A thump from below wakes me out of a restless sleep. Itfeels
like being ripped from a deep, persistent fog that lingers in the
recess of my brain.
Blinking my eyes open, I stare at my closed door, focusing on
the faint outline until my brain catches up with what I heard. My
heart is well ahead of me, the muscle beating inside my chest
rapidly while the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Acloudof unease rolls in the pit of my stomach, and it's not
until several seconds later that I realize the sound I heard was the
shutting of my front door.
Slowly, I sit up and slide out from under the covers. Adrenaline
is coursing through my system now, and I'm wide awake.
Someone was just inside my house.
The sound could have beenanything. It could have been the
foundation settling. Or shit, even a couple of ghosts roughhousing.
But justlike when your gut is telling you something bad is going to happen—mine is telling me that someone was just in myfucking
house.
Was it the person that pounded on my door? It has to be, right?
It's too much of a coincidence to have a stranger deliberately trek
over a mile to the manor just to bang on the door and leave. And
now they're back.
If they ever left at all.
Shakily, I get up from my bed, a cold chill washing over meand
puckering my skin into goosebumps. I shiver, nabbing my phone
from thenightstand and pad lightly over to the door. Slowly, I open
it, cringing at the loud creak that rings out.
I need the Tin Man to oil the hinges on my door just as much as
I need the Lion's bravery. I'mshaking like a leaf, but I refuse to
cower and let someone walk around my house freely.
Flipping the switch on, the few working lights flicker,
illuminating thehallway just enough for my mind to play tricks on
me and conjure shadow people residing just beyond the light. And
as I slowly make my way towards the staircase, I feel eyes from
the pictures lining the walls watching me as I pass by.
Watching me make yet another stupid mistake. As if they're
saying stupid girl, you're about to get murdered.
Watch your back.
They're right behind you.
The last thought has me gasping and turning around, though I
know no one is actually behind me. My stupid fucking brain is a
little bit too imaginative.
Atrait that works wonders for my career, but I don't fucking
appreciate it in this very moment.
Forging on at a quicker pace, I make my way down the stairs.
Immediately, I turn on the lights, wincing from the brightness that
burns my retinas.
Better than the alternative.
I woulddie on the spot if I was searching around with a single
beam of light and found someone lurking in my house that way.
One second no one is there, and the next second hello, there's
my murderer. No fucking thank you.
When Idon't find anyone in the living room or kitchen, Iwhip
around and turn the knob on my front door. It's still locked, which means that whoever left somehow managed to relock the door.
Or they never actually left.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I storm through the living roomand
into the kitchen, gunning straight for the knives.
But I catch a glimpse of something resting on the island out of
my peripheral, freezing me in place. My eyes jump to the item,
and a curse escapes my lips when I see a single red roseresting
on the countertop.
I stare at the flower like it's a live tarantula, staring straight back
at me and daring me to come closer. If I do, it'll surelyeat me
alive.
Letting out a shaky breath, I pluck the flower fromthe
countertop and roll it in my fingers. The thorns have been severed
from the stem, and I get the strange inclination that it was done
purposely to save my fingers from being pricked.
But that notion is crazy. If someone is sneaking into my house
at night and leaving me flowers, their intentions are the exact
opposite of virtuous. They're trying to scare me.
Curling my fist, I crush the flower in the palm of my hand and
throw itin the trash, and then I resume my original mission. I rip
open the drawer, the silverware clanking loudly in the silence, and
then slam it shut after selecting the largest knife. I'm too pissed to
be quiet and sneaky.
Whoever is hiding in here will hear me coming from a mile
away, but I don't care. I have no desire to hide.
I'm seething now.
I don't like someone thinking they can just break into my home
while I'm sleeping upstairs. And I especially don't like someone
making me feel vulnerable in my own house.
And then to have the audacity to leave me a flower like a
fucking weirdo? They may have made that rose powerless by
clipping its thorns, but I will gladly show them a rose is still fucking
deadly when it's shoved down their throat.
I thoroughly check the mainand second floor, but don't find
anyone waiting for me. It isn'tuntil I'm at the end of the hallway on
the second floor, staring at the door that leads to the attic, that my
search comes to a screeching halt.I'm frozen to the spot. Every time I try to force my feet forward,
berating myself for not searching every single room in the manor, I
can't bring myself to move. Every single one of my instincts is
screaming at me to not go near that door.
That I will find something terrifying if I do.
The attic was where Nana would often retreat, spending her
days upthere knitting while humming a tune, several fans blowing
at her from every direction during the summertime. I swear I hear
those tunes coming from the attic some days, but I can't ever
bring myself to go up there and look.
Afeat that I apparently won't overcome tonight, either. I don't
have the courage to go up there. The adrenaline fumes are
running out, and exhaustion is weighing heavily on my bones.
Sighing, I drag my feet back down to the kitchen to grab a
glass of water. I chug it in three swallows before refilling and
emptying it again.
I slumpdown on the barstool in front of the island, finally
setting the knife down. Athin layer of sweat dampens my
forehead, and when I lean over and rest it against the coldmarble
countertop, it sends chills throughout my body.
The person is gone, but my house isn't the only thingthey
intruded on tonight.
They're in my head now—just like they fucking wanted.
*******************************
"Someone broke into my house last night," I confess, my phone
trapped between my ear and shoulder. The spoon clinks in the
ceramic mug as I stir my coffee. I'm on my second cup, and it still
feels like I have dumbbells for eyes, and my lids are in a losing
weightlifting battle.
After the creep left last night, I couldn't fall back asleep, so I
went through the entire house, confirming all the windows were
locked.Finding that they were unsettled me more. Every single door
and window had been locked before and after they left. So how
the fuck did they get in and out?
"Hold on, you said what? Someone brokeinto your house?"
Daya shrieks.
"Yep," I say. "They left a red rose on my countertop."
Silence. Never thought I'd see the day Daya Pierson is
speechless.
"That's not all that happened, though. Just the worst of it in the
grand scheme of last night's fuckery, I suppose."
"What else happened?" she asks sharply.
"Well, Greyson is an asshole. He was in the middle of trying to
locate a mysterious hole in my neck with his tongue when
someone pounded on my front door. And I mean, like hard. We
went and looked, and no one was there. I'm assuming it was my
new friend that did it."
"Are you fucking serious?"
I goon to explain the rest. Greyson's douchery—I got hung up
on complaining about that just a bit. Then his fist going into my
wall andhis dramatic exit. I don't mention the safe and thediaries
I found,or what I read in them. I haven't processed it yet, or the
irony in reading her sordid love story and then someone breaking
into my house the same night.
"I'm coming over today," Daya declares when I finish.
"I have to clean out the house today to prepare for
renovations," I counter, already exhausted from the thought of it.
"I'll help then. We'll day drink to keep it interesting."
Asmall smile forms on my face. Daya has always been a great
friend to me.
She's been my best friend since middle school. We kept in
contact after graduation, even after we both moved away to
different colleges. Our lives only allowed us to see each other for
holidays and an annual haunted fair the past several years.
I dropped out of college after a year and pursued my writing
career, while Daya got a degree in Computer Science. Somehow,
she wormed her way into some hacker group and is pretty much a
vigilante for the people, exposing the government's secrets to the
public.She's the biggest conspiracytheorist I've ever met, but even I
can admit that the shit she finds is disturbing and has too much
evidence to be considered a theory anymore.
Regardless, both of our jobs allow us ample amounts of
freedom in our day-to-day life. We're luckier than most.
"I really appreciate that. I'll see you soon," I say before hanging
up.
I sigh and lookover at the diaries sitting on the island in front of
me. I haven't finished reading the first book yet, and I'm nervous
about continuing. With every passing word, I want to reject Gigi.
Almost as much as I want to be her.
******************************
APRIL 12TH 1944
HE CAME BACK AGAIN.I DARE SAY I WOULD BE DISAPPOINTED IF HE DIDN'T.
JOHN LEFT FOR WORK,AND SEREAFINA WENT OFF TO SCHOOL.
THR MINUTE THE HOUSE EMPTIED, I WAITED BY THE WINDOW.
NOT MY PROUDEST MOMENT, I MUST ADMIT.
THIS TIME HE WALKED INTO THE HOUSE. I FROZE WHEN HE DID TERRIFIED OF WHAT HE WOULD DO, BUT ALSO ANTICIPATING HIS NEXT MOVE.
WHEN HE REAVELED RHE ENTERIRLY OF HIS FACE TO ME, WITHOUT SHADOWS CONCEALING HIS FEATURES, MY BREATH CAUGHT.
HE'S BEAUTIFUL. PIERCING BLUE EYES. STRONG JAWLINE. AND BIG. SO, VERY BIG.
HE APPROACHED ME, STILL REFUSING TO SPEAK . HE CARESSED MY FACE WITH HIS FINGERS. SO GENTLY.
HE CIRCLED AROUND ME, LETTING HIS FINGERS DRIFT ACROSS MY SKIN.
I SHIVERED BENEATH HIS TOUCH AND HE SMILED. HIS SMILE MADE MY HEART TO STOP IN MY CHEST.
AND THEN HE LEFT.ALKED AWAY WITHOUT A WORD.
I ALMOST PLEADED FOR HIM TO COME BACK BUT I STOPPED MYSELF.
HE'LL BE BACK.
💋