HauntingAdeline {1}

C5

The Manipulator

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.