There’s never a note attached. Never any type of communication other than the red roses with clipped thorns.
My paranoia only heightened when renovations started two weeks ago. Numerous people have been in and out as they repair and replace the bones of the house. Electricians, plumbers, construction workers, and landscapers have all been here.
I’ve replaced every single window in Parsons Manor and installed brand new locks on every single door, but just as I suspected, it doesn’t make a difference.
They always find a way in.
Any of the people coming through my house could be them. Admittedly, I’ve interrogated a few of the poor workers just to see if they acted suspiciously, but they all looked at me like I was asking them if they could sell me some crack.
“Ma’am?” the man prompts again. I shake my head—a sad attempt at focusing back on the conversation.
"I'm so sorry, I'm just really out of it," I rush out, waving my hands out in front of me in a placating gesture.
I feel like an asshole for my behavior.
Had I’d fallen, the poor guy probably would’ve blamed himself. The earth could’ve easily given out on me, or I could’ve just taken too large of a step and plummeted to my death just because he was concerned.
He would’ve lived the rest of his life with guilt, and who knows what would have become of him because of it.
"S'kay," he says, still eyeing me with a pinch of wariness. He hikes his thumb over his shoulder. "Well, we'll be back tomorrow to put the railing up."
I nod, twirling my fingers together.
"Thank you," I respond lightly.
The second he leaves, I'll cry about how I almost ruined his life, and even though he seems incredibly nice, I can tell he wants nothing more than to just leave. But his kindness perseveres. Or that insistent need to make sure he walks away guilt-free.
“You need me to call anyone?”
I smile and shake my head. “I know that looked bad, but I promise I wasn’t going to jump.”
His shoulders fall an inch, and his face smooths out in relief.
"Good,” he says, nodding. He starts to turn but then stops. “Oh, there's a bouquet of roses waiting out there for you."
My heart stops for a solid five seconds before it kicks into high gear and climbs its way up my throat.
"W-what? From who?"
He shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know. They were there when we came back from lunch earlier. Forgot about 'em until just now. I can go grab the—"
"That's okay!" I cut in hastily. His teeth click shut, and another weird look passes on his face. This man definitely thinks I’m a nutcase.
He nods again with one last concerned glance before turning and walking back towards the front of the manor. Releasing a weighted sigh, I wait until he disappears from view before making my own way back.
It would’ve felt weird walking behind him—two people heading in the same direction that have no interest in talking to each other.
Gives me the heebie jeebies.
When I make my way around to the front of the house, I first stop to admire how beautiful the new black porch looks. The exterior has been refreshened—still all black, but with brand new siding and fresh paint. I kept the vines and cleaned the gargoyles, and though the stone is chipped and weathered, it only adds character to the haunting manor. Seems my taste isn’t any more rainbows and sunshine than my predecessors.
Then my eyes jump to the bouquet of red flowers perched against the door. It looks like they were placed there by one of the crew members—assuming they didn’t want to enter my house without my permission.
My eyes skirt the property. The sun’s rays are nearly gone, and I can't see a damn thing five feet past the tree line. If someone is beyond that point, they could be watching me, and I would be none the wiser.
Feeling a tad more urgent, I scoop up the roses, rush inside, slam the door, and lock it. Nestled neatly in the bouquet is a single black card. From my view, I can see some type of gold calligraphy scrawled across it.
My eyes widen, wary of the note. It’ll be the first real communication I’ve gotten from the stalker. Part of me has been waiting anxiously for it, hoping they’ll tell me what they want from me.
And now that it’s here, I want to tear it to pieces and live in blissful ignorance.
Screw it, I’ll probably die from regret and curiosity if I don’t read it.
Plucking the card out with shaking hands, I open it and read:
I'll be seeing you soon, little mouse.
Okay, I could’ve lived without seeing this.
I mean, little mouse? This is obviously a man stalking me, and he must be cracked in the fucking head. Clearly, he is.
Disgusted, I slide my phone from my back pocket and call the police. I really don't want to deal with them tonight, but I need to report this.
I’m not na?ve enough to think they’ll save me from the shadow that’s attached itself to me, but I’ll be damned if I become some unsolved mystery if I die.
A gentle, but firm knock vibrates my front door. It’s almost becoming an instinct for my heart to skip a few beats whenever I hear any noise in the manor.
Surely, that can’t be healthy. Maybe I’ll eat some Cheerios. They say those are good for the heart, right?
I walk over to the window next to the door, peeking through the curtain to see who it is.
I groan. I want to be relieved that it’s not some creepy ass dude outside my door, holding a gun and spouting about how if he can’t have me, nobody can. Really, I do.
So all I am is a little sad that it’s not the persistent shadow ready to end my life.
With a heavy sigh, I swing open the door and greet Sarina Reilly—my mother. Her blonde hair is tucked tightly into a chignon, pink lipstick painted on her thin lips, and icy blue eyes.
She’s so prim and proper, and I’m so… not. Where she holds herself with regality and grace, I have a terrible habit of slumping and sitting with my legs open.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mom?” I ask dryly. She sniffs, unimpressed with my attitude.
“It’s cold out here. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she snips, waving an impatient hand for me to move.
When I reluctantly step aside, she pushes past me, a wisp of her Chanel perfume trailing in her wake. I cringe at the smell.
My dear mother looks around the manor, distaste evident on her pinched face.
She grew up in this gothic house, and the darkness of the interior must’ve influenced the insides of her heart.
“You’re going to get wrinkles if you keep looking at the house like that,” I deadpan, shutting the door and brushing past her.
She huffs at me, her heels clicking against the checkered tiles as she makes her way to the couch. The fire is roaring, and the lights are dim, creating a cozy atmosphere. It’ll start raining soon, and I really hope she leaves by then so I can enjoy my night in with a book and the sound of thunder in peace.
Mom sits daintily on the couch, her butt perched on the very edge.
If I poke her, she’ll fall off.
“Always a pleasure, Adeline,” she sighs, her tone high and mighty, as if it’s just another day of her being the bigger person.
That sigh. The backdrop to my entire childhood. It’s filled with disappointment and met expectations all at once. I never disappoint in disappointing her, I guess.