Echoes of Midnight

By Katheryn Rosseau

Echoes of Midnight is a gripping supernatural thriller that blurs the line between reality and madness.

Susane looks like any other young woman. But beneath the surface, she hides a chilling secret—she's been hearing a voice in her head since childhood. Smooth, sarcastic, and seductive, the voice has guided her through life's darkest moments. She calls him her "angel."

But on the night of her twentieth birthday, everything changes.

As the clock strikes midnight, disturbing nightmares begin to haunt her, each one more vivid—and more real—than the last. When her stepmother vanishes under horrifying circumstances, leaving behind a scene drenched in blood and mystery, Susane is thrust into a twisted reality where nothing is as it seems.

Now, she must unravel the truth behind her so-called angel, confront a hidden world that defies logic, and discover who—or what—is pulling the strings. Time is running out, and every twelve chimes bring her closer to a secret that could destroy everything she knows.

Echoes of Midnight is a haunting tale of voices, visions, and a past that refuses to stay buried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katheryn Rosseau
• Release date: Apr 2, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230712411

Katheryn Rosseau

Katheryn Rosseau is a storyteller with a gift for blending romance, intrigue, and adventure into unforgettable tales. Known for her compelling characters and immersive storytelling, she masterfully balances deep emotion with heart-racing suspense. Inspired by the complexities of human connections and the timeless magic of classic literature, Katheryn crafts stories that explore love, courage, and the unexpected twists of fate. With every novel, she pulls readers into a labyrinth of longing and danger, where the heart's deepest desires are tested by fate, and every choice leaves an indelible mark on the soul.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

— WHAT TIME IS IT? — The male voice rings out hoarsely, as the movie credits roll across the screen. I look away from the clock, straining my vision in the darkness of the room until the numbers come into focus.

— Midnight — The mischievous smile is automatic as I realize that the same twelve chimes responsible for my old nightmares are now just a mark in time.

— Actually, it's eleven fifty. — He guesses after turning around enough to see the clock on the kitchen counter.

— If you were going to look at the time, why did you ask me?

— Because I love hearing you speak at the wrong time — His arms tighten around me, getting a low sigh in response.

— Ten minutes makes no difference.

— How could it not? A lot of things happen in ten minutes — He whispers close to my ear. The warm voice possessed by lust involuntarily raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

— So show me what can happen in ten minutes.

I remember perfectly the details of how his hands ran over my body, as well as the tone of his sighs and the sound of the window being shattered. I remember every second of those ten minutes. Because it was in those ten minutes that I died, while the clock chimed its twelfth chime.​

PART I - TICK

CHAPTER ONE

— SUSANE CLINTON, STOP this nonsense. — I mumble. My voice muffled against the pillow — It was just a nightmare.

I don't usually let nightmares affect me, but this one in particular has been recurring over and over since childhood. Vivid and sensorial. As real as the sweet smell of candy apples on my pillow.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and wait for sleep to come back, but the ticking keeps me awake. It’s like the clock is inside my head, ready to emphasize the rhythmic beat of each second after my last birthday. The nightmares returned with more intensity that week, right after I blew out the candles in the shape of the number twenty. But birthdays are not a premonition of evil. Unless premonition of evil means getting older.

"You know it's not just a coincidence."

A chill runs through my body as I hear the familiar voice whispering in my head. I'm almost certain it's my conscience, but I've never dared to ask anyone. At least not after the horror of the movie Carrie when I was eight years old.

I frown, my eyes fixed on the floral comforter. My conscience could at least use a female voice instead of these male whispers. It's like having a sex hotline on your head 24/7.

The muffled laughter brings me back to reality. My eyes automatically shift to the source of the sound, the bed next to mine. Emily’s red curls move against her shoulders as my five-year-old stepsister’s laughter is muffled by the pillow. However, all I have to do is stand up and all her movements cease.

The springs of the thin mattress of his single bed creak under my weight as I sit next to his feigned sleep.

— I know you're awake, you little pest.

— I'm not! — He shouts in response.

— Shhh. Do you want to wake up daddy?

— I'm already awake. — Murmurs the familiar, sleepy male voice, coming from the half-open bedroom door.

John's face is framed by red curls, identical to Emi's, like swirls of fire against her fair skin dotted with freckles. In contrast, my hair, although curly, is as black as a starless night, probably a genetic inheritance from my mother. Probably, because I've never seen a photo of her.

My father often tells me how much she hated photographs, just as much as he points out how my features are identical to hers. However, her sad, distant gaze makes me question whether this is really a good thing.

— Breakfast? — I suggest, as his dark eyes look at me doubtfully at the offer, considering my previous poor culinary results — That means coffee and what's left of yesterday's cake.

— I'm going to wake Estela up. — Are his only words before disappearing towards his own room.

Emi remains in bed, swaying from side to side like a pendulum. Estela is her mother and practically mine too. She appeared seven years ago to complete the missing piece of the Clinton family puzzle. I remember perfectly how her blond hair shone against the rays of the park's sun. Her orange lipstick contrasted with the shiny candy apple held out toward me.​

I should have refused that candy apple.

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— GOOD MORNING! — ESTELA hums as she enters the kitchen with rhythmic steps. I raise my eyebrows and bite my lower lip to contain my laughter at the scene, which is quite common during breakfast — Suse, could you do me a favor?

— Of course.

— Here. — My eyes widen and I try not to choke on the slice of cake when the small wad of bills is held out to me — Emi needs new clothes and I noticed you do too. I would go with you, but I have things to take care of.

The corners of her lips lift in satisfaction, at least for a moment, but then her brow furrows as she watches; a strange foreboding threatens to take hold of me.

"Take a closer look.

The male voice whispers in my head. Convincing enough for my eyes to scan Estela's features attentively. Her blonde hair is tied in a perfect bun, as always, but her skin seems a shade or two paler. In addition, there is concern, even if repressed, amidst her green irises.

— Is everything okay, Suse? — She says when she catches me watching her.

Once again I nod cowardly, rather than voice my doubts out loud. I look back at the rest of the cake on the saucer. It looks great, except for a few minor details.

​However, I remain silent for the rest of the day, lost in insane conjectures and blurred memories from years ago. Emi and I spend the afternoon amidst the clothing racks and changing rooms, but only my body is actually present and the sky is already dark when we finally leave the last store, our steps following calmly on the cobblestone street.

Ristreville is a small-town town with gossipy neighbors, slow development, and low crime rates. The local police station is primarily dedicated to petty crimes, such as shoplifting or drunken arguments at the Santa Costa bar.

The soles of her shoes click on the stones in sync with the slow rhythm of her steps. We have time until the next bus arrives. On the way, Emi excitedly tells me about a girl from school. I laugh at the way she imitates the girl, but her speech soon fades into the background when I hear her voice.

— Susane — The tremor takes over me. I have heard that tone many times, but always in my mind. I keep trying to pay attention to Emi's speech, but the voice says my name again, demanding — Susane!

I freeze. The voice no longer comes from my head. Emily herself stops and looks around. Her eyes circle the place, but I don't see anyone. There are only houses with low walls, gray cobblestones, and flickering streetlights. However, instinct is contrary to reason. I hold my sister's hand tighter and run. A wave of adrenaline propels my body. I don't know why or who I'm running from, but it's as if my body is making its own decisions.

The feet stop only when the lungs burn with the demand for oxygen. I rest my free hand on the wall of a gray building with peeling paint; the sign announces a fishmonger's, but the boards nailed over the windows show that the business is closed.

Another pair of hands are braced against the same wall, but these are small with chipped pink nail polish on the nails. Emi was practically dragged this far by me. One glance in her direction is enough to make your conscience sink in at her tormented expression.

— I'm sorry — I put my arm around her, in a failed attempt to calm her down and take the panicked look off her face — It's all right now.

— What happened? — He whispers, getting only my dry swallow as an answer.

There is no way to explain it to her, I lived for years with that voice only in my head. Giving orders, sarcastic comments and advice. My mental voice, my angel. I told our father about the voice a few years ago, but only to him. It was my father who explained how each of us has a voice inside our heads and it is called conscience. However, our consciences are supposed to be invisible and inaudible to others.

"You always knew I was more than that."

I ignore the voice, as well as the insanity and the merciful instinct to continue running away. Instead, I search the silent part of my mind, looking for a good excuse for my sister. I rest my hands on my knees, leaning my body towards her, so that my eyes are at the same level as hers.

— He was a weird guy. I don't want to talk to him, but he insists on staying behind me. Do you understand?

His expression changes into a mixture of disbelief and acceptance. The lie must be clear in the darkness of my eyes, but his reaction is limited to a slight nod.

— Great — I smile at her. My spine goes straight again, although my muscles remain tense.

One look is enough to make sure that whoever it is has given up the chase. The instinctive part suggests going to the police, but the logical part emphasizes the lack of evidence of stalking. Mental voices cannot be given protective distancing measures.

I give up on dwelling on the matter. I just need to move on. I hold Emi's hand tightly and return to my previous slow pace, although now the silence creates a small gap between us. Things only partially return to normal when Emily's natural chatter returns inside the bus, continuing for the rest of the way to our house.

At home, I shed my clothes and other objects on my way to the shower. The hot water slowly runs over my naked body. I silently pray that it will wash my madness away. Gradually, my muscles relax under the pressure of the soap on my skin.

However, all peace is shattered when I hear the commotion in the other room. I turn off the tap, dry myself and put on my clothes in a few minutes. My damp hair leaves drops of water on the wooden floor all the way to the kitchen, to my father with a confused, almost panicked look. Emi sits quietly at the table, restraining herself from flinching at his every heavy step.

— What happened? — The bewildered look goes back and forth between the two.

— Come here — He says with a shaky voice, heading towards his room. Emi immediately gets up to follow us.

— I'm going too.

— No! — His authoritative voice makes even me cringe for a moment — I already told you that this is not a subject for children!

— I'm not a child and... — She falls silent at our father's stern gaze. His hands are shaking and he looks like he's about to collapse.

— There are five minutes left until that show starts, Emi. — My voice sounds nervous, but confident enough for her to nod and sit down on the couch.

I turn towards our father and follow him fearfully. The room doesn't have anything strange at first glance. However, the reaction of the man in front of me, dilated pupils and trembling lips, makes me take a better look at the scene. In fact, the first step into the room is greeted with the strange sound of tinkling under my feet.​

The floor is littered with small, uneven shards of glass, stained with strange shades of red, blood. My stomach tightens as my mind processes the scene ahead, until nausea becomes the main host in my body.

— Dad, what...?

— Estela stayed in bed all day. She ran out of her headache medicine — her voice sounds empty, as if her mind were trying in vain to escape the reality of the facts — I went out to buy more at the pharmacy, but when I came back she wasn't there. I thought she was in the bathroom, or had gone out, but I highly doubt that.

Finally, he moves. His fingers reach under the covers enough to pull the fabric away from the bed and reveal more blood. The stain from the bed leads to the window with the shattered glass. There’s a broken lampshade too, the pieces scattered across the floor. It’s obviously a fight scene. The window glass was shattered from the outside in, judging by the shards on the bedroom floor. My heart races.

— Someone took her. — I state the obvious and he nods.

— I already called the police.

I can hear the church clock in the distance and to my horror, as in the dream, it chimes twelve times.

CHAPTER TWO

HIS HANDS TREMBLE ON the table as the police officer asks me questions. Despite his seriousness, his youthful features, without the wrinkles of age, make me believe he is around twenty-three or twenty-four years old. His woody skin tone, as well as his dark hair, contrast with the cold tone of his blue eyes. The icy irises, without expressing any feeling, absorb each of my words without writing anything down.

"When did you last see her?"

"How was she?"

"Do you have any idea where she might be now?"

I glare at him indignantly at the last question, leaning forward with my hands flat on the table.

— I'm sorry, Mr... — I narrow my eyes in a failed attempt to read his name.

— You can call me Miguel.

I sign only once.

— So, Miguel. Do you really believe that if I had any idea where she might be, my father would have called you here?

The tapping of his pen against the table is replaced by a surprised look. His posture changes immediately from friendly to formal. It’s obvious that being refuted is something outside his everyday life; something tells me that this goes beyond his police career. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down slowly as he crosses his arms on the table to lean toward me, until our faces are facing each other.

— Be careful, Miss Clinton. I may consider this as disrespect to authority.

I shrink from him and his sharp words. There’s something strange about his voice. It fills the room in a suffocating way. As if it reverberates in my ears over and over before my brain processes his words.

— I'm sorry.

What's wrong with me? I never lower my voice to anyone. Maybe it's because this time it's a police officer, someone who can really give me a good punishment and tarnish my record.

— Okay. I understand that you’re upset about your mother’s disappearance — I open my mouth to correct him, but before I can, he continues. — Oh! I’m sorry, your stepmother.

I nod slightly, but my brows quickly furrow. I don't remember saying that to him. However, I just mentally shrug. Maybe my father described the family connections.

"You know your father didn't comment."

"Not now, Angel."

The police officer begins to explain the rest of the procedure, but his voice becomes just a hum in the background. I don't even know if my father is paying attention. He looks like a zombie with his eyes focused on the checkered pattern of the tablecloth. There is something strange about his behavior. For a moment I get the impression that he knows something important, but he is purposely hiding the information. He looks at the police officer's face every two minutes as if he can't believe he's there; as if at any moment the man will disappear before his eyes.​

I bite my lower lip and take a deep breath as I stare at the ceiling. I must be going a little more crazy every day.

The hours drag on until the police officer leaves, promising to do what he can. Emi appears next, spying. I know it's wrong, but I lied to her. I said that Estela had to travel for work at the last minute.

— And what was a police officer doing here? — She asks.

— Your sister has been up to mischief — Our father replies, looking at me in such a way that even I believe I am the one to blame.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something is wrong. He is cold, as if it were my fault that Estela disappeared. He has barely said two words to me since the police officer left.

I go to the room with Emi, after insisting on sleeping in my bed. For a moment, in the darkness of the room, I believe that Estela is traveling and will return next week, but even so, I cannot sleep. Amid the dragging of the night hours, the mechanisms of the church clock seem to work inside my head.

Tick-tock, Tick-tock

Tick

Tick... Tock

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AFTER A WEEK, MY FATHER is in a somewhat chaotic state. Like me, there are two purple spots below his eyes. His irises seem to always be looking into space, he gets stressed with just a few words and seems obstinate about not having my company, as if he were an outcast.​

I pick up Emi from school after my shift at the Marker bookstore. We continue walking home in silence, talking has stopped being a priority for a few days. Then, I hear footsteps behind us, the street is busy, but there is something strange about these specific ones. It is as if the sounds of these footsteps startle the others. My walk becomes faster and I dare to turn onto a different street. My breathing quickens as I become more certain that someone is following us. Somehow I know it is him, but it cannot be.

They are just hallucinations. I repeat it mentally several times, like a kind of mantra.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

A chill runs through my body and instinctively, I look over my shoulder. The street is empty and dead end. There is only him and the two of us.

— Susane.

I freeze. I would recognize this voice anywhere. It was the one that haunted me since childhood and made my father doubt my sanity. Yet it can't be real, and even if it is, how did I not recognize it a week ago?

Holding Emi's hand tightly, I turn and face him rigidly.

— What do you want? — I hiss.

A black velvet mask covers her face, except for her intense blue eyes. I refuse to accept how certain I am about who she is. Because that means all her premonitions are real, and so is my madness.

— You already know what I want. — He removes the mask revealing the same blue eyes that filled me with questions a week ago.

— No, I don't know.

— Yes, you know — he murmurs calmly, his lips pulling back into a cruel sideways smile — You. More specifically, your blood.

His voice sends shivers down my spine and triggers an instinctive desire to run. However, his high-pitched laugh stops me. I stare at him, not understanding why his laughter gradually increases, until my hands feel empty. I look around in panic for my sister, but she is nowhere to be found.

— Emily!

The only answer to my scream is Miguel's laughter, growing louder and louder, devouring the last drops of my calm. I close my eyes tightly. None of this is real and a part of me, even if small, knows it. Just as I know I should never have stopped taking my medication.

— Susi! 

I open my eyes and the air rushes back into my lungs. Gradually, I realize that I am lying on the rough sidewalk of Petrez Street. I blink my eyes in search of focus, white spots blurring my vision, perhaps because I stood up too quickly.

— What happened? — Emi murmurs next to me with her small hand touching my shoulder.

My mouth drops open in astonishment at the intact little red-haired girl in front of me. I take her face between my hands and turn it from side to side, checking every inch of the child. Her skin remains flawless, without a single scratch.

— Are you okay? — I continue to assess him worriedly. It's not possible. Did he knock me out? — Did he do something to you?

— Who is he? — She steps away from me, confused. For a moment, she looks at me exactly like our father did a few years ago, as if she were crazy.​

— Miguel. — The voice is spoken without much conviction. The name gradually dies on my lips at his worried expression.

— Are you okay? — Emily looks around for help.

My confused mind tries to think logically and comes to the conclusion that I passed out from exhaustion. I haven't slept for three days now, it must be enough for my mind to suffer a power outage. I rest my head between my knees, taking a deep breath, my fingers digging into the tangled wires as I listen again.

"Do you think I would hurt a child, my dear? I don’t hurt children. This is all in your head, literally."

It was all just a delirium, but I'm still in it. The sour taste of bile rises and falls in my throat. The bad feeling persists, as does the feeling of being watched.

— I am. I just... had a little dream. — I shake my head in denial, dismissing such a thought and look at her firmly — Don't tell our father.

She nods mechanically and stares at the street, lost in her own thoughts. She remains silent, even when we reach home. However, this is how she has spent the last twenty-four hours since we told her about Estela's disappearance. There would be no point in continuing the lie any longer.

She didn't cry, panic, or bombard us with questions like we expected. She just stayed silent and went about her business as usual. I thought I knew her well enough to at least have an idea of ​​what she was feeling, but this silence and coldness didn't seem like the emotional redhead I've known for the past five years.

Finally, I decide to sleep tonight, before I pass out from exhaustion again. It feels like the right thing to do, but I soon discover that sleeping was a terrible idea.

Parecia o certo a se fazer, mas tão logo descobri que dormir foi uma péssima ideia

I WAKE UP AT MIDNIGHT to the sound of the clock striking twelve. I groan and rub my eyes. Emi is in a deep sleep and probably my father too. I should go back to sleep, but my dry throat scratches with every swallow. After long minutes of tossing and turning, I finally drag myself out of bed and head towards the kitchen. My fingers find the cold glass of the water bottle in the fridge before my sleepy eyes.

However, the drowsiness quickly fades at the loud sound of breaking glass. It takes hundreds of painful heartbeats to notice the source of the sound. The kitchen remains as silent as the bottle of water in the refrigerator. The same cannot be said for my father's room.

I venture closer to the door, but the sound of it shattering makes me instinctively take two steps back. I grope in the darkness until my trembling hands reach the drawer of the old kitchen cabinet. I open it slowly, hoping it won't make its usual creaking noise, while my fingers grope blindly through the drawer. My gaze remains focused on the door until my fingers finally close around the large metal knife. As a precaution, my other hand slowly removes my cell phone from the charger, ready to dial 911.

There's another bang. A window opens and closes quickly. It's at that moment that my survival instinct is silenced, replaced by my protective instinct. I push the half-open bedroom door with my shoulder, knife at the ready, ready to attack the intruder, but the room is empty. There's no one there, not even my father, just a scene worthy of a low-budget horror movie. Because it's precisely in those movies that blood becomes the protagonist.

I hold my breath and stifle my scream with the back of my hand holding my phone. My eyes instantly fill with tears of terror. The wallpaper is torn, as if claws or something sharp had cut it into strips. Like the other day, there is blood, but this time, a flood of red liquid seems to have reached the room. All the walls are stained a morbid scarlet tone, broken objects are scattered everywhere and worst of all, there is no sign of my father.

My whole body trembles involuntarily. I don't notice when the first tear falls, but within a minute, my face is wet with them. Sadness and fear fight for control of my body, gradually suffocating me. There is no way someone could lose so much blood and survive. My