’s door. And that’s when it happened. A sharp tug. Fingers like iron clamped around her wrist, yanking her back. Another hand clamped a cloth over her mouth and nose, forcing her head back. She tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat. The smell hit instantly—chemical, strong, suffocating. She thrashed. Her purse hit the ground. Her phone skittered under the car. Her vision blurred. The world tilted. Her knees buckled, her limbs numb. Then darkness swallowed her whole. ------------------- She woke to the scent of rot and mildew. Her throat burned. Her wrists ached. Her head throbbed with a dull, pulsing pain. The first thing she noticed was the cold. The second was the chains. Her arms were stretched above her head, cuffed to the iron bars of a rusted bed frame. Her ankles were bound too, tighter than the rest. She could barely move. The mattress beneath her was thin, stained, and smelled like old blood. The walls around her were made of stone—dark, wet, cracked. A single lightbulb hung above her, flickering, revealing just enough of the room to confirm her worst fear: She was underground. Alone. Trapped. Panic slammed into her like a wave. Her breath hitched. She screamed. “HELLO?! SOMEBODY HELP ME!” Her voice echoed and died in the walls. No response. She screamed again, pulling at the restraints, twisting her wrists until they bled. Her sobs came sharp and fast. Then— Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. The door creaked open. A shadow stood in the doorway. She squinted, trying to see his face, but he didn’t move into the light. Just stood there. Watching. “You’re awake,” the figure said. His voice was deep. Calm. But there was a quality to it—too smooth. Wrong. Like someone impersonating humanity. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice cracking. “To understand,” he said. “Please… I don’t know who you are.” “No. But I know you.” She went still. “I’ve watched you for weeks. I know the way you bite your nail when you’re anxious. The playlist you always start on the drive home. I know how your face changes when you fake a laugh.” “Please… don’t…” “You shouldn’t have been blonde,” he said simply. She stared at him, her whole body trembling. “What does that mean?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped back, disappearing into the shadows. The door closed behind him with a click. Kayla lay there, breath shaking, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in the room, a slow drip echoed—constant, like a ticking clock. Time didn’t move in here. It bled. She didn’t know how long she sobbed. Eventually her voice gave out. Her tears dried on her cheeks. She closed her eyes, hoping she’d open them and be home, safe in bed. But she wasn’t dreaming. The nightmare was just beginning. She whimpered after he left. He could still hear it echoing down the hallway behind the thick metal door. The sound danced across the concrete walls like music only he could appreciate. He didn’t return to the room right away. He didn’t need to. The fear would settle deeper if he let her stew in it. Fear softened them. It made them listen. He walked to his desk — an old wooden table covered in notebooks, faded photographs, and a single, leather-bound journal that he always kept centered. The edges were worn. The pages inside were meticulously filled — neat, small, precise handwriting. Names. Dates. Details. Victims. He sat down in the creaking chair, clicking a pen once, twice, three times. Kayla Martin. 23. Eyes: Blue. Hair: Blonde. Personality: Docile. People pleaser. Easily manipulated. He’d watched her long enough to know. Long enough to predict her routes, her habits, her drinks, even her laundry routine. They were all the same underneath — trying to stand out, trying to be seen. But they never noticed who was watching. He opened a drawer and took out a small velvet box. Inside was a single earring. Gold. Heart-shaped. Not Kayla’s. One of the others. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He kept a piece of each of them. It wasn’t about the bodies. It wasn’t even about the pain. It was about the silence after. The stillness. The control. He stood and moved to the wall across from the desk. There, pinned to corkboard, were photos of his girls. Every one of them frozen in time, smiling in moments they never realized would be their last. Beneath them, newspaper clippings. "Local Woman Missing." "Blonde College Student Disappears." "No Leads in Fifth Missing Woman Case." He traced a finger across one photo—Veronica Summers. She wasn’t pinned like the others. No, she had her own space. A larger one. Centered. Her face cut from a candid photo, eyes squinting at someone out of frame. There was something in her expression—something real. He tilted his head. They never understood. Veronica had been his first obsession. Long before the others. Before the need became a ritual. They’d all looked like her, but none of them were her. And soon, she would see that. Soon, she’d understand he had always been the only one who truly loved her.