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.
