PROLOGUE

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.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***