6. Boundaries Breached #2
The sun is setting, filling the tower room with golden light and making the dust sparkle.
My fingers ache, so I stretch them and roll my shoulders.
I’ve been hunched over these books for hours.
Six journals are spread out around me, covered in sticky notes I found in the desk.
Yellow for Garrow, blue for town business, and red for everything about me.
The entries start to blur together until something stands out, like a pattern forming from random details. Notes about my movements are mixed with strange comments about “potential threats,” turning normal moments in town into something dark that needed someone to step in.
June 8: E.H. received a visitor (N.V.) bearing a welcome basket at 2:17 PM.
The visitor attempted to engage E.H. in a discussion of “estate legends”.
Intervention: Activated north corridor air vent (setting 3), causing the envelope on the foyer table to slide toward E.H.
, the candlestick to tilt, and the quill to roll off the desk.
N.V. startled, departed at 2:36 PM without proceeding beyond the foyer.
I remember that day, Nora’s words about “our tight-knit community” still in my mind as I watched her leave. Something felt wrong then, a chill at the back of my neck that I brushed off as nerves. Now, reading these notes, I realize my instincts were right: I was being watched.
June 8: Three males followed E.H. on the forest path home from the general store. Intervention: The branch dropped 30 meters ahead, causing a distraction. E.H. was able to retreat.
Page after page shows the same pattern: I went about my life, unaware, while someone else stepped in from the shadows to protect me.
My fingers shake as I read. I always thought I was on my own, making my own choices, but someone was watching and keeping me safe from threats I never noticed.
It’s dizzying to realize I’ve been protected by someone I can’t see or thank.
The dying light catches on a big brass telescope by the east window.
The thing’s been polished within an inch of its life.
My legs are killing me as I haul myself up to check it out.
Weird — it’s not pointed at the sky. It’s aimed straight down at the town.
I put my eye to it and holy shit, the zoom on this thing.
I can practically count the wrinkles on old man Porter’s face as he locks up his hardware store.
All these people just going about their day, no idea they’ve been watched from up here in this creepy little crow’s nest.
Next to the telescope is a map of the town unlike any of the others.
This one’s covered in red and green lines — like some deranged game of Snakes and Ladders.
The green paths are labeled “safe routes” in cramped handwriting, tracing exactly how to get from the estate to places I actually use: the store, the post office, the woods.
Red zones bleed around certain spots — “danger” scrawled beside them — especially Garrow’s house and whatever office he’s using to plot against me.
My fingertips trace a green path that I’ve been unconsciously taking to town, a route I’d thought I’d picked because it just felt right. Had I been nudged toward it? Guided without knowing it? How much of what I’ve done here has actually been my own choice?
I look at all of it spread out in front of me and feel stripped bare.
Every move I’ve made has been recorded. Every habit is noticed.
Every little thing I’ve left behind, collected.
And yet the same person doing all of that has also been keeping me safe from things I didn’t even know were coming for me, lurking behind this town’s cheerful, small-town bullshit.
I grab the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning white. “WHO ARE YOU?” I shout, my voice raw and desperate, echoing off the walls and sounding strange even to me. My heart pounds as I turn, searching the shadows that now seem full of hidden movement.
The question hangs in the air, unanswered.
Outside, the sunset lights up the treetops before fading, and I’m left in the tower with shadows stretching across the walls.
I shove my journal and some of the Watcher’s notebooks into my bag, my hands shaking.
I should be angry that someone’s been going through my life, but instead my stomach twists with a mix of fear and strange curiosity.
And under all that, I feel a reluctant gratitude for whoever’s been protecting me while I had no idea.
I make my way back down the creaky stairs, each one groaning under my weight like it’s complaining. My mind won’t stop. Who is this person? Why do they give a damn what happens to me? And how do they know this much, about the threats, about Garrow, about all the things this house is hiding?
The main house feels different now, charged with the knowledge that I’m not truly alone within these walls. I pause in the foyer, eyes darting between the shadows in the corners.
My heart’s hammering so hard I can barely breathe, but screw it, I’m done with this cat-and-mouse crap.
“I know you’re in here!” I yell, my voice bouncing off the walls like it’s mocking me.
“Just—just come out already!” Oh god, what if they actually do?
What then? My hands are shaking, and I have absolutely no plan beyond this moment.
The silence after feels like the whole damn house is waiting to see what I’ll do next.
Then I hear it, footsteps inside the walls.
Not the random creaks of this ancient house settling, but actual footsteps.
Someone walking. They’re moving right alongside me, just a few inches of plaster and wood between us, close enough that I can follow exactly where they’re going.
I whirl toward the sound, pulse hammering in my ears. “Stop hiding! I found your room, your journals. I know what you’ve been doing.”
The footsteps stop suddenly. It feels like the whole house is waiting with me. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow in the library doorway—just long enough to notice someone’s size before it disappears. Whoever it is wanted me to see them, but not to know who they are.
I throw my hands up. “Seriously?! That’s all I get?” My voice cracks, going all squeaky at the end. “You’re gonna stalk me and take my stuff and play bodyguard, but you can’t even show your damn face?”
The only response is the quiet creak of wood as someone moves through the house's hidden spaces. I feel the pressure of someone watching me. Whoever is here has given me just enough proof to know I’m not imagining things, but still stays out of reach.
I run to my room and slam the door so hard the floor shakes.
My hands tremble as I fall onto my bed, my heart bouncing between fear and, though I hate to admit it, curiosity.
Part of me wants to grab my things and leave this strange house.
But another part, the side that always needs answers, wants to stay and find out who the Watcher is and why they’re interested in me.
I grab my head in both hands and just sit there, totally wiped out.
Tomorrow. I’ll figure out tomorrow if I’m gonna bail or stick around and deal with whoever’s creeping in the walls.
Right now, my brain’s fried trying to wrap itself around the fact that someone’s been watching me this whole time, and I can’t tell if they’re keeping me safe or just waiting to pounce.
I can’t sleep for shit. Every time I drift off, the dreams get stranger.
Hallways that go on forever, shadows with faces, eyes watching me from every corner.
One second I’m the bug under the telescope’s lens, and the next those same eyes are shielding me from threats I can’t quite make out — blurry shapes that dissolve before I can see what they are.
I thrash around, sheets twisting around my legs, while rain starts tapping at the window.
Soft at first, then harder, like it’s trying to get my attention.
I’m just starting to crash from pure exhaustion when something shifts.
The sounds outside change in a way I can’t name. My eyes snap open. I’m wide awake.
The bedroom is pitch black, rain streaming down the windows in silvery rivulets.
For a moment, I can’t identify what woke me.
Then it comes again, a muffled hiss that doesn’t match the rhythm of the rainfall, followed by hushed male voices carried on the night air.
My muscles tense as I push myself up on my elbows, ears straining to separate the sounds from the steady drumming of rain.
That’s when I smell it, the sharp, distinctive odour of gasoline wafting through my partially open window, cutting through the clean scent of rain. My blood turns to ice water in my veins. Intruders. Outside my house. With gasoline.
I slide from the bed, bare feet silent against the wooden floorboards as I creep toward the window.
My heart hammers against my ribs so violently, I wonder if the sound might give me away.
Pressing my back against the wall, I inch closer to the glass, careful to stay hidden in the shadows as I peer out into the darkness.
Through the rain-streaked panes, I make out several figures stalking across my front lawn, their movements jerky and predatory.
My heart slams against my ribs as I recognize what they’re doing.
One tilts a gasoline can, the liquid gushing out in a thick stream that splashes up his boots.
Another hunch near my porch steps, the sudden violent flare of a lighter casting demonic shadows across a face I’ve seen sneering at me in town, the butcher’s son with dead eyes that now gleam with anticipation as he watches the flame dance between his fingers.
“-the hell are you waiting for?” A voice cuts through the rain, muffled by the glass. “Torch the damn door and let’s bounce.”