The manipulator

Somemes I have very dark thoughts about my mother—thoughts no

sane daughter should ever have. Somemes, 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 dramac yet can’t see her own flair for the dramacs.

“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 paence 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 *****. 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?

Prey sure my gynecologist is an hour away, too, but I sll 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 conversaon. My paence

only lasts an enre sixty seconds talking to my mother. Aer that, I’m

running on fumes and have no desire to put in any more effort to keep the

conversaon moving along.

If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. She always manages to find something to complain about. This me, 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 posive, 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 *****.

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 unl I le for college that Mom moved out of town an hour away. When I quit college, I moved in with her unl I got back on my feet and my wring career took off.

And when it did, I decided to travel around the country, never really seling in one place.

Nana died about a year ago, giing me the house in her will, but my grief hindered me from moving into Parsons Manor. Unl now.

Mom sighs again through the phone. “I just wish you had more ambion in life, instead of staying in the town you grew up in, sweee. 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 unl 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 melodramac sigh, turning

to look out my side window. Said house stands tall, the p 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 inving—their shadows crawling from the overgrowth with outstretched claws.

I shiver, delighng in the ominous feeling radiang from this small poron 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 staoned on a cliffside overlooking the Bay with a mile long driveway stretching through a heavily wooded area. The congregaon of trees separates this house from the rest of the world, making you feel like you’re well and truly alone.

Somemes, it feels like you’re on an enrely different planet, ostracized from civilizaon. The whole area has a menacing, sorrowful aura.

And I ******* 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 staoned on the roof on either side of the manor. The black siding is fading to a gray and starng 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 faceli since it’s starng 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 bursng with weeds. I bet plenty of snakes have seled 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 beauful contrast against the black siding.

I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the season calls for it. This me, I’ll plant strawberries, leuce, and herbs as well.

I’m deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from above. Curtains fluer in the lone window at the very top of the house.

The ac.

Last me 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 boom 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.

**** 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; seling down in a house won’t change that. I know what the **** 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 torrenal downpour in a maer 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 unl the mechanism finally turns and I’m able to unlock the door.

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

A chilling dra welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from the mixture of freezing rain sll 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 ps. 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 les 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 le of the staircase. I purse my lips and look around, nostalgia hing 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 le 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 beauful 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 ling extends into the kitchen with beauful 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.

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 buery so glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called to get the ulies 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 unl 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 le for a lile 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 generaons. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite that, she sll 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.

🥀

I press my thumb into the up arrow and don’t stop unl 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 le for a lile 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 generaons. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite that, she sll 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 Mariea, nong how she’s absently holding out the mic to me, her aenon ensnared on the people sll 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 waing for the signing to start. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently counng in my head. I lose count aer thirty.

“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and aer catching everyone’s aenon, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me, creang 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

“Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. I glance over at Mariea, nong how she’s absently holding out the mic to me, her aenon ensnared on the people sll 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 waing for the signing to start. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently counng in my head. I lose count aer thirty.

“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and aer catching everyone’s aenon, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me, creang 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 interacons. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen smile aer being asked a queson while my brain processes the fact that I didn’t even hear the

queson. It’s usually because my heart is thumping too loud in my ears.

I sele down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Mariea runs off to handle other maers, shoong 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 represenng a

social pariah.

Come back, Mariea. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the only one geng 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 driing over her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get stuck on a weird conversaon about skin condions.

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 appreciaon note. My signature is sloppy, but that prey much represents the enrety of my existence.

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

As the next reader approaches, pressure seles on my face. Someone is staring at me. But that’s a ******* stupid thought because everyone is staring at me.

I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big *** smile, but the feeling only intensifies unl 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 heang to a bright red.

Half of my aenon 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, aempng 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 slling, mid-write.

His eyes. One so dark and boomless, 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 aenon.

When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resng in the same spot, creang a big black ink dot.

“Sorry,” I muer, 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 forgoen, 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 marni as deeply as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best friend, eyes me, enrely unimpressed and impaent 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 le *** cheek that her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger **** instead.

When I connue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and rips the plasc from my lips. I’ve reached the boom of the glass a solid fifteen

seconds ago and have just been sucking air through the straw. It’s the most acon my mouth has goen in a year now.

“Whoa, personal space,” I mumble, seng the glass down. I avoid Daya’s eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I can order another marni. The faster I have the straw in my mouth again, the sooner I can avoid this conversaon some more.

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

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

“I suck at geng laid, too, apparently,” I say aer our laughing calms. Daya gives me a droll look. “You've had plenty of opportunies. You just

don’t take them. You’re a hot twenty-six-year-old woman with freckles, a great pair of ts, and an *** to die for. The men are out here waing.”

I shrug, deflecng again. Daya isn't exactly wrong—at least about having opons. 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 ******* come over.

She flips out an expectant hand. “Give me your phone.” My eyes widen. “Fuck, no.”

“Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. *******. 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 *** right now.

I procrasnate a lile bit longer, asking the waitress what drink she prefers. I’d look through the drink menu a second me if it weren’t rude to keep her waing when she has other tables. So alas, I pick a strawberry marni in favor of the green apple, and the waitress rushes off again.

Sigh.

I hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya’s sll 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 lile 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 texng?” I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a child. I refrain, but come close to allowing a lile 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 marni 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 *****. I’ve been craving your huge cock,” I read aloud dryly. That’s not even all of it. The rest goes into how horny I am and touch myself every night to the thought of him.

I growl and give her the filthiest look I can manage. My face would make a dumpster look like Mr. Clean’s house.

“I wouldn’t even say that!” I complain. “That doesn’t even sound like me, you *****.”

Daya cackles, the teeny lile gap between her front teeth on full display. I really do hate her.

My phone pings. Daya is nearly bouncing in her seat while I’m

contemplang googling 1000 Ways to Die’s contact informaon so I can send them a new story.

“Read it,” she demands, her grabby hands already reaching for my phone so she can see what he said. I jerk it out of her reach and pull up the message.

GREYSON: About me u came to your senses, baby. Be over at 8.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I really ******* hate you,” I grumble, giving her another scowl.

She smiles and slurps on her drink. “I love you too, baby girl.”

🥀

****, Addie, I’ve missed you,” Greyson breathes into my neck, humping me against the wall. My tailbone is going to be bruised in the morning. I roll my eyes when he slurps at my neck again, groaning when he rolls his **** into the apex of my thighs.

Deciding I needed to get over myself and blow off some steam, I didn’t cancel on Greyson like I wanted to. Like I want to. I regret that decision.

Currently, he has me pinned against the wall in my creepy hallway. Old fashioned sconces line the blood red walls, with dozens of family pictures from generaons in between. I feel like they’re watching me, scorn and disappointment in their eyes as they witness their descendant about to get railed right in front of them.

Only a few of the lights work, and they just serve to illuminate the spiderwebs they’re crawling with. The rest of the hallway is shadowed enrely, and I’m just waing for the demon from The Grudge to come crawling out so I have an excuse to run.

I would definitely trip Greyson on the way out at this point, and not one inch of me is ashamed.

He murmurs some more dirty things into my ear while I inspect the sconce hanging above our heads. Greyson said in passing once that he’s scared of spiders. I wonder if I can discreetly reach up, pluck a spider from its web, and put it down the back of Greyson’s shirt.

That would light a fire under his *** to get out of here, and he’d probably be too embarrassed to talk to me again. Win, win.

Just when I actually go to do it, he rears back, panng from all the solo French kissing he’s been doing with my throat. It’s like he was waing for my neck to lick him back or something.

His copper hair is mussed from my hands, and his pale skin is stained with a blush. The curse of being a redhead, I suppose.

Greyson has everything else going for him in the looks department. He’s hot as sin, has a beauful body and a killer smile. Too bad he can’t **** and is a complete and uer douchebag.

Let’s take this to the bedroom. I need to be inside of you now.”

Internally, I cringe. Externally... I cringe. I try to play it off by jerking my shirt over my head. He has the aenon span of a beagle. And just like I suspected, he’s already forgoen about my lile blunder and is staring intensely at my ts.

Daya was right about that, too. I do have great ts.

He reaches up to tear the bra from my body—I probably would’ve smacked him if he actually ripped it—but he freezes when loud banging interrupts us from the main floor.

The sound is so sudden, so violently loud that I gasp, my heart pounding in my chest. Our eyes meet in stunned silence. Someone is pounding on my front door, and they don’t sound too nice.

“Are you expecng someone?” he asks, his hand dropping to his side, seemingly frustrated by the interrupon.

“No,” I breathe. I quickly tug my shirt back on—backwards—and rush down the creaky steps. Taking a moment to check outside the window next to the door, I see the front porch is vacant. My brow furrows. Leng the curtain fall, I stand in front of the door, the sllness of the night closing in on the manor.

Greyson walks up beside me and looks over at me with a confused expression.

“Uh, you gonna answer that?” he asks dumbly, poinng at the door as if I didn’t know it was right in front of me. I almost thank him for the direcons just to be an ***, but refrain. Something about that knock has my insncts blaring Code Red. The knock sounded aggressive. Angry. Like someone had pounded on the door with all their strength.

A real man would offer to open the door for me aer hearing such a violent sound. Especially when we’re surrounded by a mile of thick woods and a hundred-foot drop into the water.

But instead, Greyson stares at me expectantly. And a lile like I’m stupid. Huffing, I unlock the door and whip it open.

Again, no one is there. I step out onto the porch, the rong floorboards groaning beneath my weight. Cold wind srs my cinnamon hair, the strands ckling my face and sending shivers racing across my skin. Goosebumps rise as I tuck my hair behind my ears and walk over to one end of the porch. Leaning over the rail, I look down the side of the house. No one.

No one on the other side of the house, either.

There could easily be someone watching me in the woods, but I have no way of knowing with it being so dark. Not unless I go out there and search myself.

And as much as I love horror films, I have no interest in starring in one. Greyson joins me on the porch, his own eyes scanning the trees.

There’s someone watching me. I can feel it. I’m as sure of it as I am

about the existence of gravity.

Chills run down my spine, accompanied by a burst of adrenaline. It’s the

same feeling I get when I watch a scary movie. It begins with the beat of my heart, then a heavy weight seles deep in my stomach, eventually sinking to my core. I shi, not enrely comfortable with the feeling right now.

Huffing, I rush back into the house and up the steps. Greyson trails behind me. I don’t noce he’s in the middle of undressing as he walks down the hallway unl he steps into my room aer me. When I turn, he’s stark *****.

“Seriously?” I bite out. What a ******* idiot. Someone just banged on my door like the wood personally put a splinter in their ***, and he’s immediately ready to pick up where he le off. Slurping on my neck like one would slurp jello out of a container.

“What?” he asks incredulously, splaying his arms out to his sides.

“Did you not just hear what I heard? Someone was banging on my door, and it was kind of scary. I’m not in the mood to have sex right now.”

What happened to chivalry? I would think a normal man would ask if I’m okay. Feel out how I’m feeling. Maybe try to make sure I’m nice and relaxed before scking their **** inside me.

You know, read the ******* room.

“You serious?” he quesons, anger sparking in his brown eyes. They’re a shiy color, just like his shiy personality and even shier stroke game. The dude gives fish a run for their money, the way he flops when he fucks. Might as well lay out ***** in the fish market—he’d have a beer chance of finding someone to take him home. That person is not going to be me.

“Yes, I’m serious,” I say with exasperaon.

“Goddammit, Addie,” he snaps, angrily swiping up a sock and pung it on. He looks like an idiot—completely ***** save for a single sock because

the rest of his clothes are sll thrown haphazardly in my hallway.

He storms out of my room, snatching up arcles of clothing as he goes. When he gets about halfway down the long hallway, he stops and turns to

me.

“You’re such a *****, Addie. All you do is give me blue balls and I’m sick

of it. I’m done with you and this creepy ******* house,” he seethes, poinng a finger at me.

“And you’re an asshole. Get the **** out of my house, Greyson.” His eyes widen with shock first, and then narrow into thin slits, brimming with fury. He turns, cocks his arm back and sends his fist flying into the drywall.

A gasp is ripped from my throat when half of his arm disappears, my mouth parng in both shock and disbelief.

“Since I’m not geng yours, thought I’d create my own hole to get into tonight. Fix that, *****,” he spits. Sll sporng only one sock and an arm full of clothes, he storms off.

“You ****!” I rage, stomping towards the large hole in my wall he just created.

The front door slams a minute later from below.

I hope the mysterious person is sll out there. Let the asshole get murdered wearing a single sock.

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