Page 7 of The Stone Secret

Shit.

I take a quick inventory of my surroundings. I’m on the couch, Shirley on the armrest. The television is on, the room illuminated in a flickering blue light. The curtains are open. This means that whoever is outside my house likely saw me through the window as they walked to the front door.

I suddenly feel extremely vulnerable. Are they watching me now? Am I supposed to pretend like I’m not scared? Feign strength and confidence? Instead, I am frozen in inaction, overthinking the situation, per usual.

I try to recall the active shooter training I’d taken for a story written earlier in the year about school safety. Unfortunately, however, my brain is a vacant warehouse of dead air. Besides, even if I could remember the self-defense protocol, I don’t own a gun. But I do have a bat—an aluminum Louisville Slugger.

“It’s okay, Shirley,” I whisper as I push myself off the couch. Thank God I am dressed—if you consider “dressed” a pair of gray sweatpants, an oversized brown sweater, and rainbow toe-socks.

Feeling like I am under a spotlight, an actress on stage, I grab my cell phone and dial 911, but I don’t connect. Instead, my finger hovers over the call button, prepared to tap. I kneel down in front of the couch, and with my other hand, search through the dust motes until I feel the cool, sturdy metal of the slugger. Weapon in hand, I stand.

Shirley is gone, of course. Likely hidden under the bed ensuring her safety—hers only.

On an inhale, I stride to the door, chest puffed, a steely expression on my face. It is the most badass I can get.

I pause to listen before flicking on the outside light. I peek out the window next to the door. A torch of yellow pools on the porch, hardly illuminating any farther than the front steps. A handful of leaves flutter down from the red maple that hugs the house. A blanket of crispy, dead leaves coats the driveway. There is no car. No human lurking outside.

I consider that perhaps the noise was from the family of raccoons that live under my porch.

But… maybe not.

After sliding my phone on the windowsill, I open the door, brandishing the bat as a weapon.

Laying on the welcome mat that readsWipe Your Pawsis a long white envelope. There is no name, address, stamp, or return address. Just a blank envelope.

Someone delivered me a letter at two-thirty in the morning?

After a quick scan of the woods that surround my yard, I pick up the envelope and step back into the house. I close and lock the door, testing it twice before backing away.

“Shirley!” I call out, demanding my partner in crime be a part of this creepy new adventure that has just appeared on my doorstep. When she doesn’t come, I set out to find her. Shirley is going to be a part of this whether she likes it or not.

I find the wrinkled ball of skin in the kitchen, curled on top of the microwave. One of her favorite spots—which, for some reason, kind of grosses me out.

“I’m okay,” I mock, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for checking on me.”

After closing the curtains, I click on the overhead light and raise the envelope. “We got a delivery.”

Shirley cocks her head, mildly interested.

I pull out a chair from the kitchen table, the legs squeaking loudly against the tile. I sit.

I notice my hands are unsteady as I examine the envelope.

Inhaling, I slowly rip off the corner.

Inside is a single sheet of white paper. Typed across the middle are three numbers:

3:02

4

Sylvia

The following two nights I receive two more letters, both delivered in the same manner as the first, both around two in the morning. The first letter reads:

3:04

The second:

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