The last few days have been hell. It started simply enough, an innocent part of my preparation for the haunted attraction known as the Haunted Hookup. I had completely immersed myself in my role as a broken doll, honing my craft, practicing my screams and voices, and conjuring up authentic spectral vibes. But now, all I could think about was the unsettling presence that had started to shadow my every move.
The first blue rose had arrived a few nights ago, delivered to my hotel room. It was strange and beautiful, but it twisted something in my gut. When the second bouquet appeared, I was too far gone in panic to even open the accompanying scrawled message. I knew something was very wrong.
I sit alone in a small bar, trying to distract myself with cheap tequila and loud music, yet even here, the sensation of being watched hunts me like a hound. I glance around, spotting a few girls giggling over cocktails and a couple more guys leaning into their laughter at the bar. None of them are looking at me, yet the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. Someone is watching. I can feel it.
"Just finish the drink," I murmur, stealing a glance at the nearly empty glass in front of me. The sour tang of margarita clings to my tongue, but it does little to douse the fire of anxiety in my chest. Drumming my fingers against the cool wood of the bar top, I reluctantly decide to leave. It's late—too late for anything good to happen.
As I walk back to my hotel, stepping through the shadows left behind by the flickering streetlights, my heart races. I pull my jacket tighter around me, wishing I could ward off the chill that's crept into my bones.
With each step, the feeling of eyes on me intensifies. It's as if the darkness itself has taken on a life of its own. Maybe it's my imagination, I tell myself; maybe my mind is playing tricks, fueled by the eerie atmosphere of my impending role in the haunted attraction. But deep down, I know it's more than that. It's a predatory gaze, and it's definitely real.
I reach the door to my hotel room, fumbling nervously with the lock even as unease bubbles in my stomach. But the moment I push the door open, dread washes over me.
Another vase of blue roses sits ominously on the small table inside, perfectly arranged, their twilight hues spilling into the pale room. My breath catches in my throat. I step inside, closing and locking the door behind me with shaking hands. How? How do they keep getting here? I was certain I hadn't let anyone in after dinner. This was a private space, a sanctuary—now violated.