Chapter-5,part-1

The breeze coerces my body forward, as if urging me to

jump. To take the leap and plunge to my death.

You won’t regret it.

That little intrusive thought lingers. Somehow, I feel like

crashing into sharp rocks would be regrettable, to say the least.

What if I don’t die right away? What if I miraculously survive the

fall, and I’m forced to lie there, broken and bloody, until my body

finally gives out?

Or what if my body refuses to give out and I’m forced to live the

rest of my life as a vegetable?

All regrettable.

I’m snapped out of my musings when I hear a throat clear.

“Ma’am?”

I turn my head to see a tall, older man with a softness about

him that almost comforts me. His grey, thinning hair is matted to

his forehead from sweat, and his clothes are stained with dirt and

gunk.

His eyes bounce between me and the edge of the cliff I’m

standing on, emanating nervous energy. He thinks I’m going to

jump. And as I continue to just stare at him, I realize I’m not giving

him any reason to think otherwise.

Still, I don’t move.

“We’re heading out for the night,” the man informs me.

He and his crew have been rebuilding my front porch all day,

giving it the facelift it so desperately needed. While also ensuring

that my foot isn’t going to go through the rotted wood and

probably give me sepsis.

He looks me up and down, his brow lowering as his concern

seems to deepen. The breeze blows hard, swirling around us and

stirring up my hair. I claw the strands away to see that he’s still

eyeing me closely.

When I was younger, Nana refused to let me near the cliff. It’s

only a good fifty feet from the manor. The view is breathtaking,

especially when the sun sets. But at night, it’s impossible to see

where the cliff’s edge is without a flashlight.

Currently, the sun is descending into the horizon, casting this

lonely piece of land in dark shadows. I’m standing three feet away

from danger, life and death separated by a rocky edge. Soon, it

will disappear.

And if I’m not careful—I will, too.

"You okay, miss?" he asks, taking a single step forward.

Instinctively, I take a step back—towards the cliff’s edge. The

man's brown eyes widen into saucers, and he immediately halts

and puts up his hands, as if he’s trying to keep me from going

over with the Force. He was just trying to help, not scare me. And

I’ve gone and scared the shit out of him in return.

I suppose I have been this whole time.

I look back, my heart lodging in my throat when I see just how

close I was to stepping off. All I can feel in that moment is pure

terror. And just like clockwork, the familiar heady feeling settles

low in my stomach, like water circling down a drain.

Something is clearly wrong with me.

Sheepishly, I take a few steps away from the cliff and shoot him

an apologetic look.

I'm on edge.

Red roses appear everywhere I go now. It’s been three weeks

since I found the whiskey glass and rose on my countertop.

After Daya left, I took a long, hot shower and during that time, I

decided that I need to start making reports. Leaving some type of

evidence behind. That way if I turn up dead or missing, they’ll

know exactly why.

By the time I got out of the shower, the empty cup with plucked

petals was gone, depleting me of any warmth in my body.

I

had immediately called the police that night. They humored

me with a report, but they told me finding a rose in odd places

around my house isn’t sufficient evidence for them to do anything.

Ever since then, the incidences have escalated. I'm not sure of

the exact moment I realized I had a stalker, but it's been made

clear that’s exactly what's been happening for the past three

weeks.

I’ll get into my car to go to my favorite coffee shop to write and

waiting for me on my seat is a red rose. Inside a car that has been

locked, and still was when I had approached.

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 naïve 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.

TO BE CONTINUED

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