The next morning, the unease lingered, clinging to me like a bad taste I couldn't shake. Amber and I spent the day lazing around her house, watching reruns of Gossip Girl. Usually, her endless commentary about Serena and Blair would annoy me, but today, it was a welcome distraction. Still, every so often, my eyes drifted to the window, scanning the horizon, half-expecting to see the figure again at the edge of the trees.

I was going mad. That had to be the explanation.

When we finally arrived at Gregg's party, the chaos hit me like a wall. The thumping bass reverberated through the floor, laughter roared from every corner, and the smoky air wrapped around me as we stepped inside. Gregg's house was packed, the rooms dimly lit by flickering candles and draped with fake cobwebs. It should've been fun, a distraction—but something felt wrong.

The shadows were too deep, too alive, shifting in ways I couldn't quite track. Every time someone brushed past me, my heart leapt, the contact too sudden, too jarring. The acrid mix of sweat, cheap aftershave, and something metallic—something that almost smelled like blood—made my stomach churn. A faint ringing buzzed in my ears, dulling the music, the laughter, everything. It was like I was underwater, disconnected and disoriented.

"Let's grab a drink," Amber said, pulling me toward the garden. Her voice was light, carefree, but it barely broke through the fog in my head. I nodded, following her, but my eyes kept darting to the crowd, scanning the faces, the shifting shadows, waiting for something to go wrong.

We walked through the crowded kitchen and out into the garden, where clusters of people were smoking and laughing in the cold night air. The sharp scent of cigarettes mingled with the faint tang of damp grass, the chilled air biting at my skin. The trees surrounding Gregg's house loomed darker now, their branches stretching toward the ground like crooked fingers clawing at the earth. A faint rustling carried on the breeze, though the leaves remained eerily still. The hairs on the back of my neck rose again, the earlier unease creeping back in, stronger than before.

As I stood by the drink table, the sharp clink of ice in glasses and the occasional burst of laughter felt distant, muted. Something made me turn, my gaze snapping toward the tree line. My breath hitched, and my heart lurched. A figure stood just beyond the trees. Tall. Still. Watching. The faint glow of a streetlamp caught the edge of a mask—white and expressionless, its hollow eyes staring back at me. Michael Myers. My chest tightened as the cold air pressed against my skin like icy fingers.

I blinked, gripping the edge of the table for balance, and the figure was gone, swallowed by the shifting shadows.

"Sam? You alright?" Amber's voice jolted me, and I realised my knuckles had turned white around my cup. My throat was dry, my breath caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

"Yeah," I croaked, forcing a smile that felt as fragile as glass. "Yeah, I'm fine." The words came out too quickly, too sharply, betraying the lie.

Amber frowned but didn't press. "Well, drink up. You're making me look bad standing here all tense," she teased, her feather swaying as she nudged my arm. Her grin was warm, but it barely touched the chill settling deep in my bones.

As we moved back into the house, the warmth and noise should have been comforting, but the feeling stayed. Something was wrong. Something—or someone—was watching. No matter how hard I tried to shake the feeling, it clung to me like the shadows outside, lingering just out of reach.

The next morning, Amber groaned from the sofa, pressing a hand to her temples. "Ugh, my head. I need to brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like the devil's butt."

I couldn't help but laugh, though the sound was thin. Unlike Amber, I actually felt pretty fresh. Drinking a pint of water as soon as we got home had saved me, while Amber had spent half the night throwing up the last of her guts. She looked worse for wear as she stumbled toward the bathroom, her dramatic flair still intact despite her misery.

A few minutes later, Amber reappeared, her face freshly washed, and flung herself onto the sofa with a groan. "So, catch me up on last night! I hardly saw you after those shots," she said, motioning to her face. "Which, might I add, is your fault. Remind me never, ever, to touch Sambuca again!"

Her exaggerated misery tugged a genuine laugh from me, momentarily breaking through the tension coiled tightly in my chest. Amber always had a way of making even the worst situations feel lighter, but as her words faded, the image of the figure at the tree line crept back into my mind, sharper and more vivid.

Even in the daylight, I couldn't shake it—the mask, the stillness, the way the shadows seemed to shift and stretch as if they were alive. My stomach churned, and the laughter died in my throat. Something was wrong. And I couldn't convince myself otherwise.

"Well," I began coyly, leaning back into the cushions, "not much, really. I guess now I have to keep you away from two things at parties—"

"Shut up! Spill those beans, sista!" she demanded, completely ignoring my remark.

I sighed, though I couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "Okay, okay... So, Brad kissed me, we swapped numbers, and he said he'd text me, but... nothing yet."

Amber clapped her hands together, squealing before groaning and clutching her head. "Ouch, bad idea." She pouted, then glanced at me with a mischievous grin. "We need snacks. Right now."

I stretched, raising my arms above my head. "Hangover snacks! Yes!"

"Shhh," Amber hissed, closing her eyes and wincing as she massaged her temples. "My brain is about to explode."

The rest of the day passed in a blissful, lazy haze. We binged on Gossip Girl reruns, ploughed through a stack of Pringles and chocolate, and even managed to devour an entire Camembert with garlic bread. The scent of melted cheese and garlic lingered in the air, mingling with the faint vanilla from Amber's ever-present candles. At some point, The Notebook played in the background, though neither of us paid much attention until the credits rolled, and Amber sniffled, her eyes teary as usual.

Despite the cosy atmosphere, my mind kept wandering. I found myself staring at the window, my focus slipping as shadows danced outside in the fading light. Every now and then, I thought I heard something—a creak, a whisper of movement—and my stomach would tighten, my pulse quickening.

"Sam? Hello?" Amber's voice pulled me back. She waved a piece of garlic bread in front of my face. "Earth to Sam! Stop zoning out."

I forced a laugh, shaking my head. "Sorry. Just tired, I guess."

"More like lovesick!" she teased, waggling her eyebrows. "Brad's got you all twisted, hasn't he?"

I tried to match her light-hearted tone, but the thought of Brad still gnawed at me. "He still hasn't texted," I muttered, scrolling through my phone for the tenth time. I wasn't even sure why I kept checking. It wasn't like we had a deep connection, but the silence felt heavier than it should, like it meant more than it did.

Amber blew her nose and waved her tissue dismissively. "He's probably just super hungover, like me."

"I don't know. Maybe I should just text him?" I bit my lip, second-guessing myself, though a part of me wasn't sure why I was so focused on it. My heart felt heavier than it should have. Why do I even care this much? We barely knew each other.

Amber's eyes widened in horror. "No, don't you dare! You know how it goes—guys always do that thing where they make you wait a few days to keep you interested."

I slumped back on the sofa. "I didn't even get his number. I gave him mine, but now I'm stuck waiting... Ugh."

Amber raised an eyebrow. "Classic move. He'll text, trust me. He's just playing the long game." She sauntered into the kitchen and came back with a box of chocolate fudge cake. She didn't even bother with plates—we ate straight from the box.

As Amber chattered about party gossip, I tried to let her words distract me, but my mind kept drifting. There was something about the way Brad had smiled last night—something I couldn't quite place. It felt distant now, like a half-remembered dream, and the more I thought about it, the less real it seemed. The memory of the man in the Michael Myers mask crept back in, his stillness, his unrelenting gaze. The tension in my chest tightened again, like I was missing something vital just out of reach.

Amber nudged me with her elbow, breaking through my thoughts. "You've got that Sam overthinking everything again look," she said, her feather swaying with the movement.

I forced a smile. "Do I? Maybe I just need more chocolate cake."

"That's the spirit!" she said, shoving the box toward me. But as we laughed and bickered over the last piece, the weight in my chest refused to lift. Something about last night wasn't right, and no matter how much I tried to push it aside, it stayed with me—shadowed and waiting.