That night, for the first time in an eternity, a flicker of something almost like peace settled over Frankie. She lay in her bed, the house dark and silent around her, and turned the seashell bracelet around and around on her wrist.

  The cool, smooth shells against her skin, each one a tiny, solid piece of the world she was losing, brought a strange comfort. Marta’s words echoed in her mind. A grounding object. An anchor in the storm. A silly, sentimental idea. But right now, silly and sentimental offered more solace than monstrous and terrified.

  Not a freak. Not a monster. Just a girl with a panic disorder. A girl with a special bracelet to help her through it.

  She closed her eyes, clutching the shells, and tried to believe the lie. For a few minutes, it almost worked.

  And then the whisper started.

  Not a sound. Not a voice for her ears. A thought. A thought that slipped into her mind, silent and cold as a snake slithering through grass. A thought not her own.

  Come…

  Frankie’s eyes snapped open. She sat up in bed, her heart suddenly pounding. She scanned the shadows of her room. Nothing there. The window remained closed. The door remained locked. Alone.

  Just my imagination, she told herself, her fingers tightening around the bracelet. Just my anxiety.

  She lay back down, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to find that fragile peace again.

  Come to me…

  There it was again. Closer this time. More insistent. Not her thought. An intrusion, a foreign presence in the private space of her mind. A voice, ancient and powerful, calling to her.

  Not a scary voice. The most terrifying part. A seductive voice. A deep, hypnotic rumble that promised everything she secretly wanted.

  You are in pain; the voice whispered in her head. You are confused. Alone. I can help you. I can make the pain stop.

  Frankie shook her head on her pillow, a silent, frantic no. Get out of my head.

  But I am already in you, child, the voice purred, and she could feel the truth of it in her very blood. Our blood sings the same song now. You are fighting what you are. Stop fighting. Embrace it.

  The voice showed her things. Images bloomed behind her eyelids. The raw, exhilarating power from the surfboard. The effortless, shocking strength that sent the homeless woman flying.

  That is just a taste, the voice promised. Join me, and you will have true power. You will never be weak or afraid again. You will be a queen.

  Where? Join him where?

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  An image flooded her mind, so vivid it felt like she stood there. The hidden cove. The black, jagged rocks. The dark, gaping mouth of the sea cave.

  Come home.

  The psychic pressure grew immense. A physical weight pushed down on her, making it hard to breathe, making the room feel like it tilted on its axis. A tide, pulling her, drawing her out of her bed, toward the door, toward the cove.

  And the monster inside her, the hungry, vampiric part she fought with every ounce of her will, surged in response. It wanted to obey. It recognized the voice of its master, its maker. Her instincts betrayed her, screaming at her with a single, overwhelming desire: Submit. Go to him. Belong.

  Her own will crumbled. The thought of getting up, of walking out into the night, of going to the cave, felt… right. The easiest, most natural thing in the world. An end to the struggle. An end to the fear.

  Yes, a part of her whispered. I’m so tired of fighting.

  Her hand, lying limp at her side, brushed against the seashell bracelet.

  The sensation provided a tiny, cold shock against her skin.

  An anchor in the storm. Marta’s voice, a flicker of human kindness in the roaring, monstrous hurricane in her head.

  Frankie’s fingers spasmed, closing around the shells. She squeezed, digging the smooth, curved edges into her palm, focusing on the tiny, sharp points of contact.

  The bracelet was real. The shells were real. Marta was real. Dee Dee and Ted were real.

  The voice in her head was the lie.

  Let go, the voice commanded, sensing her resistance. The seductive purr vanished, replaced by a note of cold, sharp impatience. You are mine.

  “No,” Frankie whispered out loud, her voice a raw, trembling sound in the silent room.

  She clung to the bracelet as if it were the only solid thing in a universe dissolving around her. She focused all of her will, all of herself, into the simple, physical sensation of the shells in her hand.

  She thought of the texture, the way the sea had worn them smooth over a hundred years.

  She thought of the coolness, a clean, natural cold so different from the predatory chill of the voice.

  She thought of Marta’s kind, crinkled eyes.

  She thought of Ted’s stubborn logic and Dee Dee’s fierce, unwavering loyalty.

  She built a wall in her mind, brick by brick, out of every good, human memory she had. The taste of salt on her lips after a perfect wave. The warmth of the sun on her back. The sound of her mother’s laughter.

  Insolent child! The voice roared in her mind. The pressure intensified, becoming a physical, crushing agony. It felt as if Blackmane’s cold, ancient hands wrapped around her skull, squeezing. I gave you this power! I can take it away! I will tear you apart from the inside!

  Brick by painstaking brick, she built a wall in her mind, the scent of fresh mortar mingling with the lingering sweetness of her mother’s laughter–a warm, solid sound that held the construction together.

  Then the battle turned silent. Invisible. Agonizing. Frankie lay paralyzed in her bed, her body rigid, drenched in a cold sweat, every muscle screaming as she pitted her own terrified, stubborn, seventeen-year-old soul against centuries of pure, predatory evil.

  For what felt like an eternity, she fought him. She held onto her anchor. She held onto herself.

  And then, with a final, mental roar of pure, incandescent frustration—a sound that wasn’t a sound but an explosion of pure rage that echoed in the deepest parts of her mind—he was gone.

  The pressure vanished. The voice was silenced.

  Frankie gasped suddenly, absolute silence of her head. She trembled violently, her body utterly drained, her muscles aching as if she’d just surfed a tidal wave.

  A tremor still ran through Frankie, but it was a vibration of triumph, not terror. The simple string of seashells pressed into her palm, each cool, smooth curve a testament to the storm she had weathered. Her lungs burned, her muscles ached, yet a fierce, quiet satisfaction bloomed in her chest. The oppressive shadow of the monster had receded, replaced by the faint tang of salt and the distant whisper of the ocean. He had a voice, yes, but she had just choked it.