Chapter 79 Blood.
Days passed, but instead of things settling into a routine, Ashley only grew stranger. At first, it was small things. Things I told myself didn’t matter. Things I tried to ignore but couldn't.
It started with food.
Since she doesn't know how to cook, cooking became my responsibility. After my family died, I had to learn how to cook because I mostly like being alone. Which is why I can cook.
I remember the first time I offered Ashely breakfast after the chaos in the kitchen, she had grimace after having a taste, but I thought my eyes might be playing tricks on me. But after living together for longer time, I realized that maybe it was not.
But as days goes by, I realized that maybe Ashely hated food which is strange. If it had been a particular food, it would be understandable, but she doesn't seem to like anything I prepared.
I started noticing it the second time I offered her food, she said she wasn’t hungry. The third time, she claimed she’d eaten outside. By the fourth day, a pattern had formed.
She always had an excuse. I started paying attention after that. Every evening, I cooked. And every evening, Ashley refused.
Sometimes she claimed she felt sick. Other times she said the smell made her dizzy. Once, she laughed awkwardly and said she’d eaten too much earlier and didn’t want to feel bloated.
At first, I wondered if she was just picky. But then I noticed something else. She didn’t just avoid food—she looked uncomfortable around it.
Her eyes lingered on the plate for a fraction of a second too long before she looked away. Her fingers curled slightly, as if resisting an urge she didn’t want to acknowledge. And whenever I insisted—really insisted—she would reluctantly sit down and eat.
That was the worst part.
She ate like someone forcing herself through a punishment.
Her jaw tightened and her wide playful smile would faltered. And no matter how good the food was—food I knew tasted fine—there was always a grimace she couldn’t fully hide. It flickered across her face like a shadow before she masked it again with that same childish grin.
I tried asking once because it made me uncomfortable that she hated my cooking. "You don’t like my cooking?” I asked gently.
Her reaction had been instant. “No!” she said too quickly. “It’s great. Really. I just… don’t eat much.”
That should’ve been enough to drop it. But something about the way she said it stayed with me.
Then there were her teeth. I noticed them one evening when she laughed. It was not that obvious, but my observant self was quick to notice.
Her canines looked longer than normal. It wasn't sharp enough to scream danger. But longer than they should’ve been. I stared for half a second too long before she noticed and closed her mouth, her smile faltering.
“You okay, sir?” she asked, tilting her head.
I forced a laugh. “Yeah. Just tired.” and she accepted that answer without question.
That was Ashley in a nutshell. Strange and unsettling.
But despite everything—despite the unease curling in my gut—I couldn’t deny that she was… likable.
She was childish in the most unexpected ways. Hyperactive, curious, constantly moving. She asked questions about everything—how the washing machine worked, why certain rooms echoed more than others, how long I’d lived here, what my job really involved.
She was always eager to learn.
Watching her struggle and then improve, even slightly, was endearing. She celebrated small victories like they were major accomplishments. Cleaning a room properly earned her a bright smile and an excited “Did I do it right?” that made me nod even when I wasn’t fully convinced.
I should’ve felt comfortable around her but I wasn't.
No matter how much we laughed. No matter how easily we got along. No matter how warm her presence could feel at times, there was always something beneath the surface that kept me tense. If felt like I was standing too close to something unpredictable.
One night, I worked late—as usual. The clock on my desk blinked 11:47 p.m. when I finally leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. The house was quiet. Ashley usually went to bed early, or at least retreated to her room.
I was already preparing to go to bed when I heard a soft sound from the living room. The unmistakable creak of the front door opening.
My heart skipped and every muscle in my body went rigid as adrenaline surged through me. Slowly, I stood, listening.
Someone was in my house. I left my room and walked into the living room. My first thought was a robber.
I reached for the vase by the side window, not much of a weapon, but better than nothing—and I stepped into the hallway. The lights were off. Shadows stretched along the walls, turning familiar spaces into something unfamiliar.
I moved quietly, every sense on high alert. As I reached the living room, I saw a figure. It was dark, but I could tell that it was Ashely.
She was tiptoeing across the room toward her bedroom, moving carefully, like she didn’t want to be seen.
Relief washed over me, followed immediately by confusion. “Ashley?” I called softly.
She froze in her tracks. Her body went rigid, her shoulders tensing as if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. Slowly, she turned to face me, her eyes wide and reflective in the dim light.
“What are you doing up this late?” I asked, my voice tight.
She didn’t answer right away. I stepped closer, reaching for the light switch.
The moment I turned it on, my breath caught in my throat. There were red stains on her clothes, on her hands, and smeared faintly at the corner of her lips.
It looked like blood.
My mind refused to process it at first. I took an involuntary step back, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Ashley noticed my reaction instantly. "It’s not what you think!” she blurted out, panic flooding her voice. She raised her hands quickly, then seemed to realize how that looked and dropped them again. “I swear—it’s not!”
“What…?” My voice came out hoarse.
“It’s paint,” she said, words tumbling over each other. “Red paint. I was painting my room and couldn’t find a brush, so I went to look for one outside. Somehow I got it all over me.”
Her explanation sounded rehearsed and rushed. I stared at her hands. Paint didn’t look like that, paint didn’t smear that way and paint didn’t stain skin so unevenly.
I wanted to call her out and demand the truth, but fear rooted me in place.
Something deep in my instincts screamed at me to back away. To not push. This was starting to get creepier and creepier.
“I… see,” I said finally, but my voice didn’t sound like my own.
She searched my expression, her eyes sharp and unreadable for just a second before softening again. “I’ll clean it up,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I nodded stiffly, and fumbled around searching for how to get away from her as soon as possible. "I’m tired,” I said. “Good night.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked back to my room, my legs trembling with every step. The moment I was inside, I shut the door and locked it. Then I double check to be sure the door was locked, I checked the window and sat on the edge of my bed, staring into the darkness as my heart slowly tried to calm.
Whoever Ashley was she was getting stranger by the day, and I was starting to think I should call the police. But she hasn't done anything wrong yet, and there lies the possibility that she might be telling the truth.
But for the first time since she entered my life, I was truly afraid.