Gently setting the picture down, I decide to brush off the weird chill and google how to break open a safe. After finding several forums that list a step-by-step process, I run off towards my grandfather’s toolbox collecting dust in the garage.
The space was never used for cars, even when Nana owned the house. Instead, generations of junk collected here, consisting mainly of my grandfather’s tools and some odds and ends from the house. I grab the tools I need, run back up the stairs, and proceed to force my way into the safe. The old thing is pretty shitty in terms of protection, but I suppose whoever hid this box here didn’t actually expect anyone to find it. At least not in their lifetime.
Several failed attempts, bouts of frustrated groaning, and a smashed finger later, I finally crack the sucker open. Using my flashlight again, I find three brown leather-bound books inside. No money. No jewels. Nothing of value really—at least not monetary value.
I hadn’t been hoping for those things honestly, but I’m still surprised to find none, considering that’s what most people use safes for.
I reach in and grab the journals, reveling in the feel of the buttery soft leather under my fingertips. A smile breaks across my face as I trail my fingers over the inscription on the first book.
Genevieve Matilda Parsons.
My great-grandmother—Nana’s mother. The very woman in the picture concealing the safe, notorious for her red lipstick and bright smile. Nana always said she went by the name Gigi.
A quick look at the other two books reveals the same name. Her diaries? They have to be.
Dazed, I walk to my bedroom, close the door behind me and settle down on my bed, legs crossed. A leather cord is wrapped around each book, holding them closed. The outside world fades as I grab the first journal, carefully unwrap the cord, and open the book.
It is a diary. Every page has an entry written in a feminine script. And at the bottom of each page is my great-grandmother’s trademark lipstick kiss.
She died before I was born, but I grew up hearing countless stories about her. Nana said she inherited her wild personality and sharp tongue from her mother. I wonder if Nana ever knew about the diaries. If she’s ever read them.
If Genevieve Parsons is as wild as Nana said she was, then I imagine these diaries have all sorts of stories to show me. Smiling, I open the other two books and confirm the date on the first page of each book to ensure I’m starting from the beginning.
And then I stay up all night reading, growing more disturbed by each entry.
A thump from below wakes me out of a restless sleep. It feels like being ripped from a deep, persistent fog that lingers in the recess of my brain.
Blinking my eyes open, I stare at my closed door, focusing on the faint outline until my brain catches up with what I heard. My heart is well ahead of me, the muscle beating inside my chest rapidly while the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
A cloud of unease rolls in the pit of my stomach, and it’s not until several seconds later that I realize the sound I heard was the shutting of my front door.
Slowly, I sit up and slide out from under the covers. Adrenaline is coursing through my system now, and I’m wide awake.
Someone was just inside my house.
The sound could have been anything. It could have been the foundation settling. Or shit, even a couple of ghosts roughhousing. But just like when your gut is telling you something bad is going to happen—mine is telling me that someone was just in my fucking house.
Was it the person that pounded on my door? It has to be, right? It’s too much of a coincidence to have a stranger deliberately trek over a mile to the manor just to bang on the door and leave. And now they’re back.
If they ever left at all.
Shakily, I get up from my bed, a cold chill washing over me and puckering my skin into goosebumps. I shiver, nabbing my phone from the nightstand and pad lightly over to the door. Slowly, I open it, cringing at the loud creak that rings out.
I need the Tin Man to oil the hinges on my door just as much as I need the Lion’s bravery. I’m shaking like a leaf, but I refuse to cower and let someone walk around my house freely.
Flipping the switch on, the few working lights flicker, illuminating the hallway just enough for my mind to play tricks on me and conjure shadow people residing just beyond the light. And as I slowly make my way towards the staircase, I feel eyes from the pictures lining the walls watching me as I pass by.
Watching me make yet another stupid mistake. As if they’re saying stupid girl, you’re about to get murdered.
Watch your back.
They’re right behind you.
The last thought has me gasping and turning around, though I know no one is actually behind me. My stupid fucking brain is a little bit too imaginative.
A trait that works wonders for my career, but I don’t fucking appreciate it in this very moment.
Forging on at a quicker pace, I make my way down the stairs. Immediately, I turn on the lights, wincing from the brightness that burns my retinas.
Better than the alternative.
I would die on the spot if I was searching around with a single beam of light and found someone lurking in my house that way. One second no one is there, and the next second hello, there’s my murderer. No fucking thank you.
When I don’t find anyone in the living room or kitchen, I whip around and turn the knob on my front door. It’s still locked, which means that whoever left somehow managed to relock the door.
Or they never actually left.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I storm through the living room and into the kitchen, gunning straight for the knives.
But I catch a glimpse of something resting on the island out of my peripheral, freezing me in place. My eyes jump to the item, and a curse escapes my lips when I see a single red rose resting on the countertop.
I stare at the flower like it’s a live tarantula, staring straight back at me and daring me to come closer. If I do, it’ll surely eat me alive.
Letting out a shaky breath, I pluck the flower from the countertop and roll it in my fingers. The thorns have been severed from the stem, and I get the strange inclination that it was done purposely to save my fingers from being pricked.
But that notion is crazy. If someone is sneaking into my house at night and leaving me flowers, their intentions are the exact opposite of virtuous. They’re trying to scare me.
Curling my fist, I crush the flower in the palm of my hand and throw it in the trash, and then I resume my original mission. I rip open the drawer, the silverware clanking loudly in the silence, and then slam it shut after selecting the largest knife. I’m too pissed to be quiet and sneaky.
Whoever is hiding in here will hear me coming from a mile away, but I don’t care. I have no desire to hide.
I’m seething now.