Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 14
the lamb
with no sign of the mystery man. Not outside on the grounds or in my room. It's just enough time for me to convince myself that I imagined him again. I almost do too, if not for the two figs that taunt me from their spot on my table. Nothing is missing from my home, nothing has been touched, and I don't get the sense that I'm being watched again.
I swear my mind is playing tricks on me, or maybe I'm just going insane. I suppose there's no way for me to truly know. No one is really conscious of the fact that their sanity is slipping until it's already gone. I saw it plenty of times in Sunnybrook. The crazy people never knew they were crazy.
But there's no other explanation. Why else would I allow some stranger into my home and to watch me like that? Why else would I look for him in the shadows and hope he's come back?
I'm either insane or extremely fucked in the head.
He has a pattern when he visits. So far, it’s mostly on weekends and almost never in the middle of the week. That must mean he has a job. I have a hard time believing there’s any place in Styx that affords him the type of wealth that radiates off of him, though I have no idea where to even begin with searching. New York City is only about an hour away. Is it a stretch to assume he's making that drive?
I’ve looked into having security cameras installed, at least on the outside of the property, but the price is astronomical. I’d have to take on a separate job just to pay the subscription fee. There’re quite a few do-it-yourself alternatives online that I’ve begun to set aside savings for. It’s impossible to get ahead when you’re hardly keeping your head above water to begin with.
Rosie is the only person I've told about him, though only bits and pieces. She's convinced he's a part of my imagination, and I'm not sure if that offends or relieves me. If she knew the rest of what I’ve experienced, she would probably be telling me to move out and call the police.
For example, I haven’t told her about the figs.
I think they make it too real, a physical token to go along with his haunting presence. It’s too hard to deny his existence and what the thought of it does to me when I can hold the evidence of it in my hands.
So I lie, carefully disclosing enough information that if something were to happen to me, there would at least be one person who could lead people in the right direction. Especially if it happens before I can install my cameras. And Rosie makes me feel better by assuring me it’s all in my head. Perhaps, it’s easier for her to believe that than to admit the possibility that I do have a stalker.
I’m mostly scared. Terrified, in fact.
But not in the way I should be, and that’s what alarms me the most. The feelings he invokes in me are like nothing I've ever experienced.
Fear.
Lust.
Longing.
They run deeper than ever before, cutting into my flesh and marrow like sharp blades. And like a true masochist, I fall to my knees, ready to beg for more each time he returns.
Instead of reporting the stranger who appears to have formed some sort of obsession with me, I’m protecting him, just how he wants me to. He somehow knows I’m too weak to turn him in. That I’m too intrigued to end whatever is going on between us.
It’s a sick thought. How can I accuse him of being messed up when I’m just as fucked in the head—if not more, because I’m enabling his behavior? Yet, here we are.
My vibrating phone dances on the coffee table before me as yet another call lights up the screen. I refuse to drop my eyes from the TV to check. I don’t have to look to know who it is. This is the fifth time he’s called in the span of twenty minutes after his obsessive texting all afternoon. If there’s one thing Gabe hates, it’s being ignored. It’s a good thing I’m not his girlfriend anymore, and therefore don’t owe him shit.
Still, I’ve been properly trained to answer like a good little pet. There’s that internal struggle brewing in my chest—the anticipation of what comes when I don’t pick up his calls. I have to remind myself each time the phone flashes with an incoming call that he doesn’t have that hold over me anymore. I’m safe from his fury.
The screen darkens as his call ends, and I cringe when it vibrates again three times to alert me to a new voicemail I’ll be deleting as soon as I can hold my phone without feeling like it’s on fire.
He’s getting desperate. Calling me like this, leaving threatening messages that anyone could see or hear. It’s not his usual, calculated approach. The one where he convinces everyone I was the insufferable problem in our relationship. I’m not even sure where he got my new number from. Everyone who has it has been sworn to secrecy.
Realizing my back has gone ramrod straight, I relax back into the couch and take a few deep breaths to clear my head, reminding myself once again that he can’t get to me here.
He doesn't bother calling again, though that doesn't make me feel as good as it should. I'm sure if I bothered to listen to the final voicemail he left, there would be some empty threats for my lack of response, but I refuse to hear it. Hitting delete in my voicemail box, I have the fleeting thought that if it was this easy for him to find my number, how difficult could it be for him to discover my address and show up here? Would he even go that far?
Maybe I should have listened to his message just to decipher how unhinged he's become. Clearly, calling me this many times in such a short span of time alludes to some level of insanity, right?
Apparently, he'd have to get in line for stalking me, since there's someone else who has stepped in to take that role. Perhaps they'd have to reach some sort of agreement on who gets to gaze into my windows on which day. I'm not sure what the protocol is for being a creepy asshole.
Ah, shit. When did life get so messy? And when did I get such a horrible sense of humor over it?
In an attempt to avoid looking at my phone at all costs, I stand to bring my dinner dish to the sink, deciding which creep I'd rather find standing outside my window. At least I know the mystery man doesn’t want to hurt me. Not yet. And I’ve unintentionally been giving him ample opportunities. Gabe has taken every chance he’s been given to hurt me in some way—physically, emotionally, verbally… you name it. There’s a saying that you should go with the devil you know, but I don’t even think the actual devil would choose my piece of shit ex in this scenario.
Of course, the best option for me to choose would be no creepy stalker, but it seems like the universe, or God, or whoever the hell is up there, doesn’t want to give me that.
Once my bowl is securely nestled in the dishwasher and the sink is clear, I turn to the fridge and notice that the photo I had of me, Halen, and Kennedy at a concert is missing. I came across it last week when I was unpacking a box I missed in my bedroom, and I stuck it there to remind myself to grab a frame.
But now, it’s nowhere to be found.
Climbing down on my hands and knees, I try to peek underneath the fridge, but the space is too small and dark to see anything. I could swear it was here just this morning.
As I’m pulling myself back up, I hear the floor creak in one of the spare bedrooms.
I've kept the doors shut since I first moved in, only ever bothering to use that end of the house when I need to rummage through the linen closet to find something or to clean out the bathroom. Otherwise, it stays dark and cold. I haven't even had any guests stay over yet.
Granted, the house usually makes random creaks and groans that are light enough for me to chalk up to the bones of it settling. It's an old building, and the temperature is changing with the seasons. But I'm not sure if it was my crassly joking thoughts earlier, the missing photo, or because there aren't any other noises around me to drown it out, but this one sounded more significant. Like something moving instead of settling into place.
“Hello?” I call out in a broken voice.
No one responds, obviously. I've either given myself away and let the potential intruder know that I'm onto them, or I've become insanely paranoid. Either way, I'm paralyzed in fear.
With my heart beating faster than what should be humanly possible, I dash back into my bedroom, grabbing my phone from the coffee table on the way. This is the shitty part of living alone. What if someone murders me tonight? How long would it take for anyone to notice I was gone?
Throwing myself against the pillows, I pull my legs up to my chest and listen intently for any other noises to follow.
With all the fear and anger I can muster, I send a strongly worded prayer up above for whoever the hell is in charge to give me a break. And even though there aren’t any more weird noises in the house, I don’t sleep at all.