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be thinking of him now as some sort of romantic object? she chided herself. How absurd! Or not… 
                  I must be very tired, she reasoned to herself with a small smile.
                  Arabel never felt this way about any of the young men she chanced to meet. No one in all her years had really interested her, even in the slightest. When Shelaine would go on and on about some new fellow, Arabel would roll her eyes and laugh at Shelaine’s dramatic posturing. Arabel herself had never experienced the pangs of infatuation. She’d only had one real kiss and that had been on a dare. It had proven to be a big letdown.
                  The boy had been nervous and Arabel merely curious. He had moved in awkwardly to meet her lips and his hand upon her arm felt clammy. His breath tickled Arabel’s mouth and she had had to fight back the persistent urge to laugh. Arabel knew it wouldn’t do to laugh at the poor fellow when he seemed so earnest and desperate to kiss her. His lips had been soft but when they met hers, she’d felt no spark, no tingle, no anticipation or desire. All in all it had been a bore. Arabel confessed to Shelaine that it had been a massive letdown and she’d since felt no pressing need to repeat the experiment.
                  Of course the boy who’d kissed her hadn’t had those cheekbones she so enjoyed looking at or those expressive brown eyes. Arabel smiled to herself and realized ruefully that the bath was getting cold. Reluctantly she leveraged her body up in the tub and pulled the drain. The water circled the drain, rushing down the pipes and emptying the tub. Arabel watched the water as it circled down and it appeared to turn to blood. Alarmed, Arabel looked away and then looked quickly back. To her relief the blood was gone. She shook her head, as if to clear it, unsure if this was a vision or a reality. Sometimes it was difficult to tell, the lines blurred back and forth so often for her.
                  Once in bed, Arabel did her best to empty her mind of all thought. She relaxed her muscles one by one, wiggling her toes, stretching her legs, breathing deeply, watching her breaths as they moved in and out of her chest cavity. She felt a sudden burning sensation at her throat and the grey energy swirled above her, menacing. Arabel tried to dislodge the invisible fingers pressing on her windpipe but seemed unable to. Panic set in as she thrashed in her bed and the energy moved and filled itself. In horror, Arabel watched as it began to take shape.
                  A man with dull grey eyes. A slight bump upon his nose. Nondescript brown hair. His mouth moved and a low sigh emerged. Arabel stilled her body; her breath came sharply but she found she could now breathe. In sick fascination she watched the arms, legs and torso of the man form themselves. 
                  A cold wind seemed to permeate the room, blanking out the heat from the fire which roared in the grill of her bedroom. Arabel shivered; the chill was intense. The fingers had now moved off of her throat and she was no longer a captive of the grey swirling energy. It was as if the grey eyed man was more concerned with his emerging body than her presence.
                  Arabel leapt out of bed, grabbed her wrapper off of the chair and put it on quickly. She had no talisman to ward against this evil. She did not know what Gypsy spells might work or what magic she might devise to entrap it. She knew there existed special bottles to capture spirits within but she herself did not possess any nor did she know of anywhere to locate such an item, especially right this instant when her life was in danger.
                  The figure swirled in a cloud of grey-black, mist-like substance. The chill intensified. The grey eyes locked onto Arabel, hypnotic, deadly, cold.
                  “Do not resist me,” it said, and