Chapter - 11,part-1

Daya said Nana was the freak, but I’m starting to wonder if

it was her mother that was the freak. I skim through the

diary, reading over her words.

I’m sitting in the same rocking chair Gigi used to sit in to write

in her diary while her stalker watched on. While she let him feast

his eyes on her, and got off on it too, apparently.

Snapping the book shut, I throw it on the footstool before me,

the furniture rocking from the movement of the heavy book.

I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off the

blooming headache.

I mean, what was she thinking? Letting a strange man watch

her, come into her home, and touch her? That’s insane. Certifiably

insane.

What’s truly insane is the fact that I found this diary, and a

stalker found me on the same night. I don’t want to think about

what that means.

The wind blows outside the window, rattling the glass. Storm

clouds are rolling in, the ever-present weather that plagues

Seattle like bad acne. Just when you think we're going to have a

lovely sunny day, a storm cloud pops up, ready to burst.

Okay, gross, Addie.

A loud thump sounds from the kitchen, causing me to nearly

jump out of my seat. Heart pumping heavily in my chest, I look

towards the direction and find nothing amiss.

“Hello?” I call out, but no one answers.

Attempting to even my breathing, I turn back right as

movement from the corner of my eye snags my attention right

outside the window. My head snaps in that direction and my eyes

zero in on whatever it was I just saw. It’s nearly pitch-black outside

save for the moonlight and a single light outside my front door.

Another flash of movement causes me to nearly plant my face

against the glass. It’s a person, walking towards my house, having

emerged from between two large trees. My eyes narrow into thin

slits as the person’s shape becomes more apparent.

He’s back.

After two nights of nothing, the son of a bitch actually came

back.

My hand drifts over to the end table next to me, snagging the

butcher knife I’ve been carrying around with me since he broke

into my house last. Turns out my security cameras are useless

with him. The second he left, I checked them just to find out that

they didn’t catch sight of him.

When Daya looked into it, her face dropped, and her eyes went

wide with terror. He spliced the cameras. Hacked into them and

made it appear as if nothing was happening while he was walking

through my house while I slept.

She said not only did he splice the camera feed, but he did it so

well, it was untraceable. The only reason Daya was even able to

come to that conclusion is because she knows how technology

works and she does the same thing herself for her job.

This guy is dangerous—in more ways than just his violent

tendencies.

I grip the handle in my fist and settle it on my lap. As he nears,

my heart pounds in my chest, matching each step he takes

towards me.

I stand and close in on my window. I don’t know what I’m doing

exactly. Provoking him? Daring him to come inside my house

again? If he does, I have every right to defend myself.

The man stops about twenty feet away, his face once again

hidden deep in a hood. He widens his stance as if getting

comfortable, plunging a hand into his hoodie pocket and pulls out

something I can’t see. It’s not until I see him flick a lighter, defining

his impossibly sharp jawline and a cigarette sticking out from his

mouth. He lights the cigarette, and then the flame goes out,

leaving nothing but his moonlit silhouette and a blaring cherry.

He stares.

And I stare back.

Without looking away, I grab my phone from the end table. I

listened to him and didn’t call the cops when he sent me that

fucked up box of hands, but he didn’t say I couldn’t call them

when he’s standing twenty feet outside my window.

I

look down to unlock my phone, and when I glance up, my

thumb freezes.

The moonlight spills over his silhouette. And with perfect clarity,

I watch him slowly shake his head at me. Warning me not to do

what I’m about to do.

I glance at my front door, fear steadily trickling through my body

at an alarming rate. It’s locked, but he’s already proven that it’s

futile. I calculate the distance between him and the door. How long

would it take him to run to it, break through, and get to me? At

least a solid thirty seconds.

That’s enough time to dial 911 and tell them someone is trying

to hurt me, right? But it would be pointless. It’s going to take the

police no less than a half-hour to get to me.

As if hearing my thoughts, he takes a few steps closer, his

hand periodically pulling the cigarette from his mouth as he puffs.

Is he… challenging me? My spine snaps straight, and white-hot

rage fills my vision. Who the hell does this dude think he is?

Growling under my breath, I storm to my door, unlock it and

whip it open. He turns his head to face me, and for a moment, I

almost develop a brain and run back inside.

Steeling my spine, I angrily stomp down the steps and charge

towards him.

“Hey, asshole! If you don’t get off my property, I will call the

cops.”

Later, I’ll ask God why She made me the way that I am, but

right now, all I can do is plant two of my hands on his chest and

push when I get close enough. I don’t allow myself to register the

defined muscles under his hoodie—because only psychos would

focus on that right now.

The behemoth of a man doesn’t move back an inch.

Nor does he speak. Or react. Or do anything.

Harsh, angry breaths huff from my nose like a bull as I glare at

the hooded man. I can’t see much of his face except the bottom

half, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. Soon, my body will

smolder until there’s nothing left but ashes dancing in the cold

wind.

“What do you want from me?” I hiss, curling my hands into

fists, only to abate the shaking. My whole body has begun to

vibrate from anger and fear. But also from something else.

Something so disturbing, I refuse to put a name to it.

He doesn’t answer, but he does grin—a slow, sinful twist of his

lips that sends sparks skittering down my spine.

With deliberation, his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip.

My eyes zero in on the movement. The act primal. Animalistic.

And fucking terrifying.

My heart starts to claw its way up my throat. Swallowing it back

down, I narrow my eyes and open my mouth to yell at him some

more.

Before I can, he takes a single step back. And though I can’t

see it, I know he’s giving me a once-over. Then he turns and

walks away.

Just like that.

Not a single word spoken. Not an explanation offered. Not even

a crazy confession of how he wants us to be together or some

shit.

Nothing.

I

stand there and watch his retreating form, going back to

whatever portal from Hell he crawled out of. I stare until he’s gone,

and I begin to contemplate if I really have lost my mind, and just

imagined the whole thing.

Surely, I wouldn’t be so stupid to confront a psychopath. The

very psychopath that cut off a man’s hands and left them on my

doorstep.

But that’s precisely what I did. And he did nothing in return,

except lick his lips at me like he plans to feast on me.

Oh no, what if I have a second-coming of Jeffrey Dahmer

stalking me?

Heart back in my throat, I turn and rush back inside, feeling like

Lucifer’s hounds are nipping at my asscheeks. And when I shut

and lock the door behind me, I look back to the rocking chair I was

sitting in and see the knife lying haphazardly on the floor, next to

the footstool.

Oh my God.

I confront a psycho and I drop the knife on the ground instead

of bringing it with me.

God, why did you make me the way that I am? Next lifetime,

can you not do such a shitty job?

As a reward for finishing my manuscript and sending it off to

my editor, I’m treating myself to a nice murder investigation.

Daya sent over more notes that she found from the PD’s

database. Emails pour in by the minute with more details. Most of

it is handwritten reports by men with atrocious penmanship.

And with the mishandling of the crime scene, we essentially

have nothing to go on.

My great-grandfather mentioned in a report that she was acting

strangely for several months leading up to her death.

She was distant. Not as talkative. Paranoid. Short-tempered

with Nana, and she was late picking her up from school several

times with no explanation as to why.

Gigi wouldn’t talk about it with her husband, which led to

several arguments between them. In the reports, he admitted their

relationship had been declining for the past two years. He had

begged Gigi to talk to him about her change in behavior, but she

claimed nothing was amiss.

I spend hours dissecting Gigi’s diary entries, looking for hidden

meanings in everything she wrote. Searching for the entries where

she expresses fear and discomfort.

But whatever scared her, scared her so much that she couldn’t

even write it out in words.

Part of me wishes these journals had been found during her

investigation. I might’ve never gotten to read them if they had

been, but maybe then they might’ve been able to solve her case.

I sigh and run my hands through my thick hair. My shoulders

are starting to burn from my hunched-over position and my eyes

are growing bleary from all the reading.

A headache blooms in my temples, worsening my vision until I

can’t see or think straight anymore.

I sit back in the rocking chair and look out the window.

My strangled scream pierces the air when I see the stalker is

back—standing in the same spot as before, puffing on his stupid

cigarette. It’s been three days since I confronted him, and I’ve

been on high alert ever since. Waiting for him to break in again,

and this time, come into my room while I’m sleeping.

My heart lobs around in my chest, pumping erratically. A low

heat sparks in the pit of my stomach, my mouth drying as the burn

descends between my thighs.

I’m glued to the chair, panting from the heady mix of fear and

arousal. My cheeks burn from shame, but the feeling doesn't

dissipate. I should close the curtains—do myself a favor and cut

us both off from our silent war.

But for some unknown reason, I can’t get myself to move. To

pick up the phone and call the police. To do anything that would

classify me as intelligent and having common sense.

Those things are nonexistent as I stare out at the man.

Whatever ghosts haunt these walls are no longer relevant, not

when there’s something much more dangerous haunting the

grounds.

As if the ghosts heard me, light footsteps sound from above

me. I turn my head and lift my eyes to the ceiling, tracking the

phantom footsteps until they fade away.

And when I turn back, my stalker is a few feet closer. As if he’s

wondering what I’m staring at. Questioning what could’ve possibly

turned my attention away from him.

He’s wondering if it’s another man, I’m sure. Maybe he thinks

Greyson is back, occupying the house somewhere. Calling out for

me and asking me to join him in my bed, naked and hard for me.

Maybe he even thinks we just fucked, my thighs still slick with

another man’s seed.

Does that piss him off?

Of course it does. He mutilated and killed a man for touching

me. What would he do to a man for fucking me?

What would he do to me?

TO BE CONTINUED

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