HauntingAdeline {1}

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.