“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.

A gentle, but firm knock vibrates my front door. It’s almost becoming an instinct for my heart to skip a few beats whenever I hear any noise in the manor.

Surely, that can’t be healthy. Maybe I’ll eat some Cheerios. They say those are good for the heart, right?

I walk over to the window next to the door, peeking through the curtain to see who it is.

I groan. I want to be relieved that it’s not some creepy ass dude outside my door, holding a gun and spouting about how if he can’t have me, nobody can. Really, I do.

So all I am is a little sad that it’s not the persistent shadow ready to end my life.

With a heavy sigh, I swing open the door and greet Sarina Reilly—my mother. Her blonde hair is tucked tightly into a chignon, pink lipstick painted on her thin lips, and icy blue eyes.

She’s so prim and proper, and I’m so… not. Where she holds herself with regality and grace, I have a terrible habit of slumping and sitting with my legs open.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mom?” I ask dryly. She sniffs, unimpressed with my attitude.

“It’s cold out here. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she snips, waving an impatient hand for me to move.

When I reluctantly step aside, she pushes past me, a wisp of her Chanel perfume trailing in her wake. I cringe at the smell.

My dear mother looks around the manor, distaste evident on her pinched face.

She grew up in this gothic house, and the darkness of the interior must’ve influenced the insides of her heart.

“You’re going to get wrinkles if you keep looking at the house like that,” I deadpan, shutting the door and brushing past her.

She huffs at me, her heels clicking against the checkered tiles as she makes her way to the couch. The fire is roaring, and the lights are dim, creating a cozy atmosphere. It’ll start raining soon, and I really hope she leaves by then so I can enjoy my night in with a book and the sound of thunder in peace.

Mom sits daintily on the couch, her butt perched on the very edge.

If I poke her, she’ll fall off.

“Always a pleasure, Adeline,” she sighs, her tone high and mighty, as if it’s just another day of her being the bigger person.

That sigh. The backdrop to my entire childhood. It’s filled with disappointment and met expectations all at once. I never disappoint in disappointing her, I guess.

“Why are you here?” I ask, getting straight to the point.

“Can’t I come visit my daughter?” she asks with an edge of bitterness in her tone.

Mom and I were never close. She was bitter because Nana and I were, resulting in me choosing her over Mom often. In arguments and where I spent most of my time growing up.

In return, I harbored resentment because I was made to feel like I couldn’t choose her. Because if I did, I would only be rewarded with another underhanded comment about eating another cookie I can’t afford.

She’d complain my ass would get too fat, but little did she know, that’s exactly what I wanted.

To this day, the woman still doesn’t understand why I don’t particularly like her.

“Are you here to try and convince me that I’m wasting my life away in an old house?” I query, throwing myself into the rocking chair by the window and propping my feet up on the stool.

The same one my great-grandmother and I tend to get stalked in.

Sitting in this chair forces my thoughts back to last night, the creepy note and answering all of two questions from the police officer before he said he’d hold on to it for evidence and make a report.

Waste of time, but at least the police will know that it was foul play if I end up dead in a ditch somewhere.

“I have an open house today in town. I figured I’d stop by and see you beforehand.”

Ah. That explains it. My mom wouldn’t drive an hour to come to visit me just to have a tea party and play nice. She was in town, so she decided to come lecture me.

“Do you want to know why Parsons Manor deserves to be torn down, Adeline?” she asks, her tone dripping with condescension. She sounds like she’s about to school me, and suddenly I feel very wary.

“Why?” I ask quietly.

“Because a lot of people died in this house.”

“You mean the five construction workers in the fire?” I ask, recalling the story Nana told me when I was a child about Parsons Manor catching fire and killing five men. They had to tear down the charred bones and restart. But the ghosts of those men still linger—I just know it.

“Yes, but not just them.”

She stares at me hard while my hesitance worsens. I turn to look out the window beside me, contemplating if I should just make her leave now. She’s going to tell me something life-changing, and I’m not sure I want to hear it.