Текст книги "Haunting Adeline"

Автор книги: H W Carlton

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chapter 11

The Manipulator

D aya said Nana was the freak, but I’m starting to wonder if it was her mother that was the freak. I skim through the diary, reading over her words.

I’m sitting in the same rocking chair Gigi used to sit in to write in her diary while her stalker watched on. While she let him feast his eyes on her, and got off on it too, apparently.

Snapping the book shut, I throw it on the footstool before me, the furniture rocking from the movement of the heavy book.

I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off the blooming headache.

I mean, what was she thinking? Letting a strange man watch her, come into her home, and touch her? That’s insane. Certifiably insane.

What’s truly insane is the fact that I found this diary, and a stalker found me on the same night. I don’t want to think about what that means.

The wind blows outside the window, rattling the glass. Storm clouds are rolling in, the ever-present weather that plagues Seattle like bad acne. Just when you think we're going to have a lovely sunny day, a storm cloud pops up, ready to burst.

Okay, gross, Addie.

A loud thump sounds from the kitchen, causing me to nearly jump out of my seat. Heart pumping heavily in my chest, I look towards the direction and find nothing amiss.

“Hello?” I call out, but no one answers.

Attempting to even my breathing, I turn back right as movement from the corner of my eye snags my attention right outside the window. My head snaps in that direction and my eyes zero in on whatever it was I just saw. It’s nearly pitch-black outside save for the moonlight and a single light outside my front door.

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.

After two nights of nothing, the son of a bitch actually came back.

My hand drifts 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 left, 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 settle 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 getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his hoodie pocket and pulls out something I can’t see. It’s not until I see him flick a lighter, defining his impossibly sharp jawline and a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He lights the cigarette, and then the flame goes out, leaving nothing but his moonlit silhouette 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, but he didn’t say I couldn’t call them when he’s standing twenty feet outside my window.

I look down to unlock my phone, and when I glance up, my thumb freezes.

The moonlight spills over his silhouette. And with perfect clarity, I watch him slowly shake his head at me. Warning me not to do what I’m about to do.

I glance at my front door, fear steadily trickling through my body at an alarming rate. It’s locked, but he’s already proven that it’s futile. I calculate the distance between him and the door. How long would it take him to run to it, break through, and get to me? At least a solid thirty seconds.

That’s enough time to dial 911 and tell them someone is trying to hurt me, right? But it would be pointless. It’s going to take the police no less than a half-hour to get to me.

As if hearing my thoughts, he takes a few steps closer, his hand periodically pulling the cigarette from his mouth as he puffs.

Is he… challenging me? My spine snaps straight, and white-hot rage fills my vision. Who the hell does this dude think he is?

Growling under my breath, I storm to my door, unlock it and whip it open. He turns his head to face me, and for a moment, I almost develop a brain and run back inside.

Steeling my spine, I angrily stomp down the steps and charge towards him.

“Hey, asshole! If you don’t get off my property, I will call the cops.”

Later, I’ll ask God why She made me the way that I am, but right now, all I can do is plant two of my hands on his chest and push when I get close enough. I don’t allow myself to register the defined muscles under his hoodie—because only psychos would focus on that right now.

The behemoth of a man doesn’t move back an inch.

Nor does he speak. Or react. Or do anything.

Harsh, angry breaths huff from my nose like a bull as I glare at the hooded man. I can’t see much of his face except the bottom half, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. Soon, my body will smolder until there’s nothing left but ashes dancing in the cold wind.

“What do you want from me?” I hiss, curling my hands into fists, only to abate the shaking. My whole body has begun to vibrate from anger and fear. But also from something else. Something so disturbing, I refuse to put a name to it.

He doesn’t answer, but he does grin—a slow, sinful twist of his lips that sends sparks skittering down my spine.

With deliberation, his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip. My eyes zero in on the movement. The act primal. Animalistic. And fucking terrifying.

My heart starts to claw its way up my throat. Swallowing it back down, I narrow my eyes and open my mouth to yell at him some more.

Before I can, he takes a single step back. And though I can’t see it, I know he’s giving me a once-over. Then he turns and walks away.

Just like that.

Not a single word spoken. Not an explanation offered. Not even a crazy confession of how he wants us to be together or some shit.

Nothing.

I stand there and watch his retreating form, going back to whatever portal from Hell he crawled out of. I stare until he’s gone, and I begin to contemplate if I really have lost my mind, and just imagined the whole thing.

Surely, I wouldn’t be so stupid to confront a psychopath. The very psychopath that cut off a man’s hands and left them on my doorstep.

But that’s precisely what I did. And he did nothing in return, except lick his lips at me like he plans to feast on me.

Oh no, what if I have a second-coming of Jeffrey Dahmer stalking me?

Heart back in my throat, I turn and rush back inside, feeling like Lucifer’s hounds are nipping at my asscheeks. And when I shut and lock the door behind me, I look back to the rocking chair I was sitting in and see the knife lying haphazardly on the floor, next to the footstool.

Oh my God.

I confront a psycho and I drop the knife on the ground instead of bringing it with me.

God, why did you make me the way that I am? Next lifetime, can you not do such a shitty job?

As a reward for finishing my manuscript and sending it off to my editor, I’m treating myself to a nice murder investigation.

Daya sent over more notes that she found from the PD’s database. Emails pour in by the minute with more details. Most of it is handwritten reports by men with atrocious penmanship.

And with the mishandling of the crime scene, we essentially have nothing to go on.

My great-grandfather mentioned in a report that she was acting strangely for several months leading up to her death.

She was distant. Not as talkative. Paranoid. Short-tempered with Nana, and she was late picking her up from school several times with no explanation as to why.

Gigi wouldn’t talk about it with her husband, which led to several arguments between them. In the reports, he admitted their relationship had been declining for the past two years. He had begged Gigi to talk to him about her change in behavior, but she claimed nothing was amiss.

I spend hours dissecting Gigi’s diary entries, looking for hidden meanings in everything she wrote. Searching for the entries where she expresses fear and discomfort.

But whatever scared her, scared her so much that she couldn’t even write it out in words.

Part of me wishes these journals had been found during her investigation. I might’ve never gotten to read them if they had been, but maybe then they might’ve been able to solve her case.

I sigh and run my hands through my thick hair. My shoulders are starting to burn from my hunched-over position and my eyes are growing bleary from all the reading.

A headache blooms in my temples, worsening my vision until I can’t see or think straight anymore.

I sit back in the rocking chair and look out the window.

My strangled scream pierces the air when I see the stalker is back—standing in the same spot as before, puffing on his stupid cigarette. It’s been three days since I confronted him, and I’ve been on high alert ever since. Waiting for him to break in again, and this time, come into my room while I’m sleeping.

My heart lobs around in my chest, pumping erratically. A low heat sparks in the pit of my stomach, my mouth drying as the burn descends between my thighs.

I’m glued to the chair, panting from the heady mix of fear and arousal. My cheeks burn from shame, but the feeling doesn't dissipate. I should close the curtains—do myself a favor and cut us both off from our silent war.

But for some unknown reason, I can’t get myself to move. To pick up the phone and call the police. To do anything that would classify me as intelligent and having common sense.

Those things are nonexistent as I stare out at the man. Whatever ghosts haunt these walls are no longer relevant, not when there’s something much more dangerous haunting the grounds.

As if the ghosts heard me, light footsteps sound from above me. I turn my head and lift my eyes to the ceiling, tracking the phantom footsteps until they fade away.

And when I turn back, my stalker is a few feet closer. As if he’s wondering what I’m staring at. Questioning what could’ve possibly turned my attention away from him.

He’s wondering if it’s another man, I’m sure. Maybe he thinks Greyson is back, occupying the house somewhere. Calling out for me and asking me to join him in my bed, naked and hard for me.

Maybe he even thinks we just fucked, my thighs still slick with another man’s seed.

Does that piss him off?

Of course it does. He mutilated and killed a man for touching me. What would he do to a man for fucking me?

What would he do to me?

Doesn’t matter that it’s the furthest thing from the truth. The fact that those thoughts could be running through his head and driving him crazy brings a small smile to my lips.

Just to fuck with him, I turn my head and pretend to shout something out.

“What are you doing?” I say aloud, aiming my words towards a ghost that’ll never reply.

Looking back at my shadow, I see him pull out his phone, the blue light getting lost in the depths of his hood as he looks at something. Several seconds later, he tucks it away in his pocket, slides out another cigarette from the pack, and lights it up. Chain smoker. Gross.

He sticks around for another fifteen minutes. And during that time, I scarcely look away. It feels like a game almost, and I’ve always been a sore loser.

I’m thanking Jesus I don’t have to travel for this book signing event. Another big romance author is hosting it, and luckily, it takes place in good ol’ Seattle.

A thin layer of sweat coats my skin as I look myself over one last time in the mirror.

“You’ve done a million of these, girlfriend. You’re going to be fine,” Daya assures from behind me. I’m wearing a flattering red blouse that shows off my body nicely without looking too racy or inappropriate and ripped black mom jeans. I painted my lips red and slipped on comfortable checkered Vans.

My cinnamon hair is curled into loose beach waves, completing the casual but chic look. I don’t usually like to dress up for these things. I’m sitting in a chair all day, so I make sure to look nice enough to take pictures with and leave the rest to comfort.

I sniff my armpit, double checking that my deodorant didn’t lie to me and doesn’t fight against tough odors.

“I know, but it doesn’t make them any easier,” I grumble.

“What do you call yourself?” Daya asks, quirking a brow at me.

I sigh. “A master manipulator.”

“Why?”

I roll my eyes. “Because I manipulate people’s emotions with my words when they read my books,” I grouse.

“Exactly. So that’s all you do, except your mouth says the words instead of your fingers. Fake it till you make it, baby.”

I nod my head, looking at my underarms in the mirror from all angles. My deodorant may claim to fight tough odors, but the shirt didn’t come with a tag that said it was pit stain resistant.

Sighing again, I drop my arms. “It's not that I don't love meeting my readers, I just don't do well in crowds and social situations. I’m too awkward.”

“You’re also a great liar. That’s what you do for a living. Just smile and pretend you’re not having one big panic attack.”

Another roll of my eyes as I grab my purse from the bed. “You’re such a great pep-talker,” I say dryly. She snorts in response.

Daya sucks at pep-talking, and she knows it. She’s the logical person in our friendship, while I’m the emotional one. She’s all about offering solutions, while I’d rather roll around in my dread and anxiety and wax on about it.

Guess I’m more like my mother than I thought.

I’ll still never admit it out loud.

The event is a blast, as usual. Every time, I work myself up for these events, and I always end up never wanting to leave by the time they’re over.

Getting the chance to meet up with other author friends and attempting to run away with all their signed books while laughing maniacally is what truly brings me peace in life.

What truly brings me happiness is seeing the many smiling faces eager to meet me and get signed books of mine.

I love my career as a professional manipulator. I’m fortunate to do what I do.

I’m a tad tipsy from getting drinks at a bar after the event, so Daya is driving me back home in my car. We laugh and giggle over funny moments and even gossip about the crazy drama that always circulates the book community.

We’re riding a high from having such a good time, but our smiles bleed dry as she pulls up to the house.

A lone light is on, shining through the bay window. I turned off all the lights before we left.

I go to scramble out of the car, but Daya’s firm grip around my hand stops me.

“He could still be in there,” she says urgently, her grip tightening almost painfully.

“He fucking better be,” I growl, wrangling my arm from her grip. I slip out of the car before Daya can try to stop me again and charge towards the manor.

“Addie, stop! You’re being stupid.”

I am, but the alcohol has only made my anger more potent. Before Daya can stop me, I’m unlocking the front door and barreling into the house.

A single light is on over my kitchen sink, too weak to illuminate the front of the house properly.

No one is waiting for me, so I start flipping on lights to diminish the ominous tone in the air.

“Come out, you freak!” I yell, storming into the kitchen and grabbing the largest knife I can find. When I turn, Daya is standing in the doorway, looking around the room with an alarmed expression on her face.

I was so intent on killing the bastard, I didn’t even bother to look around.

The entire living room is covered in red roses. My mouth pops open, and the words on my tongue stutter and evaporate.

I turn and spot an empty whiskey glass sitting on the counter, a dribble of alcohol at the bottom of the glass, and a distinct mark on the lip.

Lying next to the glass is a single red rose.

My widened gaze clashes with Daya's. All we can do is just stare at each other in shock.

Heart in my throat, I finally choke out, “I need to check the rest of the house.”

“Addie, he could still be here. We need to call the police and leave. Now.”

I bite my lip, two halves warring inside me. I want to look for him, confront him, and stab him in the eye a few times. But I can’t endanger Daya more than I already have. I can’t keep being stupid about this.

Relenting, I nod my head and follow her out of the manor. The brisk air doesn’t even penetrate the ice settling in my bones.

What else did he do? A snarl forms when I realize that he probably went into my bedroom. Touched my underwear. Maybe even stole some.

The operator's voice cuts through my thoughts. I was so zoned out, I hadn’t realized Daya called the police for me.

She describes the situation, and after a few minutes, the operator dispatches an officer and lets us know it’ll take him twenty minutes to get to us.

I know the stalker isn’t here anymore. I know it in my bones. But I’m hoping he’s a criminal and in the system, that way his DNA from the whiskey glass will identify him.

But just like I know he’s no longer here, I know it won’t be that easy to catch him either.

“Come home with me tonight,” Daya says. We're both tired and stone-cold sober after talking to the police for two hours.

They searched the house, and he was nowhere to be found. They did take prints from the whiskey glass to see if they could get a match.

I’m exhausted, so I nod my head.

Her house is twenty minutes away, and it’s a good thing I tailed her the entire time, or else I might have lost focus and drove without direction.

Daya lives in a quaint house in a nice, quiet neighborhood. She parks the car and we both slump our way into the house.

Her house would be fairly empty if it weren’t for the furniture and the thousands of computers everywhere. She takes her work seriously, and while she doesn’t talk much about her job, I know she deals with some pretty heavy matters.

She's mentioned before that she deals with the dark web and human trafficking. And that alone is enough to give someone night terrors.

Apparently, her boss is strict with keeping the details confidential, but there's been times where Daya has looked more haunted than Parsons Manor.

When I had asked what she gets out of it, she had said saving innocent lives. That was all I needed to hear to know that Daya is a hero.

“You know where the guest bedroom is,” Daya says, lazily pointing her finger in the direction. “Do you want some company? I’m sure you’re really freaked out.”

I force a smile. “I love you for offering, but I think we both just need sleep right now,” I say.

Daya nods, and after wishing me goodnight, retires to her room.

I flop on the white duvet in her guest bedroom. Just like the rest of her house, it’s pretty bare in here. Light blue walls, decorated with a few oceanic pictures and white, gauzy curtains.

My eyes snag on those.

Not the curtains themselves, but what’s in between them.

For the second time tonight, my heart lodges into my throat, pulsating against my voice box and preventing me from making a sound.

Outside the window is the silhouette of a man. Staring directly at me.

I take a step back, ready to turn and call for Daya. When my phone buzzes, I flinch, freezing me in place and nearly choking me on the fear.

Keeping one eye on the man, I slide my phone out of my pocket and see a new text message.

UNKNOWN: You didn’t like my flowers?

Chapter 12

The Shadow

“T

here’s another video,” Jay says through the phone, his voice solemn. I scramble up from my couch and make my way into my office.

An array of computer screens line the ten-foot-long desk, and all my other illegal devices in here. Jammers, trackers, buttons that set off explosives in a number of places should someone betray me, and so on.

This room alone is worth millions with all the shit I have in here.

It’s both my happy place and my living nightmare.

This is where I make a difference in the world. Where I find women and children who need saving, while also witnessing the torture those sick individuals put them through.

It takes money to infiltrate high-security buildings, rescue the girls and give them sanctuary and safety off the grid.

Big corporations pay me an ungodly amount of money to hack into their rival’s systems for whatever bullshit reason, whether it be because they’re competing and want to know what the other is cooking up, or because they have a lawsuit against one another and trying to find information.

I don’t give a fuck what their problems are with each other. It’s only my concern that they get what they hired me for.

In the end, someone wealthy gets fucked over, my client makes a massive profit from it, and I collect interest on it. It’s dirty, but I’ve never been in the business of keeping my hands clean.

And it allows me to dedicate my life to ending human trafficking.

“Where?” I bark, my fingers already flying over the keyboard.

“Already encrypted and sent to your email.”

I roll my neck, cracking the muscles and gearing up for something that’s going to make the steak I just ate settle in my stomach like a wrecked ship in the ocean.

The video starts playing, and despite my instincts screaming at me not to, I turn up the volume so I can hear.

It’s a grainy video of a fucked up satanic ritual. The person recording is breathing heavily, more than likely from the risk of being caught doing something extremely dangerous.

Four robed men stand over a stone slab with a squirming little boy tied down to it.

Over and over, he’s screaming to let him go. His little voice breaking as he cries for help.

I run a hand over my face when they plunge a curved knife into his chest. They fill metal goblets with his blood and drink the entirety of the cup in one swallow.

I force myself to watch and endure the pain alongside this boy. Because even though this innocent soul is now gone, that doesn’t mean I won’t do everything in my power to find justice for him.

When the video is over, I have to turn away and breathe through the urge to vomit.

“Z?” I had forgotten Jay was even on the phone.

“Yeah?” I respond, my voice hoarse and barely there.

“I… I couldn’t watch it, man. I couldn’t do it.”

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

“That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t need to.”

Jay knows how hard I take these things, but he also knows I refuse to turn away from them. That’s what most people do when it comes to human trafficking. Everybody knows it exists, and most will educate themselves on how to avoid it, but they can’t watch when it comes to the reality of it. Can’t listen. Can’t see the depravity. Because if they don’t look, then they can go back to their normal lives and live on as if there aren't thousands of people out here dying every day.

Jay isn’t one of those people, he’s doing what he can. But he also doesn’t have the stomach for it, and I can’t blame him.

Because I don’t either. And to be honest, the people who do are the ones who are trafficking them and committing the crimes.

“Is it the four we’ve been tracking?” I ask.

Jay sighs. “No, Mark was spotted at a restaurant last night with his wife during the timestamp of the video. Looks like different men, but these ones aren’t identifiable. I imagine they only do the ritual once.”

I nod my head, my mind racing as I try to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.

About six months ago, a video leaked on the dark web of four men in black robes performing a ritual on a little girl. I’m not sure if it was arrogance or what, but the men kept their hoods down, unfazed with onlookers seeing exactly who they were.

Even with the low-quality video and dim lighting, I was able to identify them immediately.

Senators Mark Seinburg, Miller Foreman, Jack Baird, and Robert Fisher.

They surrounded the little girl on a slab of cement, stabbed her and then drank her blood. The girl was still alive, wriggling and screaming at the top of her lungs as the men chanted around her.

The same exact ritual the little boy just went through, still looping on my computer screen. Except in this one, the four men surrounding the little boy have tall, sharp-pointed hoods drawn over their heads, concealing their identities.

I can already feel myself slipping back into that black hole it took weeks to crawl out of six months ago. It put me in one of the darkest headspaces I’ve ever been in.

I locked myself in a room and didn’t come out for twenty-six hours after watching that first video. I was physically unable to go on living my normal day-to-day with the knowledge that this was being done to children.

That helplessness grew as I explored the dark web and found thousands of videos of parents raping their own children. Alongside the millions of other videos of torture, cannibalism, and even necrophilia. A lot of those videos take place in red rooms, where buyers can direct how exactly they want the victim to be tortured, raped, and killed.

And those are just the ones involving children.

Those videos in particular are what drove me to create Z five years ago. Since I was a kid, I had a knack for computer science, and my skills have surpassed even the top hackers in government organizations.

Finding myself on the dark web and stumbling upon those videos was by accident. But it changed my fucking life.

I haven’t been able to sleep since then. Knowing sick people pay to view hundreds of thousands of children being subjected to those things. Even worse, knowing that the people committing the acts do it both for their own pleasure and monetary gain.

And that just as many women and children continue to go missing every day so they can be subjected to those same things.

Since then, I made it my mission to find and kill them all. I’ve killed hundreds of people at this point. Locating predators that I have one hundred percent proof of their involvement in human trafficking.

Now I’m going to make my way through the government, starting with the four politicians from the first video, and then making my way through the rest.

I know exactly where they live. What they eat, where they sleep, shit, and work. But what they haven’t led me to is where these rituals take place.

And every day that goes by without that information, these rituals will be performed more.

“Did we get a hit on an IP address from who leaked the video?” I ask Jay, though I already know the answer.

“No, they covered their tracks. Whoever leaked it knew what they were doing,” Jay answers. I roll my neck again, gritting my teeth against the flaring pain radiating from the tightened muscles.

More than anything, I’d love to feel my little mouse’s hands working out the near permanent knots in my neck and shoulders. But it’ll be a little while before she agrees to that.

“Alright, I’ll see what I can find out with this new video,” I say, before ending the call.

Fuck. I need a drink.

And my little mouse happens to have a bottle of my favorite whiskey in her house.

A bone-chilling cold settles on the back of my neck. I hiss through my teeth and turn my head, convinced I’ll find someone standing behind me. But no one is there, despite the persistent cold surrounding me like dense fog.

I've already experienced a few unexplainable things while perusing Parsons Manor.

But whatever ghost that's floating up my ass has bad fucking timing.

“Back off,” I mutter through gritted teeth, turning back around. Surprisingly, it does. Whatever it is.

And I go back to staring mindlessly into my whiskey glass.

Whoever’s whiskey this is, it’s divine. A citrus flavor lingers on my tongue as I sip from the crystal cup. Addie’s upstairs sleeping, none the wiser to me being down here, drinking her whiskey, and stewing in the hornet’s nest buzzing throughout my skull.

Two of my employees installed security systems throughout her house, unknowingly to keep their boss out. I basically invented these systems, so I’m more than capable of disarming them with a click of my phone.

In the beginning, I just picked her locks to get in, then reverse-picked them after I left. The only predator I’ll allow in her house is myself. Despite her shit locks, I’d never leave her vulnerable.

I was relieved when she installed the security system, even if it was meant to keep me out. Breaking past those barriers is just another lesson to teach. Eventually, she'll learn that she can’t shut me out any more than she can fuck another man.

She tried to convince me of that the other day, but with one look at her cameras, I knew she was bluffing. Trying to get me riled up. It almost worked until I remembered that I’m taking it slow with her.

In the beginning, I tried so hard to forget her. I tried to run. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I went home from that bookstore and attempted to talk myself down. But it seemed the more I struggled to convince the beast inside of me to leave her alone, the more it raged.

And the second I started looking into her life, digging up anything I could find, the obsession only grew. She became an inoperable brain tumor that plagues every waking moment of my life.

Sometimes it feels like if I tried to cut her out of me anyways, I wouldn’t survive it.

Taking another swallow of whiskey, I twirl a red rose between my thumb and forefinger, a drop of blood pooling from where the thorn pricked me. Ignoring them, I keep rolling the dangerous stem between my fingers, a vortex of anger and anxiety swirling in my stomach.

Children are being tortured at this very moment. This second—this millisecond—while I sit here and drink liquor from a crystal glass.

There are children being sacrificed right now. Hurt. Maimed. Raped. Killed. While sadistic fucks circle around them and drink the blood from their bodies.