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That’s not a normal knock.
Slowly, so as not to alert the person I’m here, I peel back the curtain the smallest bit to peek out to the front porch.
I have to crane my neck, but I can just barely make out the back and shoulders of a man pressing into the front door.
Instantly, I fall back, slapping a hand over my mouth to silence my squeak.
“Let me in . . .please . . .”
My heart drops to my stomach as the sick, almost childlike voice sounds through the door.
I don’t know who the hell that is.
“Hannah . . .” He whimpers my name like a prayer and it feels like the weight of the world comes crashing down on top of my chest.
How the hell does he know my name?
Three more taps sound, followed by silence. I back up until I run into the wall, like if I press my body into the plaster hard enough, I’ll slip inside and out of sight.
The silent ringing in the air is louder than anything I’ve ever heard before.
That is . . . until those taps start from my bedroom window.
I bolt for the room, just as the man tries to tug the window open and fall back, watching the shadow through the thin white curtain as if there’s a spotlight on me.
Diving for my phone on the bed, I start to dial the cops, but what the hell are they going to do? Show up in an hour after the man has either murdered me or wandered off and tell me to lock my doors?
I know how our justice system works and there’s no charge for knocking on someone’s house.
So, I do one better and dial the only person I know that’s scarier than anything knocking on the window at two in the morning.
“Hannah.” Mason’s voice is gruff and full of sleep, but he answers on the second ring. Under different circumstances, it would make my stomach do a little backflip,especiallyafter Friday night. But right now, in the face of whatever psychopath is outside my window, I don’t have room for much else but fear.
“Mason,” I whisper, working to keep my voice low, even though it shakes when the man pounds his fist against the window pane.
One.
Two.
Three.
What’s stopping him from breaking the glass? From getting in if that’s what he really wants?
“What the fuck was that?” There’s rustling on the other end of the line and I imagine him slipping out of bed.
“Someone’s trying to break in.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice choked as fear slips through my veins like ice. “He knows my name.”
The shadow steps away, a hand remaining and I watch that hand as it slowly, deafeningly slips across the window until it too disappears. I
“Hannah . . .” the man cries, banging the glass of the small bathroom window next.
“Grab a knife from the kitchen and get to the bathroom. Lock the door. Don’t come out until I call for you, okay?”
The rush of thoughts spiraling through my head drown out the sound of his voice. Like what if he gets in? Is he connected tounknown? Missy? What if they sent him?
