I lost him. My dad. The words still felt like grit in my mouth, sandpaper on my soul. A gaping, raw wound that refused to close. One day he was there, laughing his booming laugh, filling every room, and the next… just an echo. I couldn’t breathe in my own apartment, every corner screamed his absence. So, I ran. To his beach house. The one place I always felt safe, enveloped by the smell of salt and old books, a place where his memory felt more like a gentle whisper than a mournful shout. The drive was a blur of tears and highway miles. When I finally pulled into the gravel driveway, the familiar scent of the sea hit me first. A small comfort. I hadn’t even unlocked the door when a figure emerged from the neighboring house, a lean man with startling blue eyes and a too-wide smile. “You must be… you,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m the neighbor. So sorry about your loss.” I mumbled my thanks, trying to be polite, to keep my composure. He just kept talking. About dad, about the garden, about how I used to visit as a kid. Harmless enough, at first. But then it got… weird.
“I remember your dad always made sure to stock up on lactose-free milk for you,” he chuckled. “And those lavender plants? You just adore them, don’t you? He’d put them out on the porch specifically for your visits.” He gestured to the overflowing lavender bushes near the steps.
How did he know about the milk? The lavender? These were small, intimate details. My dad was particular, yes, but he wasn’t broadcasting my dietary needs or floral preferences to the neighborhood. A strange coincidence, maybe. Just a thoughtful neighbor remembering things. I tried to brush off the prickle of unease that crawled up my spine. He even offered to bring over some homemade pasta, mentioning, “I know you don’t eat red meat, so I made a vegetarian sauce.”
My stomach clenched. I forced a smile, thanked him, and finally escaped into the empty house. The quiet was deafening. I spent the evening trying to drown my sorrow in old photos, but his words kept replaying. Too much information. Too specific. A cold dread started to settle in my chest, heavy and insistent.
I didn’t stay long at the beach house. The quiet felt less comforting, more suffocating, each creak of the floorboards a judgment. I needed to be back in my own space, however painful it was. I packed up and drove home, the strange encounter fading into the background of my overwhelming grief.
The next morning, I woke up feeling a fraction less numb. The sunlight streamed through my window, promising a new day. I stretched, reaching for my phone on the bedside table. That’s when I saw it. Tucked neatly beside my charging phone. A small, wooden toy. A little hand-carved bird, chipped and worn. My bird. The one my dad had carved for me when I was five, the one I thought I’d lost years ago. I kept it in a locked box in my childhood room at my parents’ house, hundreds of miles away.
My breath caught in my throat. My eyes darted around my bedroom. The window, usually locked, was ajar. A faint scent of aftershave, not mine, hung in the air.
HE BROKE IN.
The realization slammed into me, a physical blow. Someone had been in my house. While I was sleeping. They had been in my bedroom. And they had left this as a calling card. Not just anyone. The neighbor. Nick. He knew I’d been at the beach house. He knew my specific love for this specific, forgotten toy.
My blood ran cold. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. ALL CAPS panic flared through my mind. GET OUT. NOW.
I didn’t bother changing. Grabbed my keys, my wallet, phone. Shoved them into the first bag I found. The front door. Had he locked it behind him? Was he still here? Every shadow seemed to lengthen, every mundane object in my home felt sinister. I pulled the door open, practically falling out onto the porch, gasping for air.
I fumbled with my car keys, hands shaking so violently I dropped them. Scrambled to pick them up, glancing wildly around. The street was empty. Too empty. I ripped open the car door, threw my bag in, and dove into the driver’s seat. The engine sputtered to life on the third try, a roar in the unnatural silence. I sped away, not looking back. Just driving. Anywhere. Away.
I was three blocks away, turning onto a tree-lined street, when I heard it. A rustle in the bushes bordering the sidewalk. Then footsteps. Fast. Getting faster. My rearview mirror showed nothing, just the empty road. But the sound was undeniable. A frantic, rhythmic thudding. They were gaining.
My stomach dropped to my feet. I floored it, but the street was narrow, residential. Another rustle. Closer this time. And then, a silhouette darted from behind a thick oak tree, moving with a terrifying speed that defied logic. HIM. It was HIM. Nick. His blue eyes, wide and intense, catching the morning light.
He was right behind me. On foot. He knew I was going to run. He must have been waiting.
I screamed. A raw, guttural sound that tore from my throat. My foot slipped off the pedal, and the car swerved. The world tilted, a sickening lurch of metal and glass.
Suddenly, my door was ripped open. A hand clamped over my mouth, stifling my cries. I struggled, kicking, biting, but he was too strong. He dragged me from the car, pinning me against the door, his breath hot against my ear.
“QUIET!” he hissed, his voice rough, urgent. “Didn’t your dad ever tell you that I’m your real father?”
