Phantom

April 10, 1944

Genevieve Parsons knows she’s being watched, yet she didn’t bother to lock her door. I can’t contain the smile that comes to my face.

I’ve been visiting her for weeks, though I’ve scarcely allowed her to see me. I’ve been staying hidden in the trees or just out of view from the window.

She’s fascinating when she thinks no one is watching. Too often, I spent hours circling the manor, viewing her through windows while she cleaned, sang along to the radio, or sat in her chair writing in her journal.

She must write about me. And I’m curious to see what she has to say.

Earlier today, she was staring out the window, a mournful look on her face. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her appear sad, nor the first time I’d longed to run to her and make her forget about the husband I’m sure is ailing her. I could make her forget if I was inside her.

My feet carried me to her as if I was in a trance. My body was no longer mine to control, but hers. She sat in her rocking chair and turned to look out the window, and it was like feeling the sun warming my face for the first time in years after being trapped in a dark dungeon.

I watched with rapt fascination as her eyes landed on me and rounded at the corners. Fear flashed through them, yet I felt something entirely different.

Hunger.

All I felt was hunger.

Her gaze continuously drifted back toward me as she attempted to ignore me, to favor her journal rather than holding my stare. She was frightened, and she was trying to hide from me.

I fought with myself, tempted to walk through this very door and claim her as mine. But it was too soon. I needed to wait until her curiosity overrode her fright.

Maybe . . . that’s already begun to happen, and her curiosity is winning.

Did she leave the door unlocked just for me?

It’s not uncommon for normal civilians to leave their doors unlocked. Despite the rampant crime in Seattle, robberies are almost unheard of—unless they’re actively related to the crime syndicate.

It’s unfortunate Genevieve has found herself at the center of a dangerous man’s desires. I don’t feel guilty enough not to step through the front door and softly close it behind me.

It’s the first time I’ve been inside Parsons Manor, and the interior is even odder than the exterior.

Where the hell did she get her taste from?

It’s incredibly dark in here, but even with my limited eyesight, I’m able to glean a few details. A sparkling chandelier hangs above my head, dripping crystals from warped steel.

The black-and-white-checkered floor is prominent in the darkness, along with the black grand staircase directly ahead.

Silently, I trek further into the home, finding the living room to the left of the stairs. My gaze instantly finds the large bay window on my far left. There is Genevieve’s rocking chair, with a stool placed right in front of it. It’s where she sits while she pens in her journal. It’s where I’ve seen her those few times I’ve caught her just watching the rain or staring almost longingly at the dark woods that surround her house.

My footsteps are light as I walk over to the chair, running my fingertips along the soft red velvet. Then I lean down and inhale, catching a faint whiff of her perfume. I pick up subtle accords of cinnamon, amber, oakmoss, sandalwood, and a touch of plum.

A scent made just for my Genevieve. It suits her perfectly.

Moving on, I note a black stone fireplace in the center of the wall before me, where red velvet couches surround it. Next to the fireplace is a stand with a radio atop, and I can imagine Genevieve and her daughter dancing next to it, laughing and singing along.

I feel a small pang in my chest, knowing I don’t have the privilege of joining them. I’m destined to watch from afar, outside the bay window. It’s a life I’ll accept for now, though it doesn’t enrage me any less to know that John has the pleasure of filling that role.

The kitchen is directly ahead opposite the bay window. I’m tempted to make my way through toward the back of the house where their glass room is. I’ve only seen it from the outside, but considering all three walls and the ceiling are made of glass, it wasn’t difficult to inspect the inside of the room.

I’m sure it’s beautiful there when the stars are out, but I’m too eager to see my Genevieve.

I’m unsure of which bedroom is hers, but I imagine it won’t be far from her daughter’s. From my research on the Parsons, I’ve learned quite a bit about them, including little Sera.

If I have it my way, someday in the future, John will be gone, and Sera will know me as a secondary father. I would never attempt to replace John, but I hope to find a way into her heart and will love her as Genevieve does. But that’ll take time.

I can be patient.

The wooden steps hardly creak beneath my weight thanks to years of practice keeping light on my feet. The air is colder up here, and it’s nearly pitch-black. I patiently wait to be able to make out the edges of the wall so as not to stumble into them.

The first bedroom is empty, so I move on to the next one on the left side of the hallway.

I’m careful as I open the door and find Sera curled up in a ball, softly snoring. Leaving her be, I shut the door and move on to locate Genevieve’s room.

As I tread down the hallway, an ice-cold chill prickles at the back of my neck, stopping me in my tracks. Goose bumps scatter across my flesh, sending a tremor down my spine.

Slowly, I turn my head over my shoulder, finding nothing behind me.

Yet I feel a presence as surely as if blood runs through its veins.

During my research into the Parsons, I came across an article recounting a fire that took five men’s lives while building the manor.

These lands claimed those souls, and I’ve seen shadows and angry faces a few times when hiding within the tree line.

They don’t scare me, though.

I’ve faced far worse souls than those of a few construction workers.

Genevieve and John’s bedroom is on the right side of the hall, far enough from Sera to give them a sense of privacy but close enough to hear if she’s ever in distress.

The door quietly creaks as I open it, the sound of John’s snores arising as I enter. Their room is decorated as dark as the rest of the house, and if it weren’t for the balcony doors on the wall opposite me, I would be sightless. However, the thin curtains allow moonlight to peek through, offering me a view of the four-poster bed to my left.

John snorts, his body jolting from whatever dream is playing behind his eyelids. He’s on the side of the bed closest to me, and the sight of his sleeping form prompts an array of murderous thoughts.

Without thinking, I slide my revolver from the back of my trousers, though I don’t take aim. I just hold it while I fantasize about pressing the cool barrel to his forehead and pulling the trigger. The following pop would be as satisfying as watching the blood ooze from his skull.

The urge is so demanding, I force myself to walk around to Genevieve’s side, farthest from the door.

At least John got that much right.

She sleeps on her side, her hands held together as if she’s praying and tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair is curled into rollers, a satin scarf wrapped around them.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her lips bare of red stain. I imagine it’s a rare sight—one that John doesn’t deserve. I get the inkling that her red lips are her armor, and I’d love nothing more than to be the one to strip it away and behold her at her most vulnerable. To see her face as bare as her body, lying on her back with her legs spread wide for me, her beautiful eyes sparkling up at me as she waits for me to worship her.

My cock hardens at the thought, pressing painfully against my trousers.

One day, I will convince her to grant me that honor. And when that day comes, she will never have screamed louder.

While I still grip the gun in one hand, I bring my other fist to my mouth, biting down on the soft flesh as the fantasy takes flight. The different positions I could arrange that beautiful body in. The sounds that would spill from her lips. I’d leave no part of her untouched, whether it’s my hands or my tongue doing the exploring.

Fuck.

It takes control I didn’t know I possessed to take a step back.

The carnal impulse to take her here and now is becoming difficult to suppress. I’d make her pathetic husband watch, unable to stop me from making his wife come undone in a way that he will never accomplish.

Inhaling sharply, I tuck my gun back into my waistband and head toward the door, my movements wooden and robotic.

It’s physically painful for me to walk away from her, but I know that I must.

I’m a bad man, but I won’t be her monster.

No.

I want to be her savior.

April 11, 1944

It’s late morning, and I’m leaning against a thick trunk right on the outskirt of the tree line, watching Genevieve watch me. I puff on a cigar, a luxury I rarely allow myself.

I have distinct memories of my father smoking like a chimney—a habit my mother claimed he started when he was only ten years old. Many times, he came home on leave from the Great War, and I remember how he’d be hacking up a lung while sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing, unable to breathe around the tar in his lungs.

I couldn’t imagine how miserable he was during the battles, having to fight for his life while trying not to cough.

However, I still enjoy an occasional smoke when I need to take the edge off. Booze is a vice I refuse to indulge in when my job requires that I be alert. All it takes is one night getting sauced for a rival family to take advantage.

They won’t put me in a grave so easily.

Genevieve glances at me again, evoking a smile on my lips, despite myself.

She nibbles on her red-painted lips, continuously tucking her perfectly curled black strands behind her ear. A nervous habit, it seems. From what I can see, she’s wearing a pretty pale-pink floral dress.

Just for me, baby?

Crunching gravel beneath tires draws my attention away, prompting me to take a step back into the shadow of the trees.

Moments later, a milk truck is cruising up her driveway. The curved front end reads Seattle Dairy. The driver’s side is doorless, allowing the worker to get in and out quickly. The back end of the truck is completely open with a flat bed and a metal canopy over it to protect the glass containers of milk piled beneath.

Genevieve catches sight of him, too, and immediately leaves her post. A few moments later, she opens the front door with a wide smile and a wave. The milkman steps out of the truck in his usual all-white uniform—and Christ, can his clothing be any tighter?

He grabs a basket from the side of the truck, returning her wave.

I step forward, recognizing him the moment I get a better look at the face beneath his white cap. Ernie, I think his name is. He’s one of very few young men that were exempted from the draft for having a job deemed essential. He delivers to Angelo’s estate, and too often, I’ve heard Angelo’s sister, Lillian, gushing over him. She’s completely taken with him, and it’s a wonder Angelo hasn’t shot the kid dead just to end his suffering from hearing her yap about him.

And now he’s approaching my woman—who’s home alone.

It’s no goddamn secret that lonely wives tend to invite milkmen into their homes for a bit of fun. And now that I recall, Lillian has mentioned that this knucklehead in particular has accepted a few of those invitations. She had complained about it because he’s evidently too scared to accept her invitation, being the sister to a mob boss.

Without thinking, I slide my gun from my trousers as he steps up onto Genevieve’s porch. My chest burns with jealousy, hating that he has all her attention. If she dared to invite him . . . it’d be an incredibly cockeyed decision. Ernie would be dead before he could take a single step, and then Genevieve would have a terrible mess to clean up afterward.

She’s a charming woman, yet I notice the tension lining Ernie’s shoulders and his wooden movements. He glances around nervously as he grabs two empty bottles from the insulated box on her porch, exchanging them for fresh milk from his metal basket.

When he straightens, she’s handing him the payment, her mouth moving as she says something to him. My eyes narrow as I count each second their skin touches.

But he moves away quickly, taking several apprehensive steps away from her as if he can sense my wrath.

Oddly, he doesn’t seem to respond to her. He flits his restless stare around the house instead.

He’s incredibly nervous, and the more I study him as Genevieve continues to attempt a conversation, the more I realize he’s jittery and eager to leave.

Ernie abruptly turns and scurries off the porch right in the middle of Genevieve’s talking. It’s incredibly insulting, but I’m too relieved that he’s leaving to find a need to correct that behavior.

He’s in his truck and whipping it around within seconds, the glass milk bottles rattling as he zips out of the driveway, leaving gravel dust in his wake.

Genevieve stands at the doorway, wearing a perplexed expression.

Huh.

Guess the milkman doesn’t like Parsons Manor.

April 11, 1944

I wrote a letter to Daisy today. I told her the truth about John and his gambling. Expressed how utterly heartbroken I am over my husband’s actions.

I didn’t hold back with her, and a large part of me dreads her response. Partly because I know what it will be. It’s the same thing she has said many times throughout the years we’ve been friends.

“You settled for him.”

I also told her that I miss when we were young girls, always up to no good and the best of friends. Back then, our biggest stress was homework and quizzes. And while Daisy didn’t have the best homelife like me, we were able to escape our realities with each other.

Daisy is still my best friend, and though she lives a few hours away now, I tell her everything.

Except about my phantom.

It’s the first time I’ve kept a secret from her, and I feel awful about it. Not only because I feel like I’m lying to her for the first time, but rather, if this man ends up hurting me, I will have made it easy for him to get away with it.

I’m such a fool.