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. Mom never believed anything Nana said, but I think she just didn’t want to. Nana always told grandiose stories that wrung eye rolls from my parents. I haven't been able to find any news articles on the unfortunate event, but the souls that haunt the Manor reek of despair. Legend says-or rather Nana says-that the house caught fire and killed the construction workers during the building structure phase.
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. I inherited this house from my grandparents. No matter how deep the shadows go in Parsons Manor, the black and white checkered floor always seems visible. 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. It’s dark again, and the lightning strikes in areas further away. 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.
Terrified, actually.īut 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. Hoping he’ll come closer, so I have a reason to put a knife to his throat. 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. It’s not common for my mind to start wondering about things I shouldn’t.Ĭan 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? It’s not normal for liquid heat to course through my veins, leaving tingles burning in its wake.
It doesn’t matter how many times I see him, he always pulls the same reaction out of me. My heart skips a beat and then palpitates, my breathing turns shallow, and my hands grow clammy. I go through the motions, just like I always do. In that small moment, the few seconds of blinding light showcases the man standing outside my window. Lightning strikes in the distance, illuminating the night. T he windows of my house tremble from the power of thunder rolling across the skies. The contents are very dark with triggering situations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Names, characters, businesses, organiza- tions, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.
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