by Adam Kunz
“Okay,” I mutter and then unfold the paper one section at a time. My palms are sweating, making the paper damp in my hands. Scanning the white page, I notice some printed computer text right in the center of it. As I begin to read it in my head, my eyes widen with dismay. Another low grumble from my dad takes me away from the note.
“Aloud, please,” he orders.
I take a moment to myself before I read the sentence. Licking my lips, I prepare to face the questions I’m sure to receive after reading this out loud.
“Your daughter is not as innocent as she appears to be, Sheriff.”
I raise my eyes to him and am smacked down by the parental glare. If his tongue was a blade, it would be poking through his cheek right about now. To be honest, even though I know I’m going to die because of this, I’m glad it’s not about the video. Just sayin’.
I try to say something, but I’m stopped short by my father pushing the plastic bag closer to me. “Can you please enlighten me as to why Deputy Samson here received this little item and that note in the wee hours of the morning?”
“I have no ide—”
“Don’t lie to me, Dani. You’ve been doing that plenty lately. That’s your earring in the bag, is it not?” he interrupts me with his thunderous voice.
“Maybe. I don’t know. They were both on my nightstand last night.”
I stop as I become flustered. First, I was toyed with this morning by a video, and now I’m getting grilled by my dad. What a perfect day this has turned out to be. Then a very scary thought suddenly hits me.
This person was in my room. That’s the only way they could’ve taken the earring.
“I want you to be straight with me, Dani. Do you have any idea why someone would send these items to the station?”
I take in a deep breath, feeling overwhelmed. My hands tremble at my sides and a slew of thoughts run through my head. I try to come up with an explanation, but I keep coming back to the unknown person.
“I’ve been getting weird texts from an unknown number ever since the party. I don’t know who this person is, or why they’re doing this, Dad. They probably sent these things,” I blurt out.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” he asks. I can feel the anger in his voice like a flame beside my face. “Let me see your phone.”
I dig into my pocket and remove my cell. Staring at it for a second, I try to remember if there are any incriminating texts from the unknown person, or if they’re all just cryptic.
“The phone,” my dad orders with his hand extended.
I hand it over and my stomach sinks because I can’t remember all the texts that were sent. A lump forms in my throat and my mouth feels like it’s full of sand. I begin to nibble at my fingernails and hear my mom’s voice in my head telling me to stop. She loathes the fact that I chew my nails when I get nervous or stressed, and never passes up an opportunity to remind me of that.
I study my dad’s facial expression as he peruses my phone. It hasn’t changed since the moment he began. The frustrated sigh as he hands it back to me isn’t a good sign.
“Well?” I ask, when he doesn’t say anything.
“There are no messages from an unknown number on your phone, Dani,” he replies, slouching back into the chair. It takes me a moment to fully comprehend what he just said.
“What? That’s impossible,” I reply and immediately start scrolling through my phone’s menu for the message tab. Pressing on it, it reveals he’s right. “This can’t be. Dad, I swear there were messages on here from an unknown number. What teenager would lie about having text messages on their phone? Texting is our life.”
“Dammit, Dani. Can you please be serious and quit lying to me?”
“I’m not lying! Stop saying that,” I say, and realize that probably wasn’t the best tone to respond with.
His jaw clenches tight, and I’m pretty sure there’s smoke pouring from his ears and nose, like one of those bulls in a Looney Tunes cartoon.
“Dad, you know me. I wouldn’t lie about something like this. I swear there were messages on this phone from someone trying to mess with me. Please believe me,” I beg, but it seems like it’s fallen on deaf ears.
“You know, I thought I was disappointed in you before, but this is a new low, Dani.”
He won’t even look at me, and my heart cracks in two. Then anger fills me like a roaring fire on the inside, and I just glare at him. I know I get my stubbornness from him, but words can’t even describe how pissed I am right now.
“You may return to class,” he says.
I don’t say a word. I just let out an irritated breath, grab my things, and shove back the chair in a fit of frustration. Deputy Samson tries to stand in my way with a stupid smirk on his face. Damn, I just want to punch him right in the jaw.
“Out of the way, ass.”
“Dani!” I hear my dad chastise from behind me.
Deputy Samson steps to the side with that stupid smirk still present and accounted for as I push toward the door, wrench it open, and then slam it behind me.
Chapter Thirteen
My break at work couldn’t have come quick enough. I’ve spent the entire day at school—and so far, at work—in a daze, going over everything that’s happened. My mind is cluttered to the point of driving me insane. I even had to turn off my phone because I was afraid of getting a mocking text from that unknown bastard. I mean, how was this person able to make that video pop up on several screens in the computer lab, and then erase all evidence of the video and the texts? Not to mention the fact the person got a hold of one of my earrings. What did I do to deserve all of this?
I turn on the computer in the back office to do a Google search for “How to erase text messages on someone else’s phone,” and it comes back with a ton of results. Most of them say it’s not possible, but I know that it is since it happened to me. Then I find articles about phone apps with these capabilities. That must be how the person is doing it—an effing app. There’s one called Text Destruct, and it allows the sender to set a timer on the message before it destroys it. Great. Looks like I’ll never be able to prove this unknown person is sending me texts. Advancements in technology are great and all, but this shit’s ridiculous.
Feeling defeated, I resort to checking my email. I’m expecting some Friday issue corrections from Mr. Whitman. His email is at the top of the list, but right under it is one from a nameless sender. Thinking it’s one of the hundreds of emails I get about free cruises and winning the lottery, I flag it as spam and press delete. The moment I delete it and go to click on Mr. Whitman’s email, another message from a nameless sender appears right above it. This time, there’s a subject. It simply says:
Turn on your phone.
I stop in confusion and study the title. Clicking on the email, it appears on the screen. All that’s written is:
You can’t get rid of me that easily.
I want to yell, “Screw you” at the computer, but my boss would probably hear me and think I’m crazy…er. I fight with myself about whether to turn on my phone. Do I really want to give this creep the satisfaction of doing what they want?
Another ping on the computer screen draws my attention. There’s another email just above the one before with the subject:
I’m waiting…
How does this fucker know my phone’s still off? I’m getting really tired of this.
Once more, a ping sounds from the computer, bringing along with it yet another email. I almost don’t even want to look at it, but I can’t resist taking a quick peek. I’m unable to read the subject by glancing at it, so I give it my full attention:
This is far from over...turn on your phone!
I sense from the exclamation point that the person is getting frustrated. Good! It’s about damn time they’re frustrated rather than me. Ignoring the emails from the unknown sender, I click on the one from Mr. Whitman. As I’m reading, I can’t help but be drawn to the slew of new emails that keep popping up behi
nd the current window I have open. Unknown is filling my inbox with message after message, all saying to turn on my phone. The constant pinging is driving me nuts, so I mute the sound on the computer.
Trying to fight against reading any more emails, I return to Mr. Whitman’s. I can’t believe it. Instead of attaching the pictures of the mock-up cover, he decided to take them with his new camera phone and send them to mine. Seriously? That means I have to turn on my phone.
Retrieving the phone from my pocket, I proceed to turn it on, knowing full well this is a terrible idea. My heartbeat quickens when I hear the chime of the start-up tune as it comes to life, and fear what else I’ll find other than a picture message from Mr. Whitman. Slowly typing in my password, I cringe when I press enter and the home screen pops up. I feel kind of stupid when I avert my eyes, like something is going to jump out of my phone at me, but I’m just so effin’ worried about what Unknown has sent.
My phone seems to be normal. There are only three messages appearing in the top menu bar. One is from Mr. Whitman, one is from Rory, and one is from Parker. I wonder why Unknown was so persistent about me turning on my phone.
I press on Rory’s message first and it’s the usual, “How are you?” and “What’s going on?” text. Parker’s message is a little more interesting, asking if we can chat somewhere tonight in private. In private? Well, the last time we were in private…
Shaking the thought out of my head, I continue on to Mr. Whitman’s picture message.
While I’m perusing the proof images he sent over, my phone signals when another message comes through. I bet it’s from Unknown.
Closing out of Mr. Whitman’s text after saving the pictures, I open the one from Unknown.
Do as I say or your little video goes viral…
“Son of a bitch,” I curse to myself. That video can’t get out. I know this person isn’t bluffing because of what they did in the computer lab. Against my better judgment, I reply:
What do I have to do?
There’s a little lull between texts, but then another message comes through:
To Kill a Mockingbird…find it.
“To Kill a Mockingbird? What, like the book?”
I rise from the chair and head out of the back office toward the front of the store.
“Done with break already?” Joan asks from behind the counter as I pass her.
“Not quite,” I reply, heading into the stacks to locate Harper Lee in the classics section.
Scanning the bookshelves, I finally come upon Lee and pluck one of the five copies we have of To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelf. I’ve read this book a million times, but now I’m scared to even crack it open, fearing what will be within its pages. As I begin to flip through the book, I find nothing. No writing, no pictures, no notes…nothing.
I reach out for the copy next to the one I took in hopes this will be the one, but as I grab for it, I notice the fourth copy over has a small X etched on its spine. Pulling it out, I feel there’s something within the pages and can see the book bulging at the center. I turn to the middle of the book and find a folded piece of college-ruled notebook paper stuck there. The message on the paper reads:
Remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird…and oops, you just did. Well, not directly…
Is Janice the mockingbird? Is Janice dead? I really don’t think I can handle this right now. This isn’t funny or even remotely entertaining, and for the record, it never has been. There’s still more to the message:
Death of a Salesman…find it!
I really don’t want to play anymore, but I can’t risk that video getting out. I’m at the beck and call of this sick freak, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Okay, so Arthur Miller wrote Death of a Salesman, and technically it should still be in the classics, since it is one. I look through the shelves again, perusing for Miller.
“It should be right here near Lee,” I tell myself when I can’t find it right away. “Miller, found it.”
I look for the copy with the X on it because there are three. Taking the marked one, I flip it open to the middle of the book and find another folded piece of paper. The message reads:
You’re liked, but you’re not well liked.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I ask in a severe whisper, feeling confused and uneasy at the same time. This person is really testing my patience. There’s more:
The Masque of the Red Death…find it!
That’s one of my all-time favorite Edgar Allan Poe stories. I wonder if this person knows that. I wonder how well this person knows me in general. I mean, the person knows my schedule, where I work, has access to my school, my house. The more I think about it, the more fearful and vulnerable I feel. Clearly this person has done something to Janice, and now I’m officially the next target.
“How is this all going to end?” I ask myself before tracking down Poe in the stacks.
I know the aisle that Poe is in very well, and it takes me no time at all to find the book. I’ve spent many slow days here, perusing Poe’s works over and over again until I committed most of them to memory.
There are only two copies of the book—one is the standalone print copy, and the other is a part of the giant book of Poe. I don’t see an X on either one. Picking up the print copy, I don’t feel anything inside of it. There’s no bulge, and nothing falls out when I shake the book open with its pages facing downward.
I place that copy back on the shelf and pluck out the big book of Poe. I already know what page number The Masque of the Red Death starts on, so I immediately turn to it. There’s nothing there either. Then something dawns on me and I hurry out to where I last saw my boss.
“Joan, didn’t we have two paperback copies of Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death?” I ask, seeing her helping a customer at the checkout counter.
“Yeah, I just sold it to this gentleman here,” she replies, holding up the book for me to see.
I go into panic mode and try to think of some excuse to get that book back. A stroke of genius hits me like a lightning bolt as I rush over to the counter.
“Hey, let me see that copy real quick,” I say, extending my hand out for it.
“Why?” Joan asks, confused.
“Yeah, why?” the customer chimes in, also reaching for the book. “Come on, I’ve got to get going. I need to have this read before class tomorrow.”
I see Joan about to hand it over to the guy, and I pipe up. “Wait—is there an X on the spine of that book?”
Joan looks at the spine. “Yeah, there is.”
“That’s the defective copy. I marked it myself after reading some of it. It’s got some weird printing issues, and I just forgot to pull it from the shelf,” I lie, but I have to get that book.
“That’s okay. I just need to read it for class,” the guy insists.
Thankfully, Joan hesitates and then replies, “Dani will you please grab the other copy for this gentleman so that he can be on his way? We don’t sell defective copies in this store.”
“Got it. I’ll take that copy and do the return paperwork if you want, Joan,” I offer.
“Good idea,” she says, giving me the book.
I breathe an internal sigh of relief once I have the book in my hands. I seriously have to fight every temptation to not just rip it open and find the next message right then and there.
Hurrying back into the stacks to retrieve the other copy for the customer, I find myself succumbing to my want to see what’s inside. The bulge feels a little different in this one, and I’m surprised that neither the guy who was buying it nor Joan felt this and thought it was odd.
Opening the book to the middle, I don’t find a piece of paper. Instead I find my other skull-and-crossbones earring taped to the page. I want to scream, but find that no sound comes out. These earrings were on my dresser last night. I know they were because I took them off and put them there myself. This person has been in my room—probably while I was sleeping. Why didn’t
the person just kill me then, or kidnap me? Why is Unknown toying with me?
My phone pings, signaling that a message has come through. Waking up the phone, I see it’s from Unknown.
Scary stuff, huh? Just imagine what I could’ve done…
There’s a picture attached to the message. I open it and gasp when I see it’s a photo of me sleeping. I drop my phone and crouch down in the aisle, not knowing what to do next. Tears fill my eyes as I think about the fact that this person watched me sleep. Unknown has invaded my personal space.
Alone doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling right now. The worst part is that no one will believe this is even happening, since Unknown will probably erase all the evidence.
I hear my boss call out to me from the front counter. “Uh, Dani, he’s waiting.”
Regaining my composure, I grab the phone and stand up. Wiping my eyes, I say, “I’m coming, Joan.” Quickly checking my messages from Unknown again, I see they’re all gone… just as I suspected they would be.
Chapter Fourteen
When I get home, I grab a kitchen knife from the wooden block on the counter and proceed to lock every door and every window, then check under every bed and in every closet. I would’ve grabbed the gun my dad keeps in the house, but he seems to have put it in a new hiding place.
I hate the fact that I beat my dad home and he’s not here for an extra level of protection. I make sure not to overlook any access point or hiding place during my search. It takes me about twenty minutes to secure the majority of the house. The only thing left then is to take care of my bedroom.
Every possible horror movie scenario enters my mind as I approach the bedroom door. I feel my heartbeat pulsing throughout my entire body and hear it hammering in my ears. I’m pretty sure it’s beating so loud that if there is someone in the house, he or she has already heard me coming.
The door to my room is slightly ajar. I push it the rest of the way with my foot, holding the knife in the “ready to stab” position. The creak of the door makes me even more uneasy as I slowly creep into the room. I see the closet door is shut, and my window looks closed from where I’m standing. Never letting down my guard, I head over to the window to check and see if it’s actually shut and locked. I’m surprised to find it is.
