Haunting-Adeline

Another flash of movement causes me to nearly plant my face against
the glass. It’s a person, walking towards my house, having emerged from
between two large trees. My eyes narrow into thin slits as the person’s
shape becomes more apparent.
He’s back.
A er two nights of nothing, the son of a bitch actually came back.
My hand dri s over to the end table next to me, snagging the butcher
knife I’ve been carrying around with me since he broke into my house last.
Turns out my security cameras are useless with him. The second he le , I
checked them just to find out that they didn’t catch sight of him.
When Daya looked into it, her face dropped, and her eyes went wide
with terror. He spliced the cameras. Hacked into them and made it appear
as if nothing was happening while he was walking through my house while
I slept.
She said not only did he splice the camera feed, but he did it so well, it
was untraceable. The only reason Daya was even able to come to that
conclusion is because she knows how technology works and she does the
same thing herself for her job.
This guy is dangerous—in more ways than just his violent tendencies.
I grip the handle in my fist and se le it on my lap. As he nears, my heart
pounds in my chest, matching each step he takes towards me.
I stand and close in on my window. I don’t know what I’m doing exactly.
Provoking him? Daring him to come inside my house again? If he does, I
have every right to defend myself.
The man stops about twenty feet away, his face once again hidden deep
in a hood. He widens his stance as if ge ng comfortable, plunging a hand
into his hoodie pocket and pulls out something I can’t see. It’s not un l I
see him flick a lighter, enuncia ng his impossibly sharp jawline and a
cigare e s cking out from his mouth. He lights the cigare e, and then the
flame goes out, leaving nothing but his moonlit silhoue e and a blaring
cherry.
He stares.
And I stare back.
Without looking away, I grab my phone from the end table. I listened to
him and didn’t call the cops when he sent me that fucked up box of hands,