Slowly, I sit up and slide out from under the covers. Adrenaline is coursing through my system now, and I’m wide awake.
Someone was just inside my house.
The sound could have been anything. It could have been the foundation settling. Or shit, even a couple of ghosts roughhousing. But just like when your gut is telling you something bad is going to happen—mine is telling me that someone was just in my fucking house.
Was it the person that pounded on my door? It has to be, right? It’s too much of a coincidence to have a stranger deliberately trek over a mile to the manor just to bang on the door and leave. And now they’re back.
If they ever left at all.
Shakily, I get up from my bed, a cold chill washing over me and puckering my skin into goosebumps. I shiver, nabbing my phone from the nightstand and pad lightly over to the door. Slowly, I open it, cringing at the loud creak that rings out.
I need the Tin Man to oil the hinges on my door just as much as I need the Lion’s bravery. I’m shaking like a leaf, but I refuse to cower and let someone walk around my house freely.
Flipping the switch on, the few working lights flicker, illuminating the hallway just enough for my mind to play tricks on me and conjure shadow people residing just beyond the light. And as I slowly make my way towards the staircase, I feel eyes from the pictures lining the walls watching me as I pass by.
Watching me make yet another stupid mistake. As if they’re saying stupid girl, you’re about to get murdered.
Watch your back.
They’re right behind you.
The last thought has me gasping and turning around, though I know no one is actually behind me. My stupid fucking brain is a little bit too imaginative.
A trait that works wonders for my career, but I don’t fucking appreciate it in this very moment.
Forging on at a quicker pace, I make my way down the stairs. Immediately, I turn on the lights, wincing from the brightness that burns my retinas.
Better than the alternative.
I would die on the spot if I was searching around with a single beam of light and found someone lurking in my house that way. One second no one is there, and the next second hello, there’s my murderer. No fucking thank you.
When I don’t find anyone in the living room or kitchen, I whip around and turn the knob on my front door. It’s still locked, which means that whoever left somehow managed to relock the door.
Or they never actually left.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I storm through the living room and into the kitchen, gunning straight for the knives.
But I catch a glimpse of something resting on the island out of my peripheral, freezing me in place. My eyes jump to the item, and a curse escapes my lips when I see a single red rose resting on the countertop.
I stare at the flower like it’s a live tarantula, staring straight back at me and daring me to come closer. If I do, it’ll surely eat me alive.
Letting out a shaky breath, I pluck the flower from the countertop and roll it in my fingers. The thorns have been severed from the stem, and I get the strange inclination that it was done purposely to save my fingers from being pricked.
But that notion is crazy. If someone is sneaking into my house at night and leaving me flowers, their intentions are the exact opposite of virtuous. They’re trying to scare me.
Curling my fist, I crush the flower in the palm of my hand and throw it in the trash, and then I resume my original mission. I rip open the drawer, the silverware clanking loudly in the silence, and then slam it shut after selecting the largest knife. I’m too pissed to be quiet and sneaky.
Whoever is hiding in here will hear me coming from a mile away, but I don’t care. I have no desire to hide.
I’m seething now.
I don’t like someone thinking they can just break into my home while I’m sleeping upstairs. And I especially don’t like someone making me feel vulnerable in my own house.
And then to have the audacity to leave me a flower like a fucking weirdo? They may have made that rose powerless by clipping its thorns, but I will gladly show them a rose is still fucking deadly when it’s shoved down their throat.
I thoroughly check the main and second floor, but don’t find anyone waiting for me. It isn’t until I’m at the end of the hallway on the second floor, staring at the door that leads to the attic, that my search comes to a screeching halt.
I’m frozen to the spot. Every time I try to force my feet forward, berating myself for not searching every single room in the manor, I can’t bring myself to move. Every single one of my instincts is screaming at me to not go near that door.
That I will find something terrifying if I do.
The attic was where Nana would often retreat, spending her days up there knitting while humming a tune, several fans blowing at her from every direction during the summertime. I swear I hear those tunes coming from the attic some days, but I can’t ever bring myself to go up there and look.
A feat that I apparently won’t overcome tonight, either. I don’t have the courage to go up there. The adrenaline fumes are running out, and exhaustion is weighing heavily on my bones.
Sighing, I drag my feet back down to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I chug it in three swallows before refilling and emptying it again.
I slump down on the barstool in front of the island, finally setting the knife down. A thin layer of sweat dampens my forehead, and when I lean over and rest it against the cold marble countertop, it sends chills throughout my body.
The person is gone, but my house isn’t the only thing they intruded on tonight.
They’re in my head now—just like they fucking wanted.
“Someone broke into my house last night,” I confess, my phone trapped between my ear and shoulder. The spoon clinks in the ceramic mug as I stir my coffee. I’m on my second cup, and it still feels like I have dumbbells for eyes, and my lids are in a losing weightlifting battle.
After the creep left last night, I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went through the entire house, confirming all the windows were locked.
Finding that they were unsettled me more. Every single door and window had been locked before and after they left. So how the fuck did they get in and out?
“Hold on, you said what? Someone broke into your house?” Daya shrieks.
“Yep,” I say. “They left a red rose on my countertop.”
Silence. Never thought I’d see the day Daya Pierson is speechless.
“That’s not all that happened, though. Just the worst of it in the grand scheme of last night’s fuckery, I suppose.”
“What else happened?” she asks sharply.
“Well, Greyson is an asshole. He was in the middle of trying to locate a mysterious hole in my neck with his tongue when someone pounded on my front door. And I mean, like hard. We went and looked, and no one was there. I’m assuming it was my new friend that did it.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
I go on to explain the rest. Greyson’s douchery—I got hung up on complaining about that just a bit. Then his fist going into my wall and his dramatic exit. I don’t mention the safe and the diaries I found, or what I read in them. I haven’t processed it yet, or the irony in reading her sordid love story and then someone breaking into my house the same night.
“I’m coming over today,” Daya declares when I finish.
“I have to clean out the house today to prepare for renovations,” I counter, already exhausted from the thought of it.