Off The Path

OFF THE PATH

It was early, but not dark. That in-between hour when the world hadn't quite decided if it was awake or searching for another hour of sleep. The sun was in no rush, its light still at a lazy slant. The air was soft with golden-spun mist, the kind that sat low along the creek behind the house and made the sloped backyard look like it emptied into nothing. From the kitchen, he had a clear view of the fence and the path just beyond it. That's why he'd left the window open, just a crack--to let the sound of her in.

He stood barefoot on the cold linoleum, coffee in hand, though he hadn't taken a sip in twenty minutes. The mug was just a prop now, a tether to the human ritual of morning. In the lounge behind him, the stereo was playing one of his old favourites.

In touch with the ground

I'm on the hunt, I'm after you

He kept the volume low, barely above a hum, but the lyrics curled through the old house like smoke. He'd played the song at every scene, for years now. It had become part of the rhythm. A private joke. A pattern to spot, if the right detective ever looked close enough.

But no one had, not yet. No one was looking for him here. The woman who'd owned the house wasn't looking either - not anymore. She'd known something was wrong, sure. Women like her always did, somewhere in their bones. But she had offered the young stranger with dark eyes and long fingers a bed anyway. She was decent like that. Polite smile, housecoat, cup of tea. He didn't even have to raise his voice, and she didn't even scream.

It had been days now, and no one had come knocking. The street was quiet, the kind of street where nothing ever happened, and the neighbors minded their business and forgot your name.

He should have gone already. He usually left after two nights. Three at the most. That was the rule - always moving on before the rot set in. Before curiosity turned to suspicion. But then he'd seen her.

The girl in red.

She ran the creek path every morning like clockwork - red hoodie, ginger curls in a bouncing tail, the bright flush of exertion lighting up her face. He'd first spotted her on his second morning in the house, a blur of motion just beyond the back fence. The morning light had lit her hair like a flame. Like a match being struck in slow motion. She hadn't looked toward the house. Just kept running. Unaware.

She was younger than the others. Nineteen, twenty at most. Lean but soft, the kind of body shaped by youth and sport and not yet worn down by years of carrying the world. She stopped at the incline near the gate--always the same spot--and checked her pulse. A small gesture. Two fingers to the throat. Measured. Unthinking. It made him shiver.

She wasn't like the others. That's what he told himself, anyway. She made something stir in him--not the usual sharp, swift thing that bloomed before a kill. Something slower. Thicker. Fascination. He didn't know her name, didn't know her schedule beyond this brief minute she gave the creek path each dawn. But already he'd begun imagining how she might taste, how she might sound, what she might say if she caught him watching with his hungry eyes.

He should have left. Should have done what he always did - moved on, changed cities, wiped the prints. But he stayed. And each morning since, he'd been at the window when she arrived.

He could hear her now. The rubber slap of her shoes on the ground, the crunch of the gravel beneath her. The rush of breath, clipped and even. She crested the far hill, hoodie zipped, cheeks pink, forehead glistening with sweat. She stopped at the gate again. Checked her pulse. And for a moment, she stood completely still.

From the kitchen, he held his breath. Watched the rise and fall of her chest. The curl of her fingers in the hoodie pocket. She exhaled. Shifted her weight. And then, just like that, she was gone again - vanishing around the bend in a flicker of red.

The music swelled softly in the other room.

A scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found

And I'm hungry like the wolf

He smiled, the edge of the mug brushing his lips.

"Tomorrow," he murmured. "Tomorrow I'll say hello."

He drank the coffee. It was cold and bitter and perfect.

***

The next morning, the sun was up earlier than she was. It cracked through the low line of trees and touched the path behind the house in long gold fingers. The creek gurgled softly to itself, fat from the night's rain. The leaves were wet. The earth smelled alive.

He was already there, standing by the gate like he belonged to the view.

Joggers to warm his feet. A hoodie to hide the blood stains. Coffee in hand. On every surface that mattered, he looked clean, casual, like he was just stepping out for air. His posture said he wasn't waiting for anyone. But he was.

He'd chosen the spot carefully -- half in the light, half in the shade of the pepper tree. Just enough sun to warm his shoulders. Just enough shadow to keep his smile unreadable.

Lacey came into view like clockwork, hair tied tight, hoodie loose and red again. The zipper was down further this time, the band of her sports bra catching the morning light when she slowed.

Red, like the rest of her. He smiled appreciatively.

Sweat clung to the hollow of her throat. She reached the top of the incline, exhaled sharply, and stopped. Then she saw him.

"Morning," he said, lifting his cup like he was offering it to her.

Her brow lifted slightly, breath still heavy from the hill. "Hey."

"You always pause here," he noted. "Checking your pulse?"

She gave him a suspicious smile. "Have you been watching me?"

"I'm one of those early morning types." He gestured back up the hill to the kitchen window. "I see you every now and then whilst I'm making my coffee."

"Huh. I, uh... I guess it's a force of habit," she said in answer to his question.

"Smart move," he replied. "Good to stay on top of these things. Some people just drop dead, you know. Right in their tracks... No warning."

She smirked faintly. "Comforting."

"Not really," he admitted, lifting his free hand in mock surrender. "Just something I read once. Happened to a man I knew once. Some of the healthiest people just tend to... go. You just never know."

Her smile faltered - not quite gone, just hesitant. "Yeah?"

"Mhm. But you're young." He sipped his coffee.

The girl looked past him, back up at the residence, and the empty kitchen windows. "You're not from around here. You house-sitting?"

He paused, savouring a joke he shared with no one else. "Something like that."

Lacey's gaze flicked to the vegetable beds behind him. "It's a beautiful garden."

He turned. He'd never regarded the garden before. "It is, isn't it?" His voice was soft. "Shame about the rosemary. It dies fast when no one's there to tend to it."

She didn't answer at first, but the corners of her mouth curled slightly. "Sounds like you're doing a terrible job. Someone won't be happy."

He gave a particularly mirthless laugh. "You caught me."

She stepped a little closer to the fence -- not close enough to touch, but near enough he could see the rising steam from her shoulders, the flush in her cheeks. She was trying not to look like she was interested. That only made her more interesting.

"You a runner too?" she asked, shifting her weight.

"I try to be. But it's easier to stand at the sink and daydream," he said. "But you? You've got a beautiful stride. Controlled. Confident."

Her eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. "That sounds like a line."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But it's still true."

There was a beat of silence; both of them standing there with their morning chill and their breath fogging just slightly. She smiled, finally - beautifully. His words had worked.

"I'm Lacey," she said, eventually.

He smiled like it was a secret he already knew. "Hi, Lacey. I'm Gray."

It wasn't his name. He wasn't sure if it was a name at all. But it sounded soft, disarming. Like weather. Like fog that crept in, slow and silent.

She nodded slowly. "You gonna be around long, Gray?"

"Not too long," he said. "Just enough to tie some stuff up. Wrap up a few loose ends." He took another sip. Then, gently, as if it was nothing - "but I like this street. Quiet. Nobody comes or goes. You don't get that in most places anymore."

Lacey tilted her head. "Some people might find that creepy."

"Some people," he said, "don't know how to enjoy the silence."

She laughed at that--short, genuine. "Well. Enjoy the view, Gray."

"I am," he said, eyes on her. "Every morning."

She didn't flinch. Just adjusted her hoodie slightly and turned back to the path.

"See you tomorrow, then," she called over her shoulder.

"I hope so," he said.

And meant it.

***

The house was quiet, but it never felt still.

Not with him in it.

He drifted from room to room like smoke looking for fire, barefoot and raw-nerved. The floor creaked beneath him, though he barely weighed anything now--he hadn't eaten in two days, maybe three. Hunger was part of the discipline. It kept the edges sharp. The old woman's furniture stood like obedient ghosts, untouched and shrouded in their own scent: lavender, dry sweat, old wool. And beneath that--copper and bleach.

He could still smell the blood.

Even after scrubbing the tiles until his knuckles split, even after pouring half a bottle of cleaner down the drain, it clung. A ghost-smell. In the grout. In the floorboards. On him. Sometimes he thought he could see it too dark stains blooming on the linoleum, on the curtains, beneath the doorknobs where no stain had ever been.

He blinked, and they were gone. But he knew.

It was his obsessiveness that had kept him alive this long. The rituals. The care. Never returning to the same place twice. Cleanup so precise it was almost devotional. He changed his patterns, his name, his gait. He never lingered.

Except now.

Now he was anchored by something soft and red and burning.

Every hour he spent in this house, he could feel the noose tighten. The wrong neighbor might glance too long. A jogger might notice the curtains had changed. The postman might remember the mail building up. Danger, slow and creeping, breathed through the vents with him.

And yet -- he stayed.

Because every morning at 7:12, Lacey climbed the path behind the house, and for sixty-four seconds, she was his.

She had taken up residence inside him like a fever. Her scent hung in his nose even in the dark - sweat like salt, the detergent in her hoodie, hair scented with shampoo, fabric pressed against skin. He could see her fiery red curls when he shut his eyes. Red, like something wet and raw. The flush of her cheeks. The hollow of her throat. The dark line of her sports bra beneath the zip of her hoodie.

He had followed this trail before. He had told himself stories before -- this one will be different; this one will be enough. It never was. They all burned out like matches. Gone in a gasp.

Lacey would be the same. But knowing that didn't stop the ache. It only deepened it. He sat on the edge of the dead woman's bed, elbows on knees, pressing his palms against his eyes until fireworks bloomed.

"She won't fix you," he whispered. "You know that."

He could feel his pulse in his teeth. His spine itched. The seconds dragged. Every minute without her was hunger. Every hour was a blade. He stood. Paced. Stared at the clock. Three-thirty. Too early for anything but madness. Tomorrow, she would stop by again. Maybe longer this time. Maybe she'd smile again, or ask his name, or touch the gate. And he would take one step closer to ruin.

"Soon," he muttered to himself. "Soon."

The house shook in the wind, shivering as if it knew the game was ending. As if it had seen this all before.

***

The third morning came with a strange warmth, the kind that settled wrong in the bones.

The sun rose early and sickly, casting gold across the trees but leaving the lower paths in a dull chill. The kind of warmth that made the skin prickle and the shadows bite. It clung to the house like a fever that hadn't broken. The Wolf didn't mind. He liked it when things felt a little off. The air didn't need to be honest.

He was at the gate again, mug in hand, breath steady. Same posture. Same smile rehearsed in the mirror. Same coffee gone cold before it touched his lips.

He told himself this wasn't routine. He told himself this was control.

Then she appeared.

No hoodie today in the sunshine. Red sports bra, pale skin bare beneath it, glistening where the sweat ran. Her chest rose and fell with effort. Her brow was damp. Her hair was dark with it, matted just slightly at the temple. Her stomach gleamed--a smooth stretch of soft, white midriff dappled with perspiration, pushing slightly over the top seam of her running tights. Not bloat. Not fat. Just human fullness, warm and real.

And her tights -- those cursed, beautiful red tights were clinging today. They hugged her thighs too well. The crotch panel rode high, giving her a beautifully dainty camel toe, framing the puffed shape of her lower lips in a way she either didn't notice or didn't care to fix.

The Wolf saw it all. Drank it in like a breath. Every bead of sweat. Every rhythmic bounce of her breasts. The way her belly softened and tensed with each hurried breath. She was flushed and gleaming like something half-ripened.

He could have eaten her right there. Could have dragged her inside the gate, teeth at her throat, hands on her hips, taken her there in the garden in the still morning air. Taken everything she didn't know she was offering.

But it wouldn't have been enough.

Not yet.

She slowed again. This time, she stopped fully. Braced her hands on her hips and bent slightly forward, catching her breath. He saw her glance at him. Not just notice - glance. Check. A little grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, sharp with something wry.

"Still house-sitting?" she said, voice winded but teasing.

He nodded. "I think I've been adopted by the furniture."

She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "You're dedicated," she said. "Same spot, same mug. You like routines?"

He tilted his head. "I like patterns. Especially the ones I can count on. And the birds make such lovely noises."

She laughed, a short huff that lifted her chest. He watched the drop of sweat slip from her clavicle down into the valley of her breasts.

"You running the full loop today?" he asked, careful with his tone.

"Might call it early. It's sticky out." She turned to look up the hill. The curve of her asscheeks in her tights, the way the morning light played on her ass - it was too good.

The Wolf could feel himself stirring. "It is," he agreed. "Heat like this tends to... get under things."

She caught the word, tilted her head, amused. "Right. Like a fungus."

He laughed -- genuine, warm, just enough teeth. "Or something harder to wash off."

She didn't recoil. That mattered. There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just heavy with a choice not made. He made it for her.

"If you were done running, there's fresh coffee inside." He offered, nodding toward the house. "Come on in and have a cup whilst I'm still around."

He didn't expect her to take him up on the offer. He just needed a raincheck. A social obligation.

She arched her brow. "Bit early for coffee after coffee, isn't it?"

"I'm patient," he said. "And I'll be here tomorrow."

She let the silence hang. Then gave a slow, crooked smile. "Maybe I will be too." Then, with a smile, she ran on.

And the Wolf stayed at the gate, pulse loud in his ears, body stinging, stomach aching with want. The next time, he told himself. The next time would be the last.

***

He didn't sleep.

He never did, the night before. That was one rule he'd never broken -- don't sleep before a kill. Sleep dulled the edges, made you sloppy, made you slow. And more than that: sleep welcomed dreams. He didn't like dreams. They made you think things were still inside you that had been carved out long ago.

Tonight, the problem wasn't dreams.

It was her.

Lacey.

She was everywhere. In the cracks of the wallpaper. In the ceiling fan's hum. In the mirror, where he thought for a moment, he saw her watching him, breath fogging the glass. He moved through the house like a man half-drowned, aching and full of fire. His skin stung with anticipation. His hands twitched, not from nerves, but need -- to hold her, to pin her, to feel the heat of her under his palms.

She had undone something in him. Unravelled it slow.

He thought of her midriff, gleaming with sweat. The line of her stomach pressing soft over her tights. The bounce of her breasts in the red sports bra. That faint glimmer of a smile when he said something dark and she didn't flinch. She didn't know what he was. Not really. But she looked at him like she saw something.

That was the danger.

He wasn't supposed to want to have her. That complicated things. The act - the taking - before the ending. It left traces. Heat signatures. Bruises. Time. And time was the one thing you never spent on prey. But Lacey wasn't prey anymore. She was obsession.

He had imagined it a dozen ways already--her mouth, parted and panting; her hands, maybe gripping his back or maybe clawing at the door. Her moans, soft or furious. Her thighs spread on the dead woman's sheets. Her body slick beneath his, beneath him, full of heat and terror and longing and life.

Then silence. After. A vision of beauty, like all the others, left still and perfect in memory.

He would make it beautiful. Gentle, even. A kindness.

But as the hours ticked on -- 2:00, 3:17, 4:42 -- his mind wasn't calming. It was sparking. Every moment brought her closer. Every breath he took was thick with her scent, even though she wasn't here yet. He stripped down and walked the house naked, pacing, snarling and growling, burning inside his skin, lips dry, eyes wild. He had to have her. He would take her inside. Just for a little while. Just to see. Just to feel it, one time, right before the end. Then he'd finish it. Clean. Quiet. The way he always did. And if she screamed - if she ran, or fought him, well... it would make the silence after taste even sweeter.

He imagined her on top of him.

Naked, slow, radiant. Her rose red hair unbound, wild around her shoulders, clinging damp to the lines of her neck. Her breasts -- soft, full, flushed with arousal -- rising and falling with breath that sounded like prayer. She skin wet with sweat, slick along her thighs, glowing in the low morning light. A goddess in motion. A creature of heat and rhythm and need. His hands kneading the soft curves of her ass.

He saw it all before him.

She wouldn't come to him passively. No. She would take. She would straddle him, press her hands flat to his chest, lower herself with purpose. Her cunt hot against his stomach, her scent sharp and sweet. She would slide forward until she was above his mouth, hovering.

He would look up at her. Tongue already parting his lips.

She wouldn't have to ask.

He would bury his mouth in her, kiss her like a lover, lick her like a starved man. Long, slow strokes at first - teasing, testing. Then faster. Deeper. He'd suck at her clit until she gasped, until her hips jerked forward, grinding herself against his mouth, riding his tongue like she'd ride his cock later. He would feast. Worship. Drown in her taste, drink deeply, and never come up for air.

She would come like that -- in his mouth. Loud, raw, shaking. And she wouldn't stop there.

She would sink onto him next, still quivering, still slick. His cock would slide inside her like it belonged there, and she would ride him in the aftermath of her orgasm -- sated but greedy. She would bounce on him, tits swaying, biting her lip when he thrust up to meet her. He would grip her hips, but not control her -- no. Not her. She would take what she wanted, and he would let her.

She would come again. And maybe again after that. He wouldn't know how many times. He would only know the sound of her gasps, the heat of her cunt, the curve of her body - her body, her flesh, above him.

And in that moment, he would lie down for her.

If she asked him to stop, he would. If she pressed a palm to his chest, he would still. If she whispered his name -- his real name, the one he'd buried a long time ago, and shared now only with the dead - he would give it to her like a gift.

He would obey.

The Wolf's realisation only made him sick. Not in his body -- his body throbbed with hunger -- but in that deeper place, the one that still remembered weakness, and the cost of it. He could feel it waking in him again, that hideous yearning for connection. For affection.

He had loved before, and promised never to again.

And now he was imagining her thighs trembling on his tongue. Her hips, crushing him into the mattress. Her cunt wrapped tight around him as if it could save him.

Infatuation is infection, he told himself. Desire is disease. And love? Love was a death sentence.

The fantasy cracked like bone.

The cold room returned. The dead woman's house. The silence of rot. His cock still throbbed. His mouth was still wet. But the rage in the Wolf now seethed hot. He remembered his father's last words to him.

"Kill the things you love, before they destroy you."

Tomorrow, she'd come inside. And he would end it.

***

The morning came warm. Not the kind of warmth that coaxed flowers from the earth or made the birds sing sweeter. No, this heat was wrong--queer, suffocating, like breath caught in the chest. The shadows were still cold where the sun hadn't touched, and the air felt tight with a pressure that hadn't broken yet.

The Wolf stood at the back gate with a mug of coffee in one hand, and hunger curled tight in his belly. Inside, the little house waited in silence. He had cleaned it the night before--every surface wiped down, the second mug laid out, the scent of bleach faint under the fading ghost of lavender and old blood.

He hadn't slept. He never did before a kill.

But this was different. The fire in him wasn't just lust or need -- it was compulsion. It was obsession. It was aching. He'd been dreaming of her for days without ever closing his eyes.

And then -- she arrived.

Not in red this time.

She wore black. All black. A zipped hoodie clung to her torso, open low to reveal a black sports bra stretched over her chest. Her tights hugged her hips like paint. Her hair was tied high and tight. No bounce in her step today. No grin. She stopped at the gate, hands loose by her sides.

"Still offering that coffee?" she asked, voice quiet but even.

He smiled. Wide. Easy.

"Always."

"I was hoping you'd say yes." She wrapped her fingers around the chainlink gate. "Let me in."

He opened the gate for her. She stepped inside without hesitation. He shut the gate behind her. He locked it too.

Inside, the house felt smaller than it had any day before. The air was heavy, humid, holding its breath. Lacey looked around as she entered, not like a guest, but like someone cataloguing a scene. Her eyes brushed over the mantel, the silent stereo, the perfectly set kitchen counter. Her hands stayed tucked into her hoodie pockets.

He poured her coffee, the steam curling between them like a promise.

"Milk?" he asked.

"Black," she replied.

Black was fine. There was no milk. There wasn't much of anything in the house. He shook a sugarbowl at her. "Sugar?"

"One."

He smiled again, setting the mug and sugar cube gently in front of her. She took it, held it between her palms, but didn't drink. He watched her. Couldn't stop watching her. The gleam of sweat still kissed the hollow of her throat. Her lips were parted just slightly. Her eyes unreadable.

Then, with a touch of polite curiosity, he asked, "You have family around here? Anyone close?"

Her eyes met his. "You have a lot of questions."

"Forgive me." He laughed in a disarming manner. "It's the habit of lonely folk. Too many questions and never enough answers."

Her gaze didn't flicker.

"No," she said. "I don't have anyone. Not anymore."

He tilted his head. "Nobody?"

She shrugged, eyes down on the mug. "My parents... sort of fell apart after my sister died. Last year."

"I'm sorry," he said, voice soft with practiced concern. "Would it be impolite to--"

"Cancer," she clarified, quickly. "Of sorts."

He nodded. She was sad. So sad. He'd take her sorrow away, and everything else beside.

"So," she said, raising the cup just slightly, "it's just me now."

That was it. That was the final piece. Alone. Beautiful. Breakable. His. He stepped closer. Felt his pulse behind his teeth.

"I'm glad you came in," he said.

She looked up at him. "So am I."

A beat of silence passed.

"Actually," she said, with a faint smile, "could I trouble you for a little more sugar?"

He nodded instantly, playing along. "Of course."

He turned to the drawer, his hand already reaching--so ordinary, so trusting. And that was the mistake. He didn't hear her move. Only felt her behind him. Close. Closer than before. He inhaled, a deep breath of excitement. It hurt - cold and metal and itching. Foreign. Invasive. His body froze with a shudder. He paused for a millisecond that seemed like an eternity.

Then he looked down.

The knife was buried in his side up to the handle. He'd been stuck with a stab so smooth, so precise, that for a heartbeat he didn't understand it. It felt like a fist pressing into his side, not violence. Not yet. Just pressure. Just contact.

Then the pain bloomed.

Hot. Heavy. Alive.

He dropped the spoon. His body rocked. He turned -- and saw her. Standing steady. Blood, lots of it, already slicking her hand.

She didn't tremble.

"You--" he gasped.

"For my sister," she said.

The Wolf snarled. The rage rose instantly. He acted without hesitation or question. He struck her with the backhand. She went down hard, cracking into the leg of the table. Her breath left her in a ragged gasp.

But she didn't cry out. She didn't plead.

She rolled and stood.

His legs were going. He staggered, trying to catch himself on the edge of the counter. His fingers lost their grip. He fell to the floor and landed hard. His hands pulled the knife from his side. He pressed his wound. Blood was pouring freely, dark and hot, soaking his shirt and jacket, pooling on the linoleum. It was everywhere. He cursed hus stupidity in stunned silence. He'd done this enough times to know the inescapable conclusion - she'd killed him.

He stared up at her, the room swaying. "What?" he muttered. "Why...?"

She stepped toward him. "For Leah," she said, wiping the blood from her cut lip.

The name hit like a second blade. His mind lurched. The puzzle pieces swirled.

"You said... she died... of cancer--" he gasped.

Lacey crouched beside him. Her voice was cold. "--I'm not wrong. You are a cancer."

And then it hit. Hard. A year ago. The garden. The girl. Seventeen. Small wrists. Wide, soft eyes. She'd whimpered, not screamed. The sticky summer heat, and the scent of turned earth and lemon trees in bloom. He'd left her there. Forgotten her name. But not her face. Not Leah.

Lacey stared into his face as he remembered. "She died in the shadow of our home. You left her there for us to find."

He tried to crawl, dragging his body by his palms, smearing his own blood behind him. The world tilted sideways.

"I've been following you," she said. "Waiting. Watching you watching me. I needed to be sure. I needed to get you here. Alone. With me. So I used what I had."

She stood. He reached out. A final, useless motion. She walked past him to the mantel, and picked up the brass clock the old lady had loved so dearly. It looked heavy.

He rolled onto his side, looking up at her, blood bubbling in his throat. He spat it out with some words of realization. "You... you played me."

She stepped over him. "You enjoyed it."

And he had. He couldn't deny it. Even now... even dying. He was choking on a mix of blood, hypocrisy and bewilderment. He smiled through the pain, through the blur, through the red drowning his thoughts.

He looked up at his killer. She'd be the last thing he ever saw. "God," he rasped. "You're beautiful."

She raised the clock. "So was Leah."

Thud.

The Wolf didn't move again.