Elena thought the glass-walled villa in the hills was a sanctuary of light. Instead, it became a glass cage.
For twelve nights, she had been waking up with dull, aching discolorations on her skin—symmetrical pressure marks that looked hauntingly like the grip of a hand around her ankles. Along with the marks came a scent: a thick, metallic odor, like wet copper and stagnant earth, that clung to her expensive linens.
With her partner, Mark, away on a research vessel for the month, Elena tried to rationalize the terror. “It’s the new medication,” she told herself. “I’m restless. I’m thrashing.” But when she woke up one Tuesday to find her silk nightgown meticulously buttoned to the chin—when she knew she had slept with it open—the rationalization died.
Food was vanishing. Half-eaten apples appeared in the sink; her collection of antique silver spoons was slowly dwindling. Yet, the high-tech security system remained silent. No doors had been breached. The perimeter was clean.
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