T he windows of my house tremble from the power of

thunder rolling across the skies. Lightning strikes in the

distance, illuminating the night. In that small moment, the

few seconds of blinding light showcases the man standing outside

my window. Watching me. Always watching me.

I go through the motions, just like I always do. My heart skips a

beat and then palpitates, my breathing turns shallow, and my

hands grow clammy. It doesn’t matter how many times I see him,

he always pulls the same reaction out of me.

Fear.

And excitement.

I don’t know why it excites me. Something must be wrong with

me. It’s not normal for liquid heat to course through my veins,

leaving tingles burning in its wake. It’s not common for my mind to

start wondering about things I shouldn’t.

Can he see me now? Wearing nothing but a thin tank top, my

nipples poking through the material? Or the shorts I’m wearing

that barely cover my ass? Does he like the view?

Of course he does.

That’s why he watches me, isn’t it? That’s why he comes back

every night, growing bolder with his leering while I silently

challenge him. Hoping he’ll come closer, so I have a reason to put

a knife to his throat.

The truth is, I’m scared of him. Terrified, actually.

But the man standing outside my window makes me feel like

I’m sitting in a dark room, a single light shining from the television

where a horror flick plays on the screen. It’s petrifying, and all I

want to do is hide, but there’s a distinct part of me that keeps me

still, baring myself to the horror. That finds a small thrill out of it.

It’s dark again, and the lightning strikes in areas further away.

My breathing continues to escalate. I can’t see him, but he can

see me.

Ripping my eyes away from the window, I turn to look behind

me in the darkened house, paranoid that he’s somehow found a

way inside. No matter how deep the shadows go in Parsons

Manor, the black and white checkered floor always seems visible.

I

inherited this house from my grandparents. My great

grandparents had built the three-story Victorian home back in the

early 1940s through blood, sweat, tears, and the lives of five

construction workers.

Legend says—or rather Nana says—that the house caught fire

and killed the construction workers during the building structure

phase. I haven't been able to find any news articles on the

unfortunate event, but the souls that haunt the Manor reek of

despair.

Nana always told grandiose stories that wrung eye rolls from

my parents. Mom never believed anything Nana said, but I think

she just didn’t want to.

Sometimes I hear footsteps at night. They could be from the

ghosts of the workers who died in the tragic fire eighty years ago,

or they could be from the shadow that stands outside my house.

Watching me.

Always watching me.

Sometimes I have very dark thoughts about my mother—

thoughts no sane daughter should ever have.

Sometimes, I’m not always sane.

“Addie, you’re being ridiculous,” Mom says through the speaker

on my phone. I glare at it in response, refusing to argue with her.

When I have nothing to say, she sighs loudly. I wrinkle my nose. It

blows my mind that this woman always called Nana dramatic yet

can’t see her own flair for the dramatics.

“Just because your grandparents gave you the house doesn’t

mean you have to actually live in it. It’s old and would be doing

everyone in that city a favor if it were torn down.”

I thump my head against the headrest, rolling my eyes upward

and trying to find patience weaved into the stained roof of my car.

How did I manage to get ketchup up there?

“And just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean I can’t live in

it,” I retort dryly.

My mother is a bitch. Plain and simple. She’s always had a

chip on her shoulder, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

“You’ll be living an hour from us! That will be incredibly

inconvenient for you to come visit us, won’t it?”

Oh, how will I ever survive?

Pretty sure my gynecologist is an hour away, too, but I still

make an effort to see her once a year. And those visits are far

more painful.

“Nope,” I reply, popping the P. I’m over this conversation. My

patience only lasts an entire sixty seconds talking to my mother.

After that, I’m running on fumes and have no desire to put in any

more effort to keep the conversation moving along.

If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. She always manages to find

something to complain about. This time, it’s my choice to live in

the house my grandparents gave to me. I grew up in Parsons

Manor, running alongside the ghosts in the halls and baking

cookies with Nana. I have fond memories here—memories I

refuse to let go of just because Mom didn’t get along with Nana.

I never understood the tension between them, but as I got older

and started to comprehend Mom’s snarkiness and underhanded

insults for what they were, it made sense.

Nana always had a positive, sunny outlook on life, viewing the

world through rose-colored glasses. She was always smiling and

humming, while Mom is cursed with a perpetual scowl on her face

and looking at life like her glasses got smashed when she was

plunged out of Nana’s vagina. I don’t know why her personality

never developed past that of a porcupine—she was never raised

to be a prickly bitch.

Growing up, my mom and dad had a house only a mile away

from Parsons Manor. She could barely tolerate me, so I spent

most of my childhood in this house. It wasn’t until I left for college

that Mom moved out of town an hour away. When I quit college, I

moved in with her until I got back on my feet and my writing career

took off.

And when it did, I decided to travel around the country, never

really settling in one place.

Nana died about a year ago, gifting me the house in her will,

but my grief hindered me from moving into Parsons Manor. Until

now.

Mom sighs again through the phone. “I just wish you had more

ambition in life, instead of staying in the town you grew up in,

sweetie. Do something more with your life than waste away in that

house like your grandmother did. I don’t want you to become

worthless like her.”

A snarl overtakes my face, fury tearing throughout my chest.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck off.”

I

hang up the phone, angrily smashing my finger into the

screen until I hear the telltale chime that the call has ended.

How dare she speak of her own mother that way when she was

nothing but loved and cherished? Nana certainly didn’t treat her

the way she treats me, that’s for damn sure.

I

rip a page from Mom’s book and let loose a melodramatic

sigh, turning to look out my side window. Said house stands tall,

the tip of the black roof spearing through the gloomy clouds and

looming over the vastly wooded area as if to say you shall fear

me. Peering over my shoulder, the dense thicket of trees are no

more inviting—their shadows crawling from the overgrowth with

outstretched claws.

I

shiver, delighting in the ominous feeling radiating from this

small portion of the cliff. It looks exactly as it did from my

childhood, and it gives me no less of a thrill to peer into the infinite

blackness.

Parsons Manor is stationed on a cliffside overlooking the Bay

with a mile long driveway stretching through a heavily wooded

area. The congregation of trees separates this house from the rest

of the world, making you feel like you’re well and truly alone.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re on an entirely different planet,

ostracized from civilization. The whole area has a menacing,

sorrowful aura.

And I fucking love it.

The house has begun to decay, but it can be fixed up to look

like new again with a bit of TLC. Hundreds of vines crawl up all

sides of the structure, climbing towards the gargoyles stationed on

the roof on either side of the manor. The black siding is fading to a

gray and starting to peel away, and the black paint around the

windows is chipping like cheap nail polish. I’ll have to hire

someone to give the large front porch a facelift since it’s starting to

sag on one side.

The lawn is long overdue for a haircut, the blades of grass

nearly as tall as me, and the three acres of clearing bursting with

weeds. I bet plenty of snakes have settled in nicely since it’s last

been mowed.

Nana used to offset the manor’s dark shade with blooms of

colorful flowers during the spring season. Hyacinths, primroses,

violas, and rhododendron.

And in autumn, sunflowers would be crawling up the sides of

the house, the bright yellows and oranges in the petals a beautiful

contrast against the black siding.

I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when

the season calls for it. This time, I’ll plant strawberries, lettuce, and

herbs as well.

I’m deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement

from above. Curtains flutter in the lone window at the very top of

the house.

The attic.

Last time I checked, there’s no central air up there. Nothing

should be able to move those curtains, but yet I don’t doubt what I

saw.

Coupled with the looming storm in the background, Parsons

Manor looks like a scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip

between my teeth, unable to stop the smile from forming on my

face.

I love that.

I can’t explain why, but I do.

Fuck what my mother says. I’m living here. I’m a successful

writer and have the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide

to live in a place that means a lot to me? That doesn’t make me a

lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book

tours and conferences; settling down in a house won’t change

that. I know what the fuck I want, and I don’t give a shit what

anyone else thinks about it.

Especially mommy dearest.

The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab my

purse and step out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh rain. It

turns from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour in a matter of

seconds. I bolt up the front porch steps, flinging drops of water off

my arms and shaking my body out like a wet dog.

I love storms—I just don’t like to be in them. I’d prefer to cuddle

up under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book while listening

to the rain fall.

I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it’s stuck, refusing to

give me even a millimeter. I jimmy the key, wrestling with it until

the mechanism finally turns and I’m able to unlock the door.

Guess I’m gonna have to fix that soon, too.

A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from

the mixture of freezing rain still wet on my skin and the cold, stale

air. The interior of the house is cast in shadows. Dim light shines

through the windows, gradually fading as the sun disappears

behind gray storm clouds.

I

feel as if I should start my story with “it was a dark stormy

night...”

I look up and smile when I see the black ribbed ceiling, made

up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand chandelier is

hanging over my head, golden steel warped in an intricate design

with crystals dangling from the tips. It’s always been Nana’s most

prized possession.

The black and white checkered floors lead directly to the black

grand staircase—large enough to fit a piano through sideways—

and flow off into the living room. My boots squeak against the tiles

as I venture further inside.

This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the

monstrosity of the home could swallow you whole.

The living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and

look around, nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dust coats

every surface, and the smell of mothballs is overpowering, but it

looks exactly how I last saw it, right before Nana died last year.

A large black stone fireplace is in the center of the living room

on the far left wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An

ornate wooden coffee table sits in the middle, an empty vase atop

the dark wood. Nana used to fill it with lilies, but now it only

collects dust and bug carcasses.

The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by

heavy golden curtains.

One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of

the house, providing a beautiful view of the forest beyond Parsons

Manor. Placed right in front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a

matching stool. Nana used to sit there and watch the rain, and she

said her mother would always do the same.

The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful

black stained cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island

sits in the middle with black barstools lining one side. Grandpa

and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her

humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.

TO BE CONTINUED

CONTINUE

Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the

rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a

buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called

to get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too

sure when dealing with an old house.

Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing

another shiver to wrack my body.

Sixty-two goddamn degrees.

I

press my thumb into the up arrow and don’t stop until the

temperature is set to seventy-four. I don’t mind cooler

temperatures, but I’d prefer it if my nipples didn’t cut through all of

my clothing.

I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new—a

home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my

body left for a little while.

And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor.

It’s how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the

taste has passed down through the generations. Nana used to

say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the

room. Despite that, she still had old people’s taste.

I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border

of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers

in the middle? That’s not cute. That’s ugly.

I sigh.

“Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted,” I whisper to

the dead air.

“Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. I

glance over at Marietta, noting how she’s absently holding out the

mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into

the small building. This local bookstore wasn’t built for a large

number of people, but somehow, they’re making it work anyway.

Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging

in a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove

over the crowd, silently counting in my head. I lose count after

thirty.

“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone’s

attention, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore

into me, creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. It makes my

skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power through it.

“Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank

you all for coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and

I’m incredibly excited to meet you all. Everyone ready?!” I ask,

forcing excitement into my tone.

It’s not that I’m not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward

during book signings. I’m not a natural when it comes to social

interactions. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen

smile after being asked a question while my brain processes the

fact that I didn’t even hear the question. It’s usually because my

heart is thumping too loud in my ears.

I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs

off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She’s

witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get

secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the

downfalls of representing a social pariah.

Come back, Marietta. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the

only one getting embarrassed.

The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her

hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face.

“Oh my god, it’s so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims,

nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.

I smile wide and gently take the book.

“It’s awesome to meet you, too,” I return. “And hey, Team

Freckles,” I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and

mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting

over her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get

stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions.

Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.

“Megan,” she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My

hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick

appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much

represents the entirety of my existence.

I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.

As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face.

Someone is staring at me. But that’s a fucking stupid thought

because everyone is staring at me.

I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but

the feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing

beneath the surface of my skin while a torch is being held to my

flesh. It’s… it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. The hairs on the

back of my neck rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating

to a bright red.

Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing

reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep

the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source

of my discomfort without making it obvious.

My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A

man. The crowd shrouds the majority of his body, only bits of his

face peeking through the gaps between people’s heads. But what

I do see has my hand stilling, mid-write.

His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into

a well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it’s nearly white,

reminding me of a husky’s eyes. A scar slashes straight down

through the discolored eye, as if it didn’t already demand

attention.

When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and

looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same

spot, creating a big black ink dot.

“Sorry,” I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and

snag a bookmark, sign that too, and tuck it in the book as an

apology.

The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten, and

scurries off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he’s

gone.

“Addie, you need to get laid."

In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my

blueberry martini as deeply as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best

friend, eyes me, entirely unimpressed and impatient based on the

quirk of her brow.

I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.

I don’t say this out loud because I can bet my left ass cheek

that her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger dick

instead.

When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and

rips the plastic from my lips. I’ve reached the bottom of the glass a

solid fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through

the straw. It’s the most action my mouth has gotten in a year now.

“Whoa, personal space,” I mumble, setting the glass down. I

avoid Daya’s eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I

can order another martini. The faster I have the straw in my mouth

again, the sooner I can avoid this conversation some more.

“Don’t deflect, bitch. You suck at it.”

Our eyes meet, a beat passes, and we both burst into laughter.

“I suck at getting laid, too, apparently,” I say after our laughing

calms.

Daya gives me a droll look. “You've had plenty of opportunities.

You just don’t take them. You’re a hot twenty-six-year-old woman

with freckles, a great pair of tits, and an ass to die for. The men

are out here waiting.”

I

shrug, deflecting again. Daya isn't exactly wrong—at least

about having options. I’m just not interested in any of them. They

all bore me. All I get is what are you wearing and wanna come

over, winky face at one o’clock in the morning. I’m wearing the

same sweatpants I’ve been wearing the past week, there’s a

mysterious stain on my crotch, and no, I don’t want to fucking

come over.

She flips out an expectant hand. “Give me your phone.”

My eyes widen. “Fuck, no.”

“Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. Fucking. Phone.”

“Or what?” I taunt.

“Or I will throw myself across the table, embarrass the absolute

shit out of you, and get my way anyways.”

My eyes finally catch on our waitress and I flag her down.

Desperately. She rushes over, probably thinking I found a hair in

my food, when really my best friend just has one up her ass right

now.

I procrastinate a little bit longer, asking the waitress what drink

she prefers. I’d look through the drink menu a second time if it

weren’t rude to keep her waiting when she has other tables. So

alas, I pick a strawberry martini in favor of the green apple, and

the waitress rushes off again.

Sigh.

I

hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya’s still outstretched

hand extra firm because I hate her. She smiles triumphantly and

starts typing away, the mischievous glimmer in her eye growing

brighter. Her thumbs go into turbo speed, causing the golden rings

wrapped around them to nearly blur.

Her sage green eyes are illuminated with a type of evilness you

would only find in Satan’s Bible. If I did a little digging, I’m sure I’d

find her picture somewhere in there, too. A bombshell with dark

brown skin, pin-straight black hair, and a gold hoop in her nose.

She’s probably an evil succubus or something.

“Who are you texting?” I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a

child. I refrain, but come close to allowing a little of my social

anxiety to air out and do something crazy like throwing a temper

tantrum in the middle of the restaurant. It probably doesn’t help

that I’m on my third martini and feeling a tad adventurous right

about now.

She glances up, locks my phone, and hands it back a few

seconds later. Immediately, I unlock it again and start searching

through my messages. I groan aloud once more when I see she

sexted Greyson. Not texted. Sexted.

“Come over tonight and lick my pussy. I’ve been craving your

huge cock,” I read aloud dryly. That’s not even all of it. The rest

TO BE CONTINUED