6. Will and the window

SIX

"Where did you get those from?"

Will is back in my bedroom with me, scowling at me from across my bed. He's got a look of annoyance on his face as he glares at all of the roses I've laid out on my bed.

There are six. Anytime I found one—either on my dresser, by my door, even in my car—I scooped it up and tossed it into my pajama drawer with everything else I've been trying to hide.

But after that second note, making it clear to me that the Watcher is really my stalker, I can't pretend any longer that the flowers and the strange messages meant for me aren't connected.

As soon as I dashed back into the house, Will was waiting for me. Of course he was. It was a replay of a scene we've had together too many times. Anytime I got bored with the apartment and he allowed me to change it up, I had to listen to him complain that the TV looked better over there or the paint wasn't even enough or why did I waste his money on a shelf like that…

So, yeah. My dead husband just had to pick apart my paint job from this afternoon. Then, when I purposely ignored him, heading to the kitchen to find something to eat to steady both my blood sugar and my nerves, he stood by the refrigerator, telling me that I could've found something healthier to snack on than a granola bar.

The ghost of my husband was quiet after I finished and went upstairs, searching for the other flowers, but one I had them laid out on my comforter, he started up again.

And I'm fucking sick of it.

Barely glancing over at him, I snap, "Aren't you done with nagging me for the night?"

"Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm fucking dead. Wormfood, right? I don't have anything better to do than visit my bride."

I huff. "I never should've married you."

"What's wrong, Simone? Would you have rather stuck it out with your ex? Married him insead?"

"Maybe," I lie.

Will calls my bluff. "Please. I thought he scared the shit out of you."

My high school sweetheart was a nice guy. A good guy. I don't think I realized how good I had it until I broke things off with him to go to college, then fell into Will's orbit.

"He didn't scare me," I tell him. "The commitment scared me. I was a kid. I wanted to see the world?—"

"And didn't you? I took you to Italy for our honeymoon. Hawaii for our first anniversary. You can't tell me I didn't show you the damn world, you ungrateful bitch."

Ah, there it is. Will's sweetheart one moment, and his ungrateful bitch the next. And he wonders why I secretly wished him dead these last few years.

I ignore him. When he was alive, Will hated that. He rarely got physical with me—if only because he knew he could wound just as hard with words, and the didn't leave bruises that I had to lie to well-meaning bystanders about—but when he did, he blamed it on losing his temper whenever I didn't rise to his bait.

And, yes, I know I'm just ignoring myself right now… but that's fine. Besides, it's not like the ghost of my dead husband can really expect me to answer him, not about the trips he took me on to buy my happiness, or why I was attached to a couple of wilting roses before I even knew who was leaving them.

How can I when I don't know the answer?

Will's quiet for a few moments. I know it won't last; it never did when I ignored him when he was still alive. He'll either explode or grab me, shaking me, doing everything to get me to look at him. But he can't. He's dead. Not even a real ghost who might be able to poltergeist me or something, he's a simple figment of my imagination who can't hurt me anymore than I can hurt myself.

He's quiet, and that's not like the dead husband I keep imagining, and I see why when I finally dare to lift my head up again.

The room is empty. He simply disappeared.

"Will?"

No answer.

Am I getting better? Doing better?

Have I finally figured out a way to stop him from haunting me?

I hope so. I desperately want to move on. Will's dead. I can't change that. I'm not sure I would if I could. He got his revenge, right? The vision of his ghost has tormented me for months now… have I finally broken free of him?

I really fucking hope so.

"Will? You here?"

Nothing.

Yes…

I was sitting on my bed. Now that he's gone if only for the moment—please don't let it be for just the moment—I slowly rise up, walking to the other side of the room where he'd been before. Knowing it's silly but unable to stop myself, I run my hand through the space, rolling my eyes when it's obvious there's nothing there.

Okay. I think I've really lost it this time. I don't know if I ever had it, but I've certainly fucking lost it.

He's dead. Dead, dead, dead.

Get it through your skill, Simone.

Besides, there are real-life monsters still out there. People who can hurt you. People who don't go away because you ignore them for a while… people who might be watching you right now?—

With a sigh, I turn, ready to go back to the flowers. For some reason, they comfort me, even if they shouldn't. Because they're pink? Because they're a sign of softness to a mysterious man whose first gift to me was covered in blood?

Your guess is as good as mine, but I haven't been able to throw any of them away yet…

Just as I turn, something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. At first, I can't say what it is. It's out the window. I thought… I thought I saw something.

I move to stand in front of it. I wasn't wrong. There's a shadowy figure standing on the edge of the street, closer to my house. His head is angled up, as though he was searching for me, willing me to come to the window.

Is it… is it Will?

I see him everywhere. Is he taunting me from outside of the house? I can't tell. The figures is dark silhouette standing out against the night, barely touched by any of the streetlights. He couldn't have picked a more perfect spot.

I need a better a look.

What the…

I press my forehead and my nose to the glass. That doesn't really help, but I can say one thing for sure: that's not Will.

I don't even know how I saw him. Dressed all in black, with something cover his face, the only thing I can see is a sliver of pale that might be… his eyes, maybe… and something lighter, clutched in his fingers.

My breath catches in my throat as he raises it up.

My hands are against the glass now. I'm paralyzed, unable to look away.

His arm moves. I think he's pulled something out of his pocket, but I can't tell what. He does it again, and now he has three things in his hands.

What are they?

I watch. I watch him watch me, the two of us in a stalemate until he takes a few steps toward my house. Shivers course down my spine as I realize what he's doing: he's heading right for my front door.

That gives me the strength I need to move away from the window. Shifting quickly, my back against the wall, I clutch the plaster with frantic fingers and I wait breathlessly for some sign that he's out there.

A knock. Why the fuck do I expect him to knock? I'm pretty sure it's too late for some kind of door-to-door salesman, and I never get deliveries once it's this dark out. Who is he? What does he want?

What was he holding?

There's no knock. No sign that he came to my house at all, and when I get the nerve to look out the window again, he's vanished as quickly as Will does.

But that wasn't Will.

Part of me wants to hop in my bed, send the flowers flying, yank the comforter over my head, and hide from whoever was out there. But the other part… the part that used to be scared, but absolutely refuses to be anymore… she tiptoes down the stairs, moves through the freshly painted living room, curses under her breath when she sees she forgot to close the window… and then, knowing she shouldn't but doing so anyway, she pulls open the front door.

I think I would've passed out on the spot if the faceless figure would've been standing on my porch. He isn't, but there is something there.

And now I know what he was holding—and what he must've pulled out of his pocket.

Because there, on my porch, is another rose with its stem wrapped in paper.

I snatch it, bringing it inside where the light is better. Then, because I know better what to expect this time, I hurriedly unravel the paper—and when I read it, my hand flexes and both the rose and the note flutter free from my grip.

That's okay. I don't think I'll forget what it says anytime soon…

At first,I was terrified.

I'll admit it. The Watcher's third note had a decidedly darker air to it; and that's saying something considering the first one was accompanied by my dead husband's bloody wedding ring. But this one? It seems like a threat.

Don't look out the window? Why? Is he there?

Was that him?

What the hell is he hiding? What does he want with me?

The questions wouldn't stop. So consumed with the mystery of him, I'm too distracted to even hallucinate Will. It's just me left alone with my thoughts, and two days after he left that note on my door, I'm no closer to figuring him out.

I ran right to the internet. All of the hits on the Watcher talked about a creepy dude who sent letters to a family in Westfield, New Jersey, all signed by ‘The Watcher' in a cursive font. That was about a decade ago or so, with the letter-writer seemingly obsessed with the house.

Not my Watcher. He seems to be obsessed with me… and I can't live like this.

I can't.

Not knowing why he's out there. When he's out there.

Why me? Why did he pick me?

Was it because of Will? Or did whatever happen to Will happen because of me?

Who is he? Do I know him? Do I want to?

And what does he expect from me?

That last question is the one that haunts me the most; when Will doesn't, the reality of being a pretty woman with a target on her back makes that last one pretty fucking obvious.

Consider yourself single… for now.

Is that it? He watches me—because that's what he's doing, standing out on the street, head tilted up to look in my window… watching—because he wants me?

Don't look out your window… you might not like what you see?

Maybe that's so. Or maybe I'm sick and fucking tired of men telling me what to do. They always have. My dad, moving the family around for his job no matter how we felt about it. My high school boyfriend who thought he could mold me into the perfect wife. Will, who sure as hell tried to do just that after college… I'm done. I'm fucking done.

It's my turn to take control of my life. Fuck Will Burke. Fuck the husband who won't leave me alone even after he got himself killed. Fuck the man who thinks he can intimidate me by stalking me, watching me, trying to control me.

Don't look out my window, huh? Two can play this game. Because if he's looking into my window now… maybe I should give himself that he'd like to see.