Page 10 of Stalked By the Intern

I clench my jaw, frustration gnawing at the edges of my meticulous plan. This is a minor setback, nothing more. I'll recalibrate, refine my approach. After all, obsession isn't just about watching—it's about learning, adapting. And I am nothing if not persistent.

As she retreats inside, the door closing with a soft click that echoes in the silence of the night, I take a deep, steadying breath.

Willow Hartley will be mine. It's just a matter of time. But for now, I melt back into the darkness, my desire a living thing that writhes within, hungry and unsated.

***

The night is my cloak as I slip another parcel onto her doorstep, the pulse of anticipation in my wrists almost violent. Velvet petals caress my fingers—crimson roses this time, each one a drop of blood from my fervent heart. Beneath them lies the letter, words inscribed with an intensity that might scorch the paper if not for the coolness of the ink. Every gift eclipses the last, a crescendo of yearning wrapped in the finest silk and adorned with whispers of diamond dust.

Each delivery is a ritual, a testament to the depth of my devotion. She must understand, must feel the weight of my affection in her hands, heavy as gold and just as precious. I watch from the shadows, my heart a drumbeat syncing with the flicker of the porch light as it catches on the gleam of cellophane.

She opens the door, a slice of lamplight spilling out into the darkness, and there she stands, a silhouette that commands my every breath. The sight of her clutching my offerings to her chest sends heat surging through me, a wildfire that no reason can quell. But my triumph is short-lived as her eyes scan the horizon, searching, always searching.

For whom, Willow?

For me?

Or someone else? My body freezes at the thought that she might hope someone else sends them.

No, I can't allow myself to think that way. Because seeing Willow with someone else is out of the question.

I would commit murder.

***

Willow

I'm shaking. The roses lay scattered on the floor, a mockery of romance, their fragrance suffocating. Another letter, its edges too perfect, too deliberate. It's like he sees me, really sees me, but through a lens darkened by obsession. The words are beautiful, poetic even, but they're wrong, all wrong. They scream possession, a claim staked deep within the lines.

Mine, the letters spell out without ever saying it.You are mine.

The room is quiet, too quiet, and every creak ishisfootstep, every gust of wind his breath on the back of my neck. I'm unraveling, threads pulled loose by an unseen hand. My sketches seem sinister now, the charcoal strokes like the marks he leaves on my life—indelible, invasive.

I jump at the buzz of my phone, a simple message from a friend, but what if it isn't? What if it's him, creeping closer through the wires and waves until he's inside the very device I cradle in my palm? Paranoia is my constant companion, whispering sour nothings into my ear, painting everyone with the same shade of suspicion.

"Willow, how are you?" they ask, but how do I answer when I feel his eyes on me, always on me, a pressure I can neither see nor escape? I'm drowning in a sea of doubt, flailing for the shore, but the more I struggle, the deeper I sink.

Every gift, every letter is a brick in the fortress he builds around me, a castle meant to keep others out and trap me within.

And the worst part?

I can't help but wonder who he is, this phantom lover who knows me without knowing me at all. My curiosity is the chink in my armor, and I fear, oh how I fear, it will be my undoing.

***

I clutch the latest envelope, fingers trembling as I slide it across the kitchen table to my father. His brow creases with worry, eyes scanning over the opulent gifts that now litter our living space like a shrine of obsession. He doesn't hesitate—the decision etched into his furrowed lines before he even speaks.

"Enough is enough. You should have come to me with this sooner," Dad declares, the protective growl in his voice making something primal in me flinch. He's on his feet, pacing like a caged lion, and then he's on the phone, dialing with a purpose that has my heart hammering against my ribs. He hires the private investigator with curt nods and sharp, hushed tones, his desperation to shield his daughter palpable in the air between us.

When he ends the call, he pulls me into an embrace, but I'm a ghost within his arms—fading, fraying at the edges.

"Willow, we'll find him," he promises, but his words are hollow against the roar of my own fear.

Later, I watch from the corner of my living room—a place where shadows hug me close—as the investigator pores over the letters and tokens of adoration-turned-nightmare. He's meticulous, gloves on, magnifying glass in hand, inspecting each petal, each loop of handwriting for secrets that could unmask my invisible captor. What does he see that I can't?

The days blend together, a monochrome palette of dread. I skip my volunteer shifts, ignore the canvas that screams for attention. Brushes lie neglected, and colors dry out. They're just pigments of a life I no longer recognize.

My phone lies dormant, a potential detonator of my sanity I dare not touch. Friends' voices fade into the distance, concern warping into suspicion with every ignored call, every unanswered text. They don't understand that every ring, every vibration, might be him reaching through technology to stroke the nape of my neck with digits made of darkness.

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