Prologue: I was terrified. I had nowhere to go, no one to scream to. Anybody that could have protected me from the monster in front of me was gone, and I was left alone. I stared, wide-eyed, across the room to where he stood, smiling, tall and threatening, over me. I felt so helpless, so doomed. For once in my life, I didn't know what was going to happen next. I couldn't rely on my constant companion, my impenetrable savior. I knew that I had been stupid all those years ago, when I had gone to work with my mom. Then the next day, when I had opened up my door. There had been a long, slim parcel. I had taken the brown wrapping paper and torn it off, like a small child on Christmas. I had been so foolish then, so naïve. I regretted it now, more than anything else. No. No, that was wrong. I regretted what was happening now, but couldn't deny that I was glad for what happened. Because if I hadn't gone to work with Renee that day, hadn't opened that package, the life I had known for the past few months wouldn't have existed. And I would rather die than give up what I had gotten. Unfortunately, that looked like what was going to end up happening. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited, hoping to be saved. I waited. And waited.
I was sixteen when the first package arrived on my doorstep. I stepped outside, letting the warm rays of Phoenix, Arizona sun sink into my pale skin. I shut my eyes and sighed, smiling happily at the neighborhood around me. I took a step forward and tripped over an oblong shape on the porch. I stumbled in an attempt to catch myself, grasping at the weak wooden railing that I had screwed to the small deck three summers before. I fell halfway to my knees before I was able to pull myself to a halt, and then I slowly and somewhat painstakingly lifted my suddenly dizzy body back to full height.
Disgruntled, I glared down at the object that had impaired my movement. It was a small box, about a foot in length. It looked the size of a box of chocolates. I grimaced. The last thing Renee needed was more sugar being sent to her. I reached for the package, looking for the return address so I could send it back.
I flipped the box back and forth several times before I realized my search was in vain. There was no address – not mine, nor the return. I frowned. I stepped back inside the house, shutting the old-fashioned wooden door shut with a slight bang behind me. Turning into the coolness of the kitchen, I reached for a knife from the sink. I jerked it quickly under the yarn, snapping it instantly. I set the knife back down, and was shocked when I found my fingers shaking. I shook my head, smiling at my idiocy. There's nothing to worry about, I told myself.
I ripped open the paper. Inside lay a sleek white box. I opened it cautiously, speculating at the possible contents. Something for Renee, perhaps? If that was the case, I probably shouldn't be opening it. It was a useless battle. My curiosity had been aroused, and nothing was going to stop me from opening that box. I lifted the lid, and my heart thudded to a halt, then picked up again twice as fast.
Inside the box lay a note on plain white stationary, thick dark ink soaking the paper. A single-stemmed rose, black as midnight, lay in the center. With trembling hands, I plucked the note carefully from under the thorn-shrouded rose.
'My dearest Isabella,' it read. I gulped – it really was for me, though I had somehow known it all along.
'You may not remember me, but I most certainly remember you. At the building where your mother, Renee, works, do you recall now? I said hello, won't you come home with me? You responded, like a good little girl, no. But I don't take no for an answer, Isabella. It's only yes, or no answer at all. And by no answer, I mean you're dead. But I don't want you to die, Isabella. You're going to be mine. You captivated me that day, and I will not rest until I have made you mine. I'm a very experienced man in these matters, Isabella. I know your name, your school records, your history, your family records…everything about you, Isabella. I also know that you love your mother, Renee, very much. You wouldn't want anything to happen to her, now, would you? By the way, I'm not on record. I don't exist. Not to the police, the FBI, the government, or my own mother. No, I killed her a long while ago. I exist to you, though. Yes, very much so. Do you like the rose? I hope you do. It means I love you very, very much. Keep that in mind. I'll send you more like them. Once you come to realize your intense, passionate longing for me, leave me a note in this box on your front step… I will be waiting. I won't just come in and get you…what do you think I am, an animal? No, I'm a civilized young gentleman. I love you so much that I will wait for you. Keep this in mind, my darling: I won't wait too long.
-Stephen'
My blood ran cold. I wanted to scream. No. This must be kept secret. For Renee. I wouldn't compromise her safety, not for anything. But I can't respond, not now. This wasn't serious.
No, it wasn't. I decided to ignore it, see if this was just a practical joke. It had to be. Nobody who was serious could possibly say something as normal as he did. It simply wasn't what someone like he would say. Nobody said this on TV. Nobody would say something as simple as this. This wasn't serious. He wasn't serious. Stephen. I pictured his face, exactly like that day at my mom's work.
He was a tall, heavyset man, with all the aura of a common street thug. His dark, almost black hair curled, not quite reaching his ears. He was tan, muscular, with the sort of rugged handsomeness that some women admired; not me. His face was squarish, his jaw firm, blackened stubble growing unevenly on his chin.
He had walked up to me, a smile on his face. "Hello, won't you come home with me?" A knee-jerk reaction from me: "No", just as they had always taught me in school, just as my mother always taught me at home. She said that without a father, who lived hundreds of miles away in a small, insignificant town in the farthest corner of Washington called Forks, I would have to learn to fend for myself. She prepared me with self-defense classes – all the normal things, like kneeing a man in the groin, headlock, etcetera. What surprised me was that with this man, I didn't need them. He simply smiled at me, winked, and whispered after me as I turned abruptly and walked quickly away, "You mean 'yes', darling."
But it wasn't serious. I was sure that he was just a normal guy who liked to play pranks. Maybe he was dared to do this, to prove that he could scare a girl easily, or lost a bet, or some such normal, trite reason. Nothing to worry about. I was so sure, because nothing bad could happen to me. My life was wonderful, and nothing was going to change it.
On the other hand, perhaps I was so sure because I so ardently wished that it were not true. Perhaps, somewhere inside me, I knew that this was serious.
I discarded the thought and went back inside, taking the box and the rose with me. It was shoved under the bed, and was soon forgotten.
Ж
My face was shoved into a collection of test papers; it was the end of the school year, less than a week left until I would no longer be a sophomore. My teachers had graded our finals, and I was currently reading through each of the comments on my essay in rapid succession. Making my way up the steps to my house, my foot jammed on something. Sucking in a breath, I took the papers away from my face and stared down at the offending object.
It was long, rectangular. I felt the blood drain from my face – it had been over a month; I had thought his game was over. The essay I had received an A+ on from Mr. Cotzinger fluttered to the ground with an airy feel that I only wished I felt at that moment. I bent down, my fingers unsure. I took the box carefully, pushed open the door, with the back of the same hand that held the package, tossed my bag to the linoleum floor of the kitchen, and walked methodically up the stairs.
The contents were nearly identical. A plain white note, a coal black rose. In an attempt to get the note out, I pricked my finger on a particularly sharp thorn. I dumped the rose under my bed, and then picked up the note and read:
'My dearest Isabella, I hope you'll understand my disappointment when I have been longing to hear from you in over a month. My baby, my sweet, darling girl, I know that you don't mean to hurt me. You're busy with your academics, your studies. With the finals in Mr. Cotzinger's class, the essay that – with all the studying – I would be surprised if you got any less than an A+ on. Sweetie, remember to leave me a note when you have the time to want me, too. I'm not an impatient man, but my body can't wait that long. It's getting hard to resist coming into your little room in that rambler and take you myself, right now. Feeling you everywhere, all under the covers of your cute little bed sheets. Just imagine, my darling, my baby, what we could be doing... Remember your mother? Well, I know you love her, and I won't make you choose one of us over the other. Because I know you love me, too. So just come to me, my love, and your mother won't be hurt. You're welcome for the rose, though it is nothing compared to the way your skin shines in the moonlight – and that's only your arms! Waiting to hear from you,
- Stephen'
Of course I ignored it. What else could I do? I couldn't tell my mother – he would know, Stephen would know. I tried to suppress the increasing panic in my chest, but it was a useless attempt. I was scared. Terrified. He was a sick man. He knew...he knew so much about me. He had seen my room! But how?
How was I to get away from him?
I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, trying very hard not to think.
Ж
Two weeks later:
'Isabella,
Where are you when I need you most? At night, I long for you. My body aches without you. When will you console this hunger?
Always yours, as you will always be mine,
- Stephen'
Ж
Three weeks:
'Isabella,
I am growing pathetically impatient. Do you not realize how much I want you? How much I need you? I have an unstoppable fascination with you, with your body. I love you, Isabella. Come to me. Be mine. Be mine soon.
You know that you want me, too.
How is your mother? I need not ask. I know. I know everything. You still love her...
Time is running out, my sweet.
- Stephen'
Ж
Then, the latest one, three and a half months after the first, with the same signature black rose:
'Isabella,
I am tired of this. My mind is uneasy, quickly angered. Come to me now.
Do you not love your mother as much as I thought you did?
- Stephen'
I knew, then, that it was hopeless. Perhaps I had known it all along, but there was no more time for me. For if I waited any longer, he would reach my mother. He would find her, hurt her. Because of me. I couldn't let that happen.
I flipped over the note I still held in my hand, grabbed a dying pen from the pouch I carried to school, and wrote:
'Stephen,
I don't quite know how to say this, but I am ready. What do you want me to do?
Yours,
- Isabella'
I placed the note in the box, lay it on the doorstep, and prayed that Stephen would find it before Renee got home from work. I would do anything to keep her safe.
God must have mercy, because less than two hours after I had put the note and the box outside, the kitchen door creaked open.