After hours of traffic, twenty-seven year old Blake finally made it to her Brick home apartment in Manhattan, New York. She ran up the front steps and fumbled for her keys. For the past few weeks, Blake had been noticing some weird things, like random notes left on her door step with creepy messages like “Hello Blake, you looked lovely today” or “I want to be your friend.” These creepy letters eventually turned into emails, and no matter how many times she created a new address, the person would always email her again. She eventually stopped checking her email. The emails were the smallest part of her worries. She’d be in the shower and swear that there was someone outside, waiting or whenever she lied in bed she’d hear doors slowly squeaking open. She promised herself that she’d report these things to the police but she was always too busy with work. She found her key quickly and made it into her apartment.
The first thing she noticed when she walked in was the aroma. It smelled of Cajun seasonings and a type of olive oil she had discovered at a small shop in Venice, Italy last summer. She closed her eyes and drank in the scent. It had been so long since the last time she had a delicious home cooked meal. Then suddenly it hit her. Who was in her house? She lived alone. Surely no one expected could be cooking in her house. She slowly made her way to the kitchen with an umbrella she got from the rack by the front door. One step at a time she walked down the short flight of stairs into the living room. Her heart was beating so loud that she swore whoever was in her house could hear it. She stopped at the door and hesitated. Was it a good idea to enter the kitchen? Should she go for help? Blake ignored these impulses and entered the kitchen.
When she entered she noticed two things. One, the stove was still on and two, whoever was in her house, was certainly not in the kitchen. She gazed into the pot and found boiling pasta and a smaller pot of tomato sauce cooking. She quickly turned the stove knob to avoid the ticking sound being heard and turned off the stove. At this point Blake was more pissed than she was scared. She wasn’t sure but she thought she heard glasses tapping together in the dining room so she made her way in that direction.
There at the head of the dining room table was a man with a face mask on, pouring wine into a glass. He was tall and blond and the only thing Blake could pick out from his face was his eyes they were Icy pale green eyes; that the kind that looked freighting but enticing at the same time. He wasn’t big and bulky but he wasn’t skinny and flimsy either. The man wore a black turtle neck sweater rolled up to his elbows and short black leather gloves, and from the way his legs were folded, Blake could see that he had on khakis and black shoes. She was entirely speechless. In a bolt of the blue, the man removed his mask and began to speak.
“Blake” he said excitedly. “How are you!? You don’t call, you don’t write.” He said as he laughed at his own joke. Blake however, stood speechlessly at the entryway. “What Blake? You seem surprised! Didn’t you get my emai-“ The stranger paused as he began to realize the reason why Blake was unaware of his visit. “Ohhhh, someone hasn’t been checking their email I see.” The stranger laughed hysterically.
“Who are you and why are you in my house?” Blake questioned with an obvious bravado. The stranger stopped laughing almost instantly.
“Blake, it’s me. The one you dream about at night, the one that makes you fumble for your keys when you get home at night, the one that sniffs your clothing while you shower, and the one that watches you while you sleep. Blake, I’m your...”
“STOP! I’m calling the police.” Blake said as she rushed past him to the telephone.
“On no you don’t Blake.” The stranger said as he raised a gun to her head.
