The Coal-Eyed Suitor

It began in the autumn of that year, when the orchard behind my cabin started shedding its leaves in strange, spiraling patterns. I had moved to the foothills of the Cascades to escape the noise of the city, but the quiet here had its own language, and I was learning to listen. Every morning, I walked the perimeter of my five acres, checking the fence lines and the old well, and every morning I found something new: a stone turned over, a branch broken at a height no deer could reach, a faint impression in the moss that looked like the print of a bare, broad foot. I dismissed these as the work of wind and wildlife, though part of me knew better.

It was around that time that I started dreaming of Daniel. He had been my college sweetheart, the one who got away, and after so many years, the memory of him had softened into something romantic rather than painful. In the dreams, we were back in that old library on campus, surrounded by the smell of decaying paper and dust. He would reach for me, his hands confident and warm, and the dreams always ended in a tangle of sheets, not in the library but in a bed that felt like mine, yet wasn’t quite. I would wake up flushed and aching, and for the first time in years, I felt desired. At first, I welcomed these dreams. They were a secret escape, a private indulgence. I even found myself going to bed early, hoping to slip back into that warm oblivion.

But as the weeks passed, the dreams began to change. The library faded, replaced by the dark interior of my own cabin, but the features of the man in the dream were never clear. He was taller than Daniel, broader, and his touch, though skilled, felt somehow alien—his fingers were too long, his thumb jointed oddly, and the way he breathed was all wrong. I rationalized that my mind was simply embellishing, but a creeping dread began to take root. I woke more exhausted than when I’d gone to sleep, and there were times I found small, inexplicable marks on my skin: a bruise in the shape of a grip, three parallel scratches across my shoulder. I started to sleep with a lamp on, and the dreams became less frequent, but the sense of being watched did not fade.

The night it all came to a head, there was a new moon, and the power went out during a storm. The wind howled like a wounded animal, and the rain lashed against the windows. I lay in bed, listening to the rhythm of the storm, when a different sound rose above it: a heavy, booming thud, like something large walking through the mud outside. My heart hammered, and I pulled the covers to my chin, straining to hear. The footsteps circled the cabin, then stopped. I held my breath, waiting. The door at the foot of my bed, which I always locked, swung open with a slow, deliberate creak. In the darkness, I saw a shape, a man-sized silhouette, but thicker, more hulking, with shoulders like a boulder. And its eyes, I could see them clearly despite the dark—they glowed a dull, ember red.

It stepped closer, and the stench of wet earth and burnt hair filled my nostrils. I tried to scream, but my voice was a choked whisper. The thing leaned over me, its face close to mine, and I saw that its skin was not skin but a leathery hide, and its eyes were not human but like those of a bull, fierce and merciless. It spoke, not in words but in a vibration that rattled my teeth, a low, guttural hum that seemed to say, ‘Mine.’ I felt its hand press down on my chest, heavy as a stone, and I could not move, could not breathe. In that moment, I knew that the man I had loved in my dreams was nothing more than a mask, and what wore it had been feeding on me all along.

The next morning, I woke with the door ajar and a deep, circular bruise over my heart. The power was back on, the storm had passed, and outside my window, the orchard was completely stripped of leaves, as if winter had come overnight. I tried to convince myself it was a nightmare, a stress-induced hallucination, but the bruise persisted for weeks, and the marks on my skin continued to appear, no matter how many times I checked the locks. I called Daniel, for the first time in a long while, and his voice was a welcome anchor. He said he’d been dreaming of me too, but the details were fuzzy, and he’d been meaning to call. I almost told him everything, but the fear that he’d think I was insane stopped me. Instead, I told him I missed him, and he asked if he could come visit. I said yes, though a part of me knew I was inviting him into a danger I didn’t understand.

He arrived two weeks later, and for a while, everything felt normal. We walked in the orchard, cooked together, and at night, I slept in his arms, and the dreams stopped. I allowed myself to believe it was over. But on the third night, I woke to find him standing at the foot of the bed, staring at me with eyes that glowed faintly red in the moonlight. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, and his smile was wrong—too wide, too many teeth. I screamed, and he snapped back to himself, confused, saying he’d been sleepwalking, that he’d had a strange dream. I didn’t believe him, and that night, I stayed awake, watching him. At dawn, he suggested we go into town, and as we walked to the truck, I saw him glance at the orchard, and in his eyes, for just a moment, there was that same hungry glint.

I knew then that the thing had not left. It had simply found a new vessel. The man I loved was no longer just a memory; he was now a host, and I was the prize. That was seven months ago. Daniel is still here, and he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, but I see it in the way he sometimes looks at me, and in the way his sleepwalking has become more frequent, and in the marks on my body that return no matter how far I run or how tightly I hold him. Last night, I heard him whispering in his sleep, not his voice but a low, bull-like rumble, and I understood that the creature in him is biding its time. I’m writing this now, my last confession, before I decide what to do. I don’t know if there’s a way to exorcise it, or if I’ll have to destroy the vessel to be free. But I know one thing: whatever courted me in those dreams was not love. It was a hunger that put on the face of desire, and it will not let go easily.