Page 64 of Devious Delusions

I walk down the stairs.

Alone.

And cook.

Alone.

There’s no one there.

It’s the same for the delivery that was left on the driveway. There’s nothing to show he was here, and the footage doesn’t have the kitchen torture session. Instead, it has me sitting at the piano, lost in the melody. The time stamp matches the delivery like I missed it due to the sound.

But I didn’t.

Did I?

No. I have the note.

I look down to my hand. But it’s not there and I don’t remember putting it down. Taking a deep breath, I tightly blink as though that’ll recalibrate my brain. The ache is there. It’s real. It has to be fucking real.

My body temperature fluctuates as I stand. I’m torn between frustration that urges me to crawl in a ball and sob, and anger that begs me to burn everything.

I keep walking to push the latter impulse away and search the hallway for the note. It’s not on the floor, and my eyes tighten in pain with my pace speeding up. I pause in the threshold of thekitchen and grip the wall as my legs shake. They’re like jelly and my shoulders have cement blocks inside of them. Everything is stiff, but I need that note. I need it to prove that it happened, even if it’s only to myself.

My eyes snap open and I frantically scan the surrounding floor. Relief courses through me at the sight of a red edge near the base of the table and I don’t attempt to pick it up. All my energy is conserved to pick up the heating pad and carry it to the microwave. The hum of it turning is hypnotic as I try to determine where the freak could be. Or who.

He knows me well enough to have details I have never told anyone else. Not only that, but he also has my things in his possession and he said I stabbed Asher.

If I stabbed him, why is he still married to me?

The shrill beep signals the end of the microwave’s rotations and I pull the door open as it continues. There’s no steam rising from the heating pad and the smell is strange. I slowly move my head forward to take in a nose full of the scent. Stale rice, oatmeal, and lavender perfume the air. The lavender is the most potent smell, but it doesn’t fully overpower the others. Fuck it, the freak is breaking in and suffocating me, what else could he possibly do?

I groan as I push it into my sweatpants. The warmth eases the ache. If anyone sees me, they’ll think I’m a pervert with my hand pressed against my crotch, but I don’t give a single fuck because it stops me from walking bowlegged.

Not bothering with my shoes, I leave the house and pick up the large ring of keys. He has to be staying in the other building. There’s nowhere else close by and he had the mask. It’s stupid to confront the freak, but I need to know everything he knows about me.

My selfish carelessness is solely rooted in reclaiming my sanity. Parts of my memories may be due to the hallucinations, the psychosis, but they can’tallbe when there’s proof of them.

My socked feet sink into the gravel, and the small stones crunch until I reach the door of the other building. None of the windows allow me to see into it, and I push the key I saw the police officers use into the slot. It clicks and a chill works up my spine as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I take it out, expecting it to be Asher, but it’s the man who has my answers.

UNKNOWN:

Who’s there?

He is here, and he’s watching me again.

I turn the key and brace for something sinister grabbing me. But the locking mechanism slides easily, and the dust kicks up as I forcefully push the door open. My feet turn to lead as I look at the freshly cleaned space. The table that had old paint on it is gone, the mask isn’t there, and there’s no dust on the floor. It still coats the windowsills and blinds, but the floor was gray and covered in the police officers’ booted footprints. Now the black tile is shiny and reflects my silhouette with the beaming sun back at me.

The large open-plan space is a rectangular box that doesn’t provide any corners for him to hide, but I slowly step forward and turn my head, searching for him. He has to be here, and I notice the alcove against the back wall as I crane my neck. The walls run parallel to each other, and the paint shades differ slightly to give the illusion of one continuous wall to hide the staircase between them.

There’s no dust on the steps, and the light from the door doesn’t reach this portion of the building with the darkenedwindows reducing the visibility. I make it five steps when I’m fully engulfed in the shadows. My throat constricts and I walk slower, unsure of what’s going to be waiting for me at the top of the stairs.

29

DELILAH

Creaks 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.

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