haunting Adeline

Prologue

The windows of my house tremble from the power of thunder rolling
across the skies. Lightning strikes in the distance, illuminating the night.
In that small moment, the few seconds of blinding light showcases the
man standing outside my window. Watching me. Always watching me.
I go through the motions, just like I always do. My heart skips a beat and
then palpitates, my breathing turns shallow, and my hands grow clammy. It
doesn’t matter how many times I see him, he always pulls the same
reaction out of me.
Fear.
And excitement.
I don’t know why it excites me. Something must be wrong with me. It’s
not normal for liquid heat to course through my veins, leaving tingles
burning in its wake. It’s not common for my mind to start wondering about
things I shouldn’t.
Can he see me now? Wearing nothing but a thin tank top, my nipples
poking through the material? Or the shorts I’m wearing that barely cover
my ass? Does he like the view?
Of course he does.
That’s why he watches me, isn’t it? That’s why he comes back every
night, growing bolder with his leering while I silently challenge him. Hoping
he’ll come closer, so I have a reason to put a knife to his throat.
The truth is, I’m scared of him. Terrified, actually.
But the man standing outside my window makes me feel like I’m sitting
in a dark room, a single light shining from the television where a horror
flick plays on the screen. It’s petrifying, and all I want to do is hide, but
there’s a distinct part of me that keeps me still, baring myself to the horror.
That finds a small thrill out of it.
It’s dark again, and the lightning strikes in areas further away.
My breathing continues to escalate. I can’t see him, but he can see me.
Ripping my eyes away from the window, I turn to look behind me in the
darkened house, paranoid that he’s somehow found a way inside. No
matter how deep the shadows go in Parsons Manor, the black and white
checkered floor always seems visible.
I inherited this house from my grandparents. My great-grandparents had
built the three-story Victorian home back in the early 1940s through blood,
sweat, tears, and the lives of five construction workers.
Legend says—or rather Nana says—that the house caught fire and killed
the construction workers during the building structure phase. I haven't
been able to find any news articles on the unfortunate event, but the souls
that haunt the Manor reek of despair.
Nana always told grandiose stories that wrung eye rolls from my parents.
Mom never believed anything Nana said, but I think she just didn’t want
to.
Sometimes I hear footsteps at night. They could be from the ghosts of
the workers who died in the tragic fire eighty years ago, or they could be
from the shadow that stands outside my house.
Watching me.
Always watching me.