He's At Your Door: a gripping psychological thriller Read online

  HE’S AT YOUR DOOR

  ALEX SINCLAIR

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Copyright © 2019 Alex Sinclair

  The right of Alex Sinclair to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Chapter 1

  Karen

  What are you afraid of? The damning question hangs ever present in my mind as I try to concentrate on my work. I've read the email in front of me over a dozen times without taking in a single word. It's gotten to the point where each letter I attempt to digest is looking like it's come from a foreign language. What are you afraid of? How can I answer such a delicate topic in only a few breaths?

  The question came from my roommate, Beth, during a random yet innocent conversation. The words rolled off her tongue like sweat from a forehead mere moments before she left for a week. How long had she been waiting to ask me? Days? Weeks? Months? From the first moment we met? It doesn't matter. She asked me. I didn't answer of course, but now she knows there's a glimpse of something deep down within my core I cannot express, something that keeps me trapped inside this house day and night, forcing me to work three separate jobs from the safety of my study as a virtual assistant.

  Barred windows cast a thick shadow over the room through thinning curtains, interspersed with the light from a full moon. I only allow the glow from my laptop's monitor to balance out the contrast as I stare like a zombie at an instant messaging window on my computer, waiting for my next task.

  I live just outside of downtown Phoenix, Arizona in a two-bedroom one-bathroom house I can only just afford to rent. My home is too close to the city, driving up the cost of housing in the area, so much so it forces me to take in a college student from time to time to keep my strict budget intact. Fortunately, I have a locked-in fixed rental agreement that won't be changing anytime soon. At least I hope it won't.

  I sometimes wonder if it even matters where I live. I don't leave this house unless I have no other choice. Most of my time is spent plugged in online, set between paid employment and pointless activities. Both eat up the hours until I fall asleep and forget about it all. It’s not exactly the life I imagined having at thirty-five.

  Most of the VA work I do is at night. It's the only way to communicate effectively with my contacts in the UK during their business hours. My days currently start at midnight depending on how the two time zones shift back and forth throughout the year. I organize meetings, sift through and respond to urgent emails, and cut down the time barrier that exists between two executives who live on either side of the globe. It's boring on a good day like any job, but when there's enough work, it pays the bills and keeps me busy.

  The cursor on my laptop blinks on a loop. I stare at the animation as if it could change at any moment, knowing it never will. I feel like I'm stuck between worlds as I wait.

  What are you afraid of? I know Beth meant nothing by it, but it's a question that most of the people I take in will never ask me no matter how much they might want to. It's so obvious to the casual observer that something is keeping me cooped up in here like a rat in a cage. No, not something, but someone.

  I shake the thought, not needing the distraction. I am about to sit in on a meeting via video chat and take down crucial notes for one of my bosses so he can have everything he needs first thing when he wakes up six hours from now. The Internet has spoiled these people. Of course, these meetings don't always happen in any predictable pattern. And to top it all off, I'm not allowed to record these sessions due to a strict privacy policy the UK company enforces.

  When it comes down to it, I am paid to make someone else's perfect life better while mine continues to be a struggle.

  What are you afraid of? The question echoes in my mind.

  Before my work starts, I minimize the window to my desktop and stare at the one background image that keeps me going through these late-night hours. I've seen it a thousand times, but it never fails to take me aside from the anxiety these meetings generate.

  Champagne Beach, Vanuatu stares back at me with its perfect blue water and near white sands. Every week I get paid, I put as much of my modest income aside as I can to save up for a long-awaited holiday to the South Pacific island. I'd move there if I could, far away from the world, far away from its people, but I doubt that I would ever be so lucky.

  Saving up enough money for this trip is only a matter of time. The real dispute is whether I'll be able to find the courage to walk out the front door of this house and go on the vacation.

  Chapter 2

  With a sigh, I switch to my IM app again and meeting. Thoughts of my life make me circle back to my roommate Beth. Why did she have to ask me that question? We had a good thing going between us. She didn't pry too deep into my story and I didn't prompt her to. It was the perfect superficial level of communication we shared given our relationship's short three-month lifespan. We were starting to get along there for a minute. What had changed? I won't know until she returns from her week-long trip.

  My contact, Julia Thomas, comes online and types out her standard greeting.

  Julia Thomas: Hello, Karen. How are you?

  Karen Rainey: I'm fine.

  I reply with the least amount of words possible. I've never met Julia before in the real world and never will. For that reason and others combined, there's no need for anything to form between us beyond what is necessary to get through the meeting.

  After we go through the boilerplate VA security checks and agreements, I am told
that the session will start in five minutes. I have little idea what this is about, but I understand that it's important from the multiple emails my boss David sent. My head is elsewhere though.

  I take a deep breath in and let it back out as I locate my oversize coffee mug. The double strength brew is the only thing that will get me through this gathering of suits. I stifle a yawn and realize I'll never get used to these hours no matter how long I work them. It's hard not to fall asleep during one of these boring meetings, especially when you aren't actually present in a room full of stuffy career-focused men and women. I would never want to be like them if I'm being honest.

  The low guttural sound of a car rolls by the outside of my house, drawing away my attention as the bass of a heavy beat drones on in the background. My street isn't the busiest during the day, so any time a vehicle comes past in the middle of the night, I feel my skin crawl for a slight moment. I grab my smartphone and bring up a security camera app. I have surveillance equipment and sensors fitted all around the entire property. It cost me a lot of money to install—more than I could afford when I had them installed—but it's worth every penny to have that sense of control.

  What are you afraid of?

  The question makes me fumble with my phone. I take a moment to focus on my cell to see the car as it finishes rolling by the camera at the left side of the home. A carload of people in their twenties fills the seats. They’re all drinking from what I can tell and are most likely heading downtown. They look like college kids out for fun and nothing more.

  I pray they don't stop.

  By the time the car continues past my residence without stopping, the meeting has gotten underway. I realize that one executive on screen is speaking toward me.

  "David's VA. Are you there?"

  There's no point for him to learn my name, so I don't let his rudeness bother me. I press the button on my wireless headset that activates its built-in microphone. "Uh, yes. I'm here," I say to a large room with real people in it. Who knows how many digital eyes are spying in on this session?

  "Good. Does David have any questions before we get underway? I know he's shown concern regarding a few key areas. I want to make sure we don't miss a thing."

  As my eyes bulge in my head, I switch my screen to a new tab and open the email from my boss. I didn't see any queries he wanted asked, but then again, I tend to skim his emails.

  "Well?" the impatient man reiterates.

  "Just a second, sorry," I say. My emails are taking longer than normal to load on my aging laptop. The cheap hunk of plastic is close to being tossed out onto the scrap heap and I can't afford a replacement at the moment.

  Finally, I locate the email and see that David mentioned something about questions and even had an attachment to boot. How did I miss this? I scurry to download what the jerk needs and move back to the meeting.

  "Found them, sorry."

  "It's about bloody time," the man says, glaring at me in low resolution with his British accent from over five thousand miles away. "David will hear about this if you don't hurry."

  I blurt out the first question of three, hoping to silence the jerk. He quiets down and bites his lip. I can tell I'm just one tiny mistake away from him reporting my incompetence to my boss, and all over a few lousy seconds of time I've cost him. It would be enough to get me fired too. I've screwed up so much lately. My mind is all over the place, and David gives me the most work out of the people I VA for. Losing him would be devastating.

  I finish the questions and feel some sense of relief as the focus of the room pulls away from me. Even though I'm not physically there and can't be seen on video chat, I still shake my head with embarrassment.

  My contact for the meeting chimes in with a question for me over the chat window.

  Is everything okay?

  I type back a lie and say how grateful I am for the concern. It's the first time she has said anything besides work-related nonsense I care little about. It almost brings a smile to my face. I'm far from okay, and I don't see my situation changing anytime soon.

  The meeting reaches its halfway point without stopping as I finish my coffee. I'm tempted to run off and make another, but I might miss something vital, not that I understand what it is we are talking about. Once, I tried to spend a few hours getting to know what it is my boss does for a living, but boredom set in the way it always does.

  My tenth yawn for the night falls out of me when the British jerk calls out again. I don't hear every word he rattles off and soon find all eyes pointed to the camera I get my feed from.

  "Well?" the impatient man says yet again.

  When I go to answer, a notification pops up on my phone along with a sound. I grab it, unable to resist the distraction, and look down at the screen to see the one message that only sends a chill down my spine:

  There is motion at your front door.

  Chapter 3

  I have to read the notification on my phone twice before it sinks in. I tap the alert and wait as the screen prepares to stream the front door camera to me. The spinning circle takes too long for my liking until it finally finishes loading. There, on my cell, stands a man just outside the front of my house, bathed in shadow, his hood all the way up over his head. I freeze and continue to stare.

  What do I do? Do I call the police? Do I scream and hope one of my neighbors hears me? They wouldn't try to save me though. I've made it my mission not to get to know them. They see me as the crazed shut-in of the street. I think of Beth but remember that she won't be back for another few days.

  I rise from my chair in a hurry, smartphone still out displaying the very stiff man who is staring at my front door. I dash along and beyond my tiny study, through to my combined kitchen, living and dining area. Mess stains the flooring and walls as I rush on through to a hallway that leads to my bedroom. I unlock the door to my room with a set of keys from my pocket and charge for a baseball bat I have hidden by my bed. I'd keep a gun in the house instead, but I can't stand the things.

  What are you afraid of? The question hits me at the worst of times and makes me trip over. I collect the baseball bat and jump to my feet.

  I stare at the guy in my phone as he remains in the same position as before. As I struggle to find the courage to stand tall, the man turns away and slowly wanders off, leaving a box in his place. I quickly try the next camera with a shaky finger and see him continuing on toward the left side of my house along the footpath without a second thought.

  "What the hell?" I say out loud through a choked breath.

  I don't know what to make of what's just happened as a noise in my wireless headset continues to complain. It's the jerk from the meeting questioning my professionalism while he simultaneously moans about virtual assistants.

  I plant the baseball bat back in its place and rush for my study. But before I reach the entrance to my small office, curiosity holds me for a moment, eventually driving me to the front door instead. I can hear the executive complaining bitterly to his coworkers, so I press a button on my headset and relay a quick message that I will return in a minute. It should give me a chance to think of an excuse.

  I don't know why I feel the overwhelming desire to learn what's inside the box or why it has been left for me at one in the morning, but I figure the damage is done with the meeting. I can quickly grab the package and take it with me to the angry executive. Whatever lie I tell him I'll also say to my boss when I report in later.

  I reach my front door and push my headset down to my neck so I no longer hear anyone else's voice competing with my thoughts. I need to concentrate if I'm going to be opening the front door, especially at this hour.

  What was the strange man doing here so late? Was he a delivery guy who'd forgotten a package in his run and thought he'd get it delivered before he started his next shift? I wasn't expecting anything, but I do order a lot online. Packages come early and late, but never like this.

  I unlock three of four active deadbolts that litter my front door. I stop
ped using the fourth lock after a while as it meant getting inside upon my return was taking too long. I edge the door open an inch at a time while I cycle through each camera on my smartphone. All is clear in both directions. The road is empty. I take in a deep breath and rush outside through the small gap I've created in the door. I scoop up the box and realize it's quite a bit lighter than I expected.

  I move inside and lock all four deadbolts on the front door as if the apocalypse is coming despite the street being clear. With my package under my arm, I head back to my meeting and apologize to everyone in the room, claiming that I had an emergency I had to deal with. No one bothers to ask what that situation was or if I'm okay except my contact via the chat window. I type a reply to her as quickly as possible thanking her for the concern.

  The jerk speaks again. "If we could get back to business, that would be great. I'm sure David would appreciate it if we actually got something done today."

  I ignore the comment from the head suit who has been running the session and quickly open the package before he gets underway with his next line of boredom. I might as well. I've ruined the meeting as it is.

  There doesn't seem to be any shipping labels or stickers on the box to tell me who sent the damn thing. I know I shouldn't be opening it. There could be anything inside like drugs or money. This could have been left at the wrong place and be meant for someone else. Too late though. I've broken through the packing tape.

  I carefully fold open the lids and see a lot of screwed up brown paper filling the contents to protect something small. There in the middle is a thick piece of white cardboard. I lift it up delicately with my fingertips and unfold what appears to be a note. My eyes land on the words and read them whether I want to or not.

  I drop the note and the box and fly up out of my seat. I realize in an instant why I'm receiving a strange package in the middle of the night. The box falls fast and tumbles about the ground, but I can't escape the card as it lands face up. I see the messages again written in Latin cursive, centered for my eyes only.

  Omnia mors aequat.