Page 47 of Devious Delusions

“Fuck off, you weird freak.”

I keep my middle finger in the air as I turn and stare at the wall. It’s not real and I keep repeating that fact as the back of my head heats. It wasn’t real the first time, and it isn’t now. My mind is just playing tricks on me, the same as it has since Asher went to help his parents. I remind myself of how I checked the cameras while watching him through the window and only I could see him, but he didn’t show up on any of the screens. That’s tangible proof that I can use to stop my mind, so I block it out and pull the sheets up like it can protect me when I can feel the stare.

“It’s not real,” I mumble, pushing further into the bed.

Tap.

My entire body tenses.

Tap.

My blood runs cold.

That’s real. I can hear the two rhythmic taps.

Like knocking.

Turning my head, I look directly at the walkway, but the freak isn’t there.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s not fucking real, you crazy bitch.”

I lay on my back and morbid curiosity, or some need to prove to myself that I’m not some frightened little girl, forces me to look at the same spot. The mask isn’t there anymore, or any figure. It should comfort me, but I want it to come back to watch over me so I can feel protected again. I can’t see him, but the soft tapping comes again, and I remind myself of the research I’ve done.

Auditory hallucinations. They feel real to me but no one else hears them. The pills can sometimes make them worse when there’s a change in dosage. I don’t know how long I stopped taking my medication for, or anything it seems, when the last ten years of my entire life is just one big question mark.

But the tapping is there. The repetitions speed up the longer I ignore them, and I pull the pillow over my head to dull the small thuds until they get louder, angrier.

The small taps change to pounding against the glass, still in the same pattern of two, and I slowly loosen my hold on the pillow as I turn. There’s no figure on the walkway near the trees this time. He’s closer, standing directly on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling window that opens to grant access to the room from the walkway he haunts. His gloved fist is raised, and he knocks on the window twice without moving his arm.

Knock.

Knock.

It gets faster as he rolls his wrist. Each repetition seems to force my heart to beat at the same rhythm as though he has direct control of the organ.

Knock.

Knock.

I’m frozen to the bed, watching it—him—continue to knock. They turn more frantic and the sound echoes through the room.

Knock.

Knock.

I can’t move.

Knock.

Knock.

I don’t want to move.

Knock.

Knock.

“It’s not real,” I plead with myself.

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