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Don’t look for a name. You don’t get one. You changed your number. Cute. You called the police. Rude. Thirteen days of quiet is not me getting bored, sweet thing. It is me letting you miss it. I know where you sleep, your classes, your work, that cute barista who smiles at you too long. Funny how he’s not around anymore... Put the mask on, little sparrow. I’ll know you anywhere.
Home | Tuesday | 11:02pm The first texts had been harmless, an unknown number comes in late, asking to meet up for coffee, you furrow your brow in confusion, not recognizing the number. Your phone buzzes once more. UNKNOWN: “Sorry. Wrong number.” You almost ignored it. It had been one of those days, University, Classes, day ended with a shift at the bookstore, and reminders about family obligations and whichever eligible legacy son someone thought should be considered next. Then the stranger texted again. UNKNOWN: “Unless you happen to know where a man can find decent coffee after midnight.” Against better judgment, you answered. YOU: “Are you this bad at texting the right person on purpose?” UNKNOWN: “Only on important occasions.” It was liberating: no names, no families, no performance. For a while, that was enough. Or so you believed. Month one. UNKNOWN slipped easily into your routine via text. University. Work. Evening shifts at the bookstore. Home. A few days in, the phone buzzes after a particularly exhausting shift. UNKNOWN: “Long day, little sparrow?” YOU: “Little sparrow?” UNKNOWN: “Needed something to call you.” YOU: “Why sparrow?” UNKNOWN: “I like sparrows.” YOU: “That’s your explanation?” UNKNOWN: “Small. Stubborn. Everyone overlooks them. They survive anyway.” It sounded harmless then. Almost sweet. YOU: “And what do I call you?” UNKNOWN: “Nothing.” YOU: “Steve.” UNKNOWN: “That’s disgusting.” YOU: “Trevor?” UNKNOWN: “Worse.” YOU: “Murderer?” UNKNOWN: “Better.” It was relaxing: he listened to you complain, offering humour and horrible advice about your day to day, vaguely about your responsibilities. But still no names, no expectations. Month two. The first unsettling message came after you stopped at a café between classes. Buried in a book. Favourite blue sweater. You barely noticed someone brushing past the chair, black sleeve, dark hoodie, a quiet apology. Twenty minutes later. UNKNOWN: “Your coffee’s cold again, little sparrow.” UNKNOWN: “Blue suits you.” YOU: “Creepy.” UNKNOWN: “Lucky guess.” YOU: “Suuuure…” UNKNOWN: “Don’t sound disappointed.” Leading up to month five. A slow shift. Distance had seemed like a good idea; you would get vague messages that seemed to be settling a bit too close for comfort. UNKNOWN: “That guy at the counter keeps staring at you.” The bookstore regular was there again, lingering by the register. Your skin prickles like a warning and you glance around. YOU: “Are you here?” No answer. YOU: “Seriously.” UNKNOWN: “Would it bother you if I was?” You block him instantly. A different number appeared that evening. UNKNOWN: “Dramatic, sparrow.” After that, everyone started looking suspicious. The regular. Professors. Kalder. His friends. Rilla’s other friends, anyone that could be close. Then the message that ended the benefit of the doubt. UNKNOWN: “Your perfume lasts longer on wool.” YOU: “Have you been close enough to smell me?” A long pause. UNKNOWN: “Yes.” Your father contacted the police, Screenshots, Reports, Traced numbers... All burners. All dead ends. You change your routes, stopped leaving work alone, and spent more nights at Rilla’s. When Rilla finally saw the messages: “You're staying here.” The Ashland estate had gates, Cameras, Armed security. If anywhere in Westerhale should have been safe, it was Corwen Ashland’s home. Month five. You had changed your number for the hundredth time. But that evening UNKNOWN: “New number. New route to work. New habit of checking behind you when you cross the street.” UNKNOWN: “None of it helps, sparrow.” UNKNOWN: “Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, we wouldn’t still be texting.” Weeks later, while you stay at the Ashland estate: UNKNOWN: “You shouldn’t feel safer there, sparrow. East camera has a blind spot. Side entrance alarm is outdated.” UNKNOWN: “Tell Corwen the upstairs western window sensor doesn’t trigger properly.” Every flaw was real. Corwen had the estate torn through immediately. Cameras repositioned. Alarms replaced. Sensors upgraded. Networks rebuilt. Several days later: UNKNOWN: “Better.” UNKNOWN: “He missed one.” Nothing else came. Month six. You stop bothering to change your number. It didn’t make a difference. One day. Then five. Then ten. Silence. Nearly two weeks without little sparrow on the screen. Ordinary people became ordinary again. Maybe Corwen had finally shut UNKNOWN out. Maybe he’d gotten bored. The silence held. Then Rilla appeared after class wearing the smile that usually meant trouble. “Halloween party.” You roll your eyes, already lining up the argument. “Don’t start. It’s at the estate.” You grumble something and turn away. “Oh, absolutely not.” Rilla caught your arm. “You’ve spent six months going from campus, to work, to the bookstore, to my house like you’re under witness protection. Dad practically rebuilt the security system because of that psycho.” She leaned closer, brightening. “Kalder will be there, you know how much of a control freak he is. People from Ashcott, Security at every door, Cameras everywhere. And it’s a masquerade. Drinks, Music, costumes! One night where you don’t exist.” Another unimpressed look. Rilla grinned. “Good. Glad we agree.” For the first time in months, Halloween offered something almost normal. Elsewhere. A monitor glowed in the dark. Black sleeves rested beside a keyboard. A phone sat untouched nearby, No messages had been sent in thirteen days. On-screen: a digital invitation. ASHLAND ESTATE - HALLOWEEN MASQUERADE Guest list. Security. Floor plan. Masks required. The hooded figure leaned back and watched the screen for several quiet seconds, smirking. Then it went black. Rilla's Room | Saturday | 6:15pm Before Halloween party Music already leaking up from downstairs, DJ testing sound from Corwen’s ballroom on the estate. Rilla finishing her make up, white half-mask on the dresser, ivory silk, platinum hair down, she smirks while she looks at you through the mirror “Sooo are you going to finish getting ready? It starts in two hours...or is that what you are wearing? No judgement.” There was judgement.