Haunting Adeline (Book 1)

Chapter 1 (part 2)

~The Manipulator~

I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the season calls for it. This time, I'll plant strawberries, lettuce, and herbs as well.

I'm deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from above. Curtains flutter in the lone window at the very top of the house. The attic.

Last time I checked, there's no central air up there. Nothing should be able to move those curtains, but yet I don't doubt what I saw.

Coupled with the looming storm in the background, Parsons Manor looks like a scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, unable to stop the smile from forming on my face. I love that.

I can't explain why, but I do. f**k what my mother says. I'm living here. I'm a successful writer and have the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide to live in a place that means a lot to me? That doesn't make me a lowlife for staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book tours and conferences; settling down in a house won't change that. I know what the f**k I want, and I don't give a s**t what anyone else thinks about it.

Especially mommy dearest. The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab my

purse and step out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh rain.

It turns from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour in a matter of seconds. I bolt up the front porch steps, flinging drops of water off my arms and shaking my body out like a wet dog.

I love storms—I just don't like to be in them. I'd prefer to cuddle up under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book while listening to the rain fall.

I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it's stuck, refusing to give me even a millimeter. I jimmy the key, wrestling with it until the mechanism finally turns and I'm able to unlock the door.

Guess I'm gonna have to fix that soon, too.

A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from the mixture of freezing rain still wet on my skin and the cold, stale air.

The interior of the house is cast in shadows. Dim light shines through the windows, gradually fading as the sun disappears behind gray storm clouds.

I feel as if I should start my story with "it was a dark stormy night..." I look up and smile when I see the black ribbed ceiling, made up of hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand chandelier is hanging over my head, golden steel warped in an intricate design with crystals dangling from the tips. It's always been Nana's most prized possession.

The black and white checkered floors lead directly to the black

grand staircase-large enough to fit a piano through sideways-and flow off into the living room. My boots squeak against the tiles as I venture further inside.

This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the

monstrosity of the home could swallow you whole. The

living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and look around, nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dust coats every surface, and the smell of mothballs is overpowering, but it looks exactly how I last saw it, right before Nana died last year.

A large black stone fireplace is in the center of the living room on the far left wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An ornate wooden coffee table sits in the middle, an empty vase atop the dark wood. Nana used to fill it with lilies, but now it only collects dust and bug carcasses.

The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy golden curtains.

One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of the house, providing a beautiful view of the forest beyond Parsons Manor. Placed right in front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a matching stool. Nana used to sit there and watch the rain, and she said her mother would always do the same.

The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black stained cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island sits in the middle with black barstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.

Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the

rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called to get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house.

Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another shiver to wrack my body.

Sixty-two goddamn degrees. I press my thumb into the up arrow and don't stop until the

temperature is set to seventy-four. I don't mind cooler temperatures, but I'd prefer it if my n*****s didn't cut through all of my clothing.

I turn back around and face a home that's both old and new-a home that's housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while. And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor.

It's how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through the generations. Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite that, she still had old people's taste.

I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That's not cute. That's ugly.

I sigh.

"Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted," I whisper to the dead air.

~~

"Are you ready?" My personal assistant asks from beside me. I glance over at Marietta, noting how she's absently holding out the mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into the small building. This local bookstore wasn't built for a large number of people, but somehow, they're making it work anyway.

Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging in a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently counting in my head. I lose count after thirty.

"Yep," I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone's attention, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me, creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. It makes my skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power through it.

"Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you all for coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I'm incredibly excited to meet you all. Everyone ready?!" I ask, forcing excitement into my tone.

It's not that I'm not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward during book signings. I'm not a natural when it comes to social interactions. I'm the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen smile after being asked a question while my brain processes the fact that I didn't even hear the question. It's usually because my heart is thumping too loud in my ears.

I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She's witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it's one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah.

Come back, Marietta. It's so much more fun when I'm not the only one getting embarassed.

The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face.

"Oh my god, it's so awesome to meet you!" she exclaims, nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.

I smile wide and gently take the book.

"It's awesome to meet you, too," I return. "And hey, Team Freckles," I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting over her cheeks. "What's your name?" I rush out, before we get stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions.

Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.

"Megan," she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much represents the entirely of my existence.

I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.

As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face. Someone is staring at me. But that's a f*****g stupid thought because everyone is staring at me.

I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but the feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing beneath the surface of my skin while the torch is being held to my flesh. It's... it's unlike anything I've felt before. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel apples of my cheeks heating to a bright red.

Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source of my discomfort without making it obvious.

My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A man. The crowd shrouds the majority of his body, only bits of his face peeking through the gaps between people's heads. But what I do see has my hand stilling, mid-write.

His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into a well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it's nearly white, reminding me of a husky's eyes. A scar slashes straight down through the discolored eye, as if it didn't already demand attention.

When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same spot, creating a big black ink dot.

"Sorry," I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and snag a bookmark, sign that too, and tuck it in the book as an apology.

The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten, and scurries off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he's gone.

~~~~~

"Addie, you need to get laid."

In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my blueberry martini as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best friend, eyes me, entirely unimpressed and impatient based on the quirk of her brow.

I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.

I don't say this out loud because I can bet my left ass cheek that her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger d**k instead.

When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and rips the plastic from my lips. I've reached the bottom of the glass a solid fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through the straw. It's the most action my mouth had gotten in a year now.

"Whoa, personal space," I mumble, setting the glass down. I avoid Daya's eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I can order another martini. The faster I have the straw in my mouth again, the sooner I can avoid this conversation some more.

"Don't deflect, b***h. You suck at it."

Our eyes meet, a beat passes, and we both burst into laughter.

"I suck at getting laid, too, apparently," I say after our laughing calms.

Daya gives me a droll look. "You've had plenty of opportunities. You just don't take them. You're a hot twenty-six-year-old women with freckles, a great pair of t**s, and an ass to die for. The men are out here waiting.

I shrug, deflecting again. Daya isn't exactly wrong--at least about having options. I'm just not interested in any of them. They all bore me. All I get is what are you wearing and wanna come over, winky face at one o'clock in the morning. I'm wearing the same sweatpants I've been wearing the past week, there's a mysterious stain on my crotch, and no, I don't want to f*****g come over.

She flips out an expectant hand. "Give me your phone."

My eyes widen. "f**k, no."

"Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. f*****g. Phone."

"Or what?" I taunt.

"Or I will throw myself across the table, embarrass the absolute s**t out of you, and get my way anyways."

My eyes finally catch on our waitress and I flag her down. Desperately. She rushes over, probably thinking I found a hair in my food, when really my best friend just had one up her ass right now.

I procrastinate a little bit longer, asking the waitress what drink she prefers. I'd look through the drink menu a second time if it weren't rude to keep her waiting when she has other tables. So alas, I pick a strawberry martini in favor of the green apple, and the waitress rushes of again.

Sigh.

I hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya's still outstretched hand extra firm because I hate her. She smiles triumphantly and starts typing away, the mischievous glimmer in her eyes growing brighter. Her thumbs go into turbo speed, causing the golden rings wrapped around them to nearly blur.

Her sage green eyes are alluminated with a type of evilness you would find in Satan's Bible. If I did a little digging, I'm sure I'd find her picture somewhere in there, too. A bombshell with dark brown skin, pin-straight black hair, and a gold hoop in her nose.

She's probably an evil succubus or something.

"Who are you texting?" I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a child. I refrain,, but come close to allowing a little of my social anxiety to air out and do something crazy like throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the restaurant. It probably doesn't help that I'm on my third martini and feeling a tad adventurous right now.

She glances up, locks my phone, and hands it back a few seconds later. Immediately, I unlock it again once more when I see she texted Greyson. Not texted. Sexted.

"Come over tonight and lick my p***y. I've been craving your huge c**k," I read aloud dryly. That's not even at all of it. The rest goes into how horny I am and touch myself every night to the thought of him.

I growl and give her the filthiest look I can manage. My face would make a dumpster look like Mr. Clean's house.

"I wouldn't even say that!" I complain. "That doesn't even sound like me, you bitch."

Daya crackles, the teeny little gap between her front teeth on full display.

I really do hate her.

My phone pings. Daya us nearly bouncing in her seat while I'm contemplating googling 1000 Ways to Die's contact information so I can send them a new story.

"Read it," she demands, her grabby hands already reaching for my phone so she can see what he said. I jerk it out of her reach and pull up the message.

GREYSON: About time u came to your senses, baby. Be over at 8.

"I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I really f*****g hate you," I grumble, giving her another scowl.

She smiles and slurps on her drink. "I love you too, baby girl."

~~~~