...WARNING...

...This book ends on a cliffhanger. The contents are very dark with triggering situations. This book was previously taken down. Let that be your warning...

...PROLOGUE...

...The 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 starts 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 covers 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.

...CHAPTER - 1...

...The Manipulator ...

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 .

...PART - 2...

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.