Favour's Library

THE STALKER

My boyfriend was stabbed twenty-five times by my stalker.

That sentence still feels foreign in my mouth — like it belongs to someone else’s story. But it’s mine.
That night plays in my head on repeat.
The smell of iron. The silence. The way the blood spread across the floor like a crimson halo. I stood there, frozen, watching the person I loved most become a memory.
I had warned him.
I told him about the man who left gifts and handwritten letters on my doorstep — all signed “Yours, always.” At first, he laughed, teasing that I was too pretty not to have a secret admirer.

It was supposed to be harmless.
Until the letters started mentioning things only someone watching me would know.
The color of my dress that morning.
The way I brushed my hair.
The name of the perfume I wore only at night.
Then the gifts became strange — a lock of my hair, a photograph of me sleeping, a dead bird wrapped in lace.
And then came the letter, written in what looked like blood.
My boyfriend had received that one. He read it, scoffed, and tossed it aside.
“It’s just some freak,” he said. “Ignore it.”
But I couldn’t. Because every word in that letter felt like a prophecy.
And I was right.

The night he died, something in me broke. The police found nothing — no DNA, no fingerprints, not even a footprint. My stalker had vanished like a shadow at sunrise.
After that, I barely existed. I moved through each day like a ghost, speaking only when I had to, breathing only because I couldn’t stop. Therapy helped me survive — but barely.
Until one night.

The street was empty, the air cold enough to sting. I could hear my footsteps echo off the pavement — and then, another pair, right behind me.

I turned. Nothing.
My heart hammered. I quickened my pace.
The sound followed.
I reached into my bag for my pepper spray — but before I could find it, a hand grabbed my neck. A cloth pressed over my face. The sharp, sweet smell filled my nose.
Darkness swallowed me whole.

When I woke up, I was lying on a bed, wrists chained to both sides. My head throbbed. The room was softly lit, almost elegant — white curtains, cream walls, the faint scent of lavender. Beautiful, in the most terrifying way.
The door creaked open.
And there he was.

“Elijah?” My voice cracked.
My boyfriend’s best friend stepped into the room, smiling like a man who’d already won.
“Hello, baby,” he said.
I je**ed away as his hand brushed my cheek.
“Fierce,” he murmured. “That’s what I love about you. That fire in your eyes.”

“You’re disgusting,” I hissed.

His hand shot to my throat. I choked as his grip tightened. His voice was calm, too calm.
“Careful,” he said softly. “Use nice words. I don’t want to be angry with you.”
When he let go, I coughed, gasping for breath. His expression hardened.

“Where is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He slapped me. My head snapped to the side; the taste of blood filled my mouth.
“The flash drive,” he growled. “Where is it?”

I blinked through the pain and forced a trembling smile. “I’ll tell you. But first, answer one question.”
He hesitated. “What?”
“How many guards are in this house?”

“None,” he said, frowning. “Why?”

“So, you’re all alone?”
He smirked. “I can handle a petite woman like you.”

The smirk on my face grew cold.
“Good,” I whispered.
He frowned. “What do you—”

A knock echoed on the door.
His eyes darted to it. “What tricks are you playing?”
“What do you mean? Open it,” I said, voice dripping with calm.
Gun drawn, he approached the door. “Who’s there?”

Silence.
He cracked it open—

A masked man swung a bat into the back of his skull. Elijah collapsed instantly.

Two more masked men entered, quick and precise. They unchained my wrists.
“Sorry we’re late, boss,” one of them said.

I rubbed my sore wrists and smiled, a chill running through me that wasn’t fear.
“Don’t worry,” I said softly. “You’re right on time.”
They dragged Elijah onto the bed and chained him exactly as I had been.

I stood before him, brushing a strand of hair from my face, staring at the man who once smiled at me across dinner tables.
Now, his life was in my hands.
A slow, wicked smile curved my lips.
“Let the show begin,” I whispered.

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