Page 33

29

DELILAH

C reaks echo through the narrow stairwell as I slowly pass the halfway mark, and the small amount of light at the bottom of the staircase doesn’t allow me to see each step, so I take out my phone so I can see where I’m going.

The oval doorknob is the first thing that I see. The light reflects off the smoothed point, and I focus on it rather than the foreboding settling into my bones. The walls close in on me, everything narrowing and turning into a long dark tunnel as my mind forms every conceivable scenario possible.

Is he waiting for me?

Is he real?

He could pull the door open.

If he’s real.

And shoot me in the head.

Unless he’s really a ghost.

I’m such a fucking idiot. He could have a weapon and I’m unarmed unless I count my phone. The idiotic part of me that has been drawn to him grows and tells me it’s safe. It’s a dumb bitch ignoring the literal crimes he’s committed and only focusing on the fact that I’ve been left unharmed in each interaction. Well, the opposite of harmed, even if his pleasure is twisted.

I stretch my hand, holding my phone out to feel for the door and the hinges are stiff from disuse as they creak, but it opens. Natural light floods the room and the stairwell I’m standing in. The warmth of the sun is dampened through the darkened window, without preventing the space from being airy and open.

The floor is free of any dust, and I walk into another open-plan empty room. He’s not here and I hate that I deflate. There’s a bathroom, which is also fucking empty, and I turn the faucet out of curiosity, but no water comes out as the pipes hiss, expelling stale air. The sound of my steps is enhanced in the derelict building as I walk to the closet, hoping that he’s there.

I don’t have to open any doors and I freeze at the threshold. The wall beneath the window has a hoard of dolls lined up together, covering the full trim, and it’s creepy as fuck. There’s no continuity in their design, some have limbs missing, different lengths of hair. The only thing they do have in common is writing on their chest.

It’s the same typed print as the card, and my eyes narrow as I try to decode what it could mean. It’s not an area code that has any significance, and the corresponding letters don’t spell anything other than gibberish.

My phone rings, and I answer absentmindedly without looking away from the creepy dolls. Worry clings to Asher’s voice and he doesn’t allow me any time to speak as he says, “Are you home, baby? Lock the doors and go up to our room until the police get there.”

I’m already moving at the urgency in his tone, but I still ask, “What’s happened?”

I freeze at the top of the stairs at the thought of him knowing what I’ve done. He’ll hate me, he has every right to hate me, but the security footage was altered and I’m the worst person alive.

“The alert went off for the other building,” he says and takes a deep breath. “Just stay on the phone with me while I try to get the police.”

“It was me,” I whisper and close my eyes like that will do anything to get rid of the guilt.

He’s worrying about me when I’m the one literally chasing another man. My voice comes out stronger and the lie is too easy. “I was bored, and I thought it could be like a project to keep me busy.”

My husband is miles away, caring for his injured mom, his dad is AWOL, and I’m lying to him with a heat pad between my thighs. I look up as the back of my throat burns and he loses his worry, adding more fucking guilt.

“It’s a shithole, Lilo. Do you want to wait until I’m home, and I’ll clean it up for you to do whatever you want with it? All the dust and shit will make you sick.”

I’m going to hell because I’m already sick. I don’t tell him that our security system is faulty or that we have a freak breaking into our property to clean up. Instead, I continue lying to him and push away just how easy it is, how fluidly they build.

“I’ve already done it this morning. I’ll show you when you’re home.” Before he can end the call, I add, “I love you, Asher.”

Someone calls his name, stopping him from saying it back, and I end the call so he isn’t forced to feel bad about being there for his family. I have no idea what I’m doing, or who I can trust. On one hand, I need Asher to give me stability. On the other, I need Ghost for answers. Turning in a circle, I stare out into the trees that only cover the side of the building facing our house, and the other side is open. With the change in vantage point and angle, I can see further into them.

Everything looks so peaceful from far away and I stand at the window that leads to the walkway connecting the two buildings. The bolt goes into the frame at the top of the window, and I can’t reach it to open it, so I just stand there.

My bedroom window acts like a mirror with the harsh glare of the sun reflecting the image of me. I look as stupid as I feel, and I can see my own guilt. My arms are limp by my sides and my face is blank. The further I examine myself, the more it stops me noticing the figure inside the house until it moves. I can only make out the side of his head and he still has his hood on. But there’s no mask. No rubber or black respirator.

Leaning up on my toes, I try to reach the bolt on the window so I can see him, but the heating pad slips down my thigh at the same time my phone vibrates in my hand. The distraction makes me drop to the flat of my feet and I search each window for him. There’s no figure, no hood, in any of the windows. He’s disappeared.

I turn and pull the heating pad out through the leg of my sweats before I try to run. The soreness only allows a walk, but I have to know who he is. Gripping the edge of the wall, I take the stairs as my hand continues vibrating. A loud bang makes me freeze with only three steps left and the buzzing slows. I hold my phone in two hands to dull the vibrations echoing through the empty building as heavy-booted steps slowly move from the doorway towards me and a new message comes through with every step.

UNKNOWN:

You didn’t use the ice

Do you like watching me?

I like watching you

Especially when you’re in your room

Or when you’ve just got out of the shower

The water drips down your hair to your nape

And I imagine what it would be like if it was red

I can smell your fear

I slowly walk backwards up the stairs and turn the vibrations off as I flinch at each heavy thud of his steps and corresponding vibration.

It’s not your fear, is it?

It’s that lying, cheating cunt crying out for me

Don’t run

Yet

You won’t get very far

He pauses on the opposite side of the wall like he knows exactly where I am. I’m the freak because I do the same and look down as though the plaster isn’t there and I’d be able to see him. Two soft taps hit the wall and I continue moving backwards again to get away from them.

As soon as I’m through the threshold, I hold the edge of the door and gently close it before looking for anything to barricade it. The room is empty and as much as I want to see him, really see him, the fear he evokes is more potent.

I’m not the one in control. He is. When it was on my terms and I’d be confronting him, I had some semblance of power. I had the upper hand. Not now that his steps are more pronounced. They get slower, heavier, as he takes the stairs, pausing between every step.

I blow out all the air in my lungs as I try to claw back control.

On his third step, I attempt to take over his game and respond to him.

ME:

Knock.

Knock.

I know who’s there

The heating pad brushes the side of my foot, making me shiver, and I dip down, picking it up without any sensible thoughts swirling around my head.

He takes three more steps and they’re quieter with my heart pounding. Before I can lose my newfound stupidity, I rip the door open and throw the long log-shaped heating pad at him. Adrenaline forces me to ignore the ache as I barrel towards him, and the low lights stop me seeing his face straightaway. It’s not until I’m closer that I see he’s still wearing a mask. It resembles a normal person rather than the modified clown mask and the skin-colored rubber doesn’t smell as he plants his feet with one hand flat against the wall to trap me as I collide with his ribs.

He wraps one arm around me as I try to run through him. It knocks us both off-balance and I push all of my body weight into my shoulder furthest from the wall to create a gap.

The narrow walls stop him falling as he grabs out with his free hand and steadies himself with the railing. But it gives me enough space to twist around him as he curses, and I grab the side of his hoodie in my fist as I slip on the sharp edge of the step.

It pulls him with me. His weight fully pushes into my back and I stretch my hand out in front of me to prevent smashing my face on the ground. My eyes don’t close, and my feet cross over each other in my haste to get away from him.

“Careful,” he barks and turns, wrapping both of his arms around my waist.

I’m pulled into his chest and kick back as he walks us down the remaining steps.

“Get the fuck off me, you sick fuck!”

My screaming doesn’t get him to loosen his hold. It has the opposite impact, with his arms tightening and pinning my forearms to my hips. My fingers pulse with the restricted blood flow and I throw my head back as my foot connects with his shin.

My body is jolted in his hold and the rubber clings to my hair as he whispers darkly, “Keep fighting me. I like it.”

I force my body to go limp as he pulls me up the length of his body. He’s not as hard as he has been previously. And I’m fucked in the head for wanting to demand why that’s changed. It shouldn’t feel insulting that the creepy stalker isn’t stabbing me in the back with his dick, but it is. I can’t help it. I also can’t help my fucked-up brain questioning whether he’s stalking anyone else and I even voice it like an even bigger fucking idiot.

“Do you do this with other people?”

His steps falter. “Do what?”

“Say half a shitty knock-knock joke and hide your ugly-ass face from them?” I snap.

Turning rigid at my back, he crosses his arms over my waist and squeezes to the point of pain. His biceps are fully pressed against mine and he straightens his spine, so I’m hauled up his body. The familiarity comes back again as though we’ve been in this position before, but there’s no taunt as he repeats the movement.

“Show me who you are,” I manage to croak despite how he’s compressing my lungs.

He slowly sets me on my feet, and I turn as his arms loosen around me, then he takes a step back. The new mask is so lifelike that I wouldn’t notice it’s not his face if I wasn’t close to him. It must be why it looked like he wasn’t wearing a mask through the window. There’s no hole between the lips that are set in a small, friendly smile, and the eyes are the same so I don’t know how he can see.

This is the first time he’s shown himself in the daylight, which makes it less frightening, and I don’t run. I’m slowly accepting that I make stupid decisions. It’s why I repeat myself, expecting honesty.

“Show me, please. I’m good with faces. I’ll remember you.”

He takes two large steps backwards in the direction of the door and shakes his head. The mask doesn’t cover his hair and the dark strands curl over the top of it.

“You know the rules,” he says, taking another step back.

My frustration rises and heats my blood as I glare back at him and cross my arms over my chest to hide the lingering residual fear.

“We’ve established that I have an issue with remembering things, so remind me of them.” I clench my jaw and dig my fingers into my biceps as he just watches me. “While you’re at it, add how you know me too.”

He stiffly nods once and leans his head forward. “The first rule is that you do not fuck that prick. When you’re desperate and on the verge of tears because you need to be filled, you tell me.”

“I don’t know you and you’re not in my marriage to try and give me some stupid fucking rules about how I interact with my own husband.”

His breathing shallows and the air shifts, turning arctic. Everything is thicker—the air, the light, and my fear.

“You tell me,” he takes a step closer and I take one back, “by walking around naked.” Another step. “Then, you bend over and fucking wait for me.” I flinch as he raises his hand and grabs my throat, pulling me closer. “Just like the last time.”

Pressing my hands flat against his chest, I lean into him and refuse to accept his bullshit.

“I can fuck my husband wherever and whenever I want. I’ll scream his name, and fucking beg for his dick because nothing looks better on me than him.”

His fingers flex around my throat and his breathing escalates. I’ve found the thread of his crazy and I tug on it as I smile smugly.

“You hate that, don’t you?”

He lets out a harsh breath and his entire body is tense.

“You do, you hate that no one wants you. That you’re just a sad, pathetic little freak who has to run around in masks because if anyone saw you—really saw you—they would see all your ugly parts. They’d see just how fucking warped you are inside.”

I push too hard, and he loses his restraint as he shouts, “You fucking did this!” His fingers tighten around my neck and the other joins in. He chokes me with both hands as he continues to rage. “I was me before you!”

I slap at him and try to kick but he walks me backwards and nearly stands on my feet.

“You stole my fucking life.”

The heel of my palm hits his jaw and I croak, “I don’t know you.”

With his hands still wrapped around my throat, he shakes me, but they loosen enough for me to breathe. Not any more than that, so I know the threat remains.

One hand leaves my neck, and he strokes my cheek with the back of his knuckles. The eyes of the mask don’t move, but I can feel him watching the movement as his voice lowers to a plea.

“Think, Delilah. You know me. No one knew me like you did. You took my innocent soul and made it yours. Just. Think.”

I shake my head and my back hits the wall as he leans down, tipping my jaw up on the back of his gloved knuckles.

“Think, Delilah,” he implores.

I can’t. There’s no recollection of some creep following me or wearing masks and chasing me. His frustration rises as he lets go of my neck to tap his knuckles against the wall as though it will recall what he needs. My own pulses at my temples and I continue shaking my head while he softly knocks against the wall again.

“Remember me, koukla mou,” he begs.

Slowly lifting my hand, I try to remove his mask, but he abruptly pulls his head back. My fingers touch air and remain suspended as I attempt to give him what he wants.

“Let me see you. You don’t have to be scared.”

Pulling his head back, he stares at me, then a laugh rumbles through his chest, dripping in condescension. He switches personas and grabs my face, his fingers pushing into my teeth through my cheek so hard that I’ll feel them days from now. My wrists are next, and he holds them in one hand before slamming them against the wall above my head.

“Oh, koukla mou,” he croons as he leans into me, “I know you want my mouth, but your taunts won’t work again.”

He forces his knee between my legs and pushes up until I’m standing on my toes. I wince at the pressure, but he doesn’t soften and presses further into me as my fingers tingle from how hard he’s holding my wrists.

“You see,” he looks down the length of my body pinned to the wall, “your cunt is poisonous and I refuse to be your puppet again.”

I gasp as he presses me harder into the wall before he unwraps his hands from around me and turns, throwing me over his shoulder. “We’re playing my game now.”

He keeps walking and I stand against the wall, allowing it to hold me up. There’s no needle, or plastic wrapped around my face. He just walks away, uncaring.

And I watch him.

I watch his shoulders tense with each step until he walks out of the door and his steps crunch against the gravel away from my house. They get further and further away until there’s only silence.