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Somewhere in the deep dark area of my mind, I know I had traveled to a foreign country.
I can’t remember getting on a plane, but there’s that obscure memory of waking up in the back of a traveling vehicle and looking out the window at the unfamiliar landscape, knowing I wasn’t in the US anymore. It’s almost as if it were a dream than reality.
My attention is quickly drawn out of my deep thoughts as I focus on the screen of my laptop. It’s automatically switched to the security app, and I return to the counter to see what’s on alert.
I catch the screen showing me a dark image moving toward my bedroom door, and I’m alerted that there’s an open window inside the guest bedroom.
Panic surges within me as I realize there’s an intruder inside my home.
“Fuck,” I whisper, seeing two more dark images on the screen entering the hallway upstairs.
I stand frozen. The pale glow of the laptop screen casts an eerie light across the kitchen. My eyes remain fixed on the security camera feed, and a shiver runs down my spine. The dark figures, wearing all black with face masks, move with purpose, inching closer to my bedroom.
My heart races as a sheen of cold sweat forms on my forehead. The weight of fear presses heavily on my chest, knowing all too well that this might be the relentless stalkers who have haunted me foralmost a year. The security system I had installed as soon as I moved into this house only a few months ago was supposed to bring me a sense of safety, yet now it’s become a tool revealing the threat that lurks within my sanctuary.
The carefully constructed illusion of security crumbles as reality sets in — the danger is not just outside my door but inside my home.
They’ve been here before. I don’t know how, but my mind tells more than I can understand.
Summoning all my courage, I grab my cell and attempt to dial 911, my fingers trembling as I hold the device.
“Speak about me, and I will kill you.”
His voice is loud and clear in my mind, except I don’t know who it belongs to. All I know is that my life is over if I utter a word to anyone.
Feeling a chilling mixture of terror and desperation, I realize that the panic room might currently be my only safe option right now.
Quietly slipping away from the kitchen, I find refuge in the kitchen pantry. The hidden door opens soundlessly, and I step into the small, dimly lit panic room. But a new wave of anxiety washes over me as I closed and bolt the door shut.
I have no cell phone reception. My lifeline to the outside world is severed, and I’m left alone with my fear and the surveillance feed from the small wall screen connected to the camera facing outside the hidden door in the pantry.
The minutes drag on like an eternity, each second punctuated by the sound of my own racing heartbeat. My hand once more caresses the scar on my chest, reminding me to take my anxiety down a notch.
Suddenly, the screen alerts me to the presence of someone in the pantry. I watch the three intruders approach the panic room, relief washing over me as the door resists their attempts to break in. Their faces remain hidden behind their dark masks and deep hoods.
Click.
No. No. No.
They couldn’t. They’re not supposed to.
“Get her out,” The deep, muffled voice says. He’s wearing a device like he did before.
I’ve been in this predicament before; I recognize the suppressed voice.
How?
How do I know this?
What happened to the five days I can’t recall?
The two men drag me out of the pantry and hold me tight to face the third one.
“Do you know who I am?”
I shake my head.
“Please,” I beg.
