obsessed

chapter 5

I heard a gunshot. The sound rang out so sharply that I collapsed to the ground, my

body shuddering from the shock. I looked back and saw him, gun in hand, but as I

checked myself, I realized the bullet had missed me. My heart pounded in my chest. I

tried to scramble to my feet, but my legs buckled, slipping in the snow. He aimed again,

and this time the bullet slammed into a tree just ahead of me. Panic surged through me

as I pushed myself up and ran, not daring to look back.

The cold air bit at my skin, my breath coming in frantic gasps as I tore through the

woods. Every step felt like I was running for my life. And I was. After what felt like hours,

I finally stopped, leaning against a tree, listening intently for any sounds of pursuit. The

woods were silent. Still, my body trembled—not from the cold, but from the fear of being

caught.

I looked at my hands and legs—blood was dripping from the cuts and scrapes, each

movement sending sharp pain through my body. My legs were growing weaker, the

snow now stained with red. I was barefoot, wearing only shorts and a baggy hoodie. I

felt exposed, vulnerable. But I couldn't stop. The thought of him catching me was

enough to push me forward.

For hours, I walked aimlessly, searching for any sign of shelter. Just when I thought I

couldn’t go on any longer, I saw it—a treehouse, nestled in the trees like a hidden

refuge. The ladder leading up was high, almost too high for me to reach, and I noticed

claw marks scraped along the wood, like an animal had tried to climb up before. The

thought of animals in the forest sent a chill down my spine, but I couldn’t stop now. I had

to get up there.

My feet were numb, my body shivering uncontrollably, but I couldn’t let myself collapse. I

found a branch a little farther away and tried to pull it closer to knock the ladder down to

my level. My hands were cold, my fingers stiff, but I kept at it, desperation driving me.

After several failed attempts, I heard the rustling again. It was getting closer. Panic

gripped me, and I swung the branch one last time—this time, the ladder finally came

crashing down.

I rushed to climb it, my legs aching with each movement. It felt like an eternity before I

finally made it up. The noise below stopped as I reached the top, my breath heavy and

ragged. I pulled the ladder up behind me and looked around. The treehouse was small,

but cozy. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

The treehouse was surprisingly well-kept. Kids’ drawings covered the walls, including

height charts marked in pink and blue—one slightly taller than the other. The place felt

strangely familiar, but my mind was too foggy to think straight. As I opened the door, I

froze.

Hundreds of red roses were scattered in the corner of the floor, their petals wilting but

still beautiful in an unsettling way. There was a black pot sitting on top of a fireplace, the

coals still burning faintly. I moved closer, my feet aching with every step, trying to make

sense of this place. My eyes wandered to the side, where black roses sat beside the

fireplace.

Black roses?

Black roses! The same black roses I had been receiving for months. My heart skipped a

beat. This was the place of my stalker. I had finally come face to face with him, or at

least his secret hideout. He had been leaving me these flowers for so long, but he had

never met me. Now, I was here, in his sanctuary, the place where his obsession had

taken root.

I scanned the room further, noticing a guitar hanging on the wall. It seemed so out of

place, yet oddly comforting, as if this place was meant for something or someone. My

eyes fell on a sketchbook resting on the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, I picked it up,

my fingers trembling. I opened it.

At first, I saw simple sketches—sunsets, flowers—but then... sketches of me. Hundreds

of drawings. Me, sitting on a bench, me with my friends, me through my window. It was

all so eerie. How had he captured these moments? What was he trying to tell me?

My breath hitched when I turned to the next page. It was a sketch of me sitting alone on

a bench, crying. My throat tightened. I flipped another page, and there, in the profile of

the sketch, was the figure of a man sitting beside me.

Was that him? Was he the one who had been following me all this time? My stomach

churned with dread.

Suddenly, a noise from below caught my attention—the rustling of leaves, footsteps.

Was it him? Or just an animal? My heart pounded as I crept toward the small window

and looked down, trying to see if I was still being watched. The rustling grew louder,

closer.

I peered through the window, and there it was. A figure. A dark shape in the distance,

barely visible through the trees. Then, I saw the eyes—dark blue eyes, staring up at me.

They were fixed on me, like the creature knew I was here. It had been waiting for me.

Just as quickly as they appeared, the eyes vanished. I glanced around, panicked, but I

could see nothing else. What was happening? Was I truly safe here? Or had I walked

straight into the lair of my stalker?

I thought about the scratches on the ladder, the drawing in the sketchbook. This place

wasn’t just some random treehouse—it was his. I was trapped in the very heart of his

obsession.

In my panic, I tried to calm myself, but the words of Marsha’s taunts echoed in my mind.

You’re just like your father. Was this all my fault? Was this my doing?

I knew I couldn’t stay here forever. But there was nothing I could do but wait and pray

for help. I took the chocolate bar from my bag, hoping it would settle my nerves. What

do I do now? I had no phone, no way to contact anyone. I was alone.

I climbed into the bed, wrapping myself in the blankets to fight off the cold. I was

exhausted, my body aching, my mind racing. The bed was surprisingly warm, and

eventually, I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

But when I woke up, everything had changed.