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Assistant: Title: Haunting Adeline I
        Author: Zhianna_Meadows Zhianna_Meadows 
        Chapter: 2/26 
        Summary: 
        Contents: Chapter 2: The Manipulator - Chapter 1
    

    


      
        
          Feel free to contact me through my official accounts!FB: Zianne MeadowsIG: zianne_meadowsX: zianne_meadows
            
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    Sometimes I have very dark thoughts about my mother—thoughts
no sane daughter should ever have.
Sometimes, I’m not always sane.
“Addie, you’re being ridiculous,” Mom says through the speaker on
my phone. I glare at it in response, refusing to argue with her. When
I have nothing to say, she sighs loudly. I wrinkle my nose. It blows
my mind that this woman always called Nana dramatic yet can’t see
her own flair for the dramatics.
“Just because your grandparents gave you the house doesn’t
mean you have to actually live in it. It’s old and would be doing
everyone in that city a favor if it were torn down.”
I thump my head against the headrest, rolling my eyes upward and
trying to find patience weaved into the stained roof of my car.
How did I manage to get ketchup up there?
“And just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean I can’t live in it,” I
retort dryly.
My mother is a b@tch. Plain and simple. She’s always had a chip on
her shoulder, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
“You’ll be living an hour from us! That will be incredibly
inconvenient for you to come visit us, won’t it?”
Oh, how will I ever survive?
Pretty sure my gynecologist is an hour away, too, but I still make
an effort to see her once a year. And those visits are far more
painful.
“Nope,” I reply, popping the P. I’m over this conversation. My
patience only lasts an entire sixty seconds talking to my mother.
After that, I’m running on fumes and have no desire to put in any
more effort to keep the conversation moving along.

If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. She always manages to find
something to complain about. This time, it’s my choice to live in the
house my grandparents gave to me. I grew up in Parsons Manor,
running alongside the ghosts in the halls and baking cookies with
Nana. I have fond memories here—memories I refuse to let go of
just because Mom didn’t get along with Nana.
I never understood the tension between them, but as I got older
and started to comprehend Mom’s snarkiness and underhanded
insults for what they were, it made sense.
Nana always had a positive, sunny outlook on life, viewing the
world through rose-colored gl@sses. She was always smiling and
humming, while Mom is cursed with a perpetual scowl on her face
and looking at life like her gl@sses got smashed when she was
plunged out of Nana’s v@g@n@. I don’t know why her personality never
developed past that of a porcupine—she was never raised to be a
prickly b@tch.
Growing up, my mom and dad had a house only a mile away from
Parsons Manor. She could barely tolerate me, so I spent most of my
childhood in this house. It wasn’t until I left for college that Mom
moved out of town an hour away. When I quit college, I moved in
with her until I got back on my feet and my writing career took off.
And when it did, I decided to travel around the country, never really
settling in one place.
Nana died about a year ago, gifting me the house in her will, but
my grief hindered me from moving into Parsons Manor. Until now.
Mom sighs again through the phone. “I just wish you had more
ambition in life, instead of staying in the town you grew up in,
sweetie. Do something more with your life than waste away in that
house like your grandmother did. I don’t want you to become
worthless like her.”
A snarl overtakes my face, fury tearing throughout my chest. “Hey,
Mom?”
“Yes?”
“F@ck off.”
I hang up the phone, angrily smashing my finger into the screen
until I hear the telltale chime that the call has ended.

How dare she speak of her own mother that way when she was
nothing but loved and cherished? Nana certainly didn’t treat her the
way she treats me, that’s for d@mn sure.
I rip a page from Mom’s book and let loose a melodramatic sigh,
turning to look out my side window. Said house stands tall, the tip of
the black roof spearing through the gloomy clouds and looming over
the vastly wooded area as if to say you shall fear me. Peering over
my shoulder, the dense thicket of trees are no more inviting—their
shadows crawling from the overgrowth with outstretched claws.
I shiver, delighting in the ominous feeling radiating from this small
portion of the cliff. It looks exactly as it did from my childhood, and it
gives me no less of a thrill to peer into the infinite blackness.
Parsons Manor is stationed on a cliffside overlooking the Bay with
a mile long driveway stretching through a heavily wooded area. The
congregation of trees separates this house from the rest of the world,
making you feel like you’re well and truly alone.
Sometimes, it feels like you’re on an entirely different planet,
ostracized from civilization. The whole area has a menacing,
sorrowful aura.
And I f@ck@ng love it.
The house has begun to decay, but it can be fixed up to look like
new again with a bit of TLC. Hundreds of vines crawl up all sides of
the structure, climbing towards the gargoyles stationed on the roof
on either side of the manor. The black siding is fading to a gray and
starting to peel away, and the black paint around the windows is
chipping like cheap nail polish. I’ll have to hire someone to give the
large front porch a facelift since it’s starting to sag on one side.
The lawn is long overdue for a haircut, the blades of grass nearly
as tall as me, and the three acres of clearing bursting with weeds. I
bet plenty of snakes have settled in nicely since it’s last been
mowed.
Nana used to offset the manor’s dark shade with blooms of colorful
flowers during the spring season. Hyacinths, primroses, violas, and
rhododendron.
And in autumn, sunflowers would be crawling up the sides of the
house, the bright yellows and oranges in the petals a beautiful

contrast against the black siding.
I can plant a garden around the front of the house again when the
season calls for it. This time, I’ll plant strawberries, lettuce, and herbs
as well.
I’m deep in my musings when my eyes snag on movement from
above. Curtains flutter in the lone window at the very top of the
house.
The attic.
Last time I checked, there’s no central air up there. Nothing should
be able to move those curtains, but yet I don’t doubt what I saw.
Coupled with the looming storm in the background, Parsons Manor
looks like a scene out of a horror film. I suck my bottom lip between
my teeth, unable to stop the smile from forming on my face.
I love that.
I can’t explain why, but I do.
F@ck what my mother says. I’m living here. I’m a successful writer
and have the freedom to live anywhere. So, what if I decide to live in
a place that means a lot to me? That doesn’t make me a lowlife for
staying in my hometown. I travel enough with book tours and
conferences; settling down in a house won’t change that. I know
what the f@ck I want, and I don’t give a sh@t what anyone else thinks
about it.
Especially mommy dearest.
The clouds yawn, and rain spills from their mouths. I grab my
purse and step out of my car, inhaling the scent of fresh rain. It turns
from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour in a matter of seconds. I
bolt up the front porch steps, flinging drops of water off my arms and
shaking my body out like a wet dog.
I love storms—I just don’t like to be in them. I’d prefer to cuddle up
under the blankets with a mug of tea and a book while listening to
the rain fall.
I slide the key into the lock and turn it. But it’s stuck, refusing to
give me even a millimeter. I jimmy the key, wrestling with it until the
mechanism finally turns and I’m able to unlock the door.
Guess I’m gonna have to fix that soon, too.

A chilling draft welcomes me as I open the door. I shiver from the
mixture of freezing rain still wet on my skin and the cold, stale air.
The interior of the house is cast in shadows. Dim light shines through
the windows, gradually fading as the sun disappears behind gray
storm clouds.
I feel as if I should start my story with “it was a dark stormy night...”
I look up and smile when I see the black ribbed ceiling, made up of
hundreds of thin, long pieces of wood. A grand chandelier is hanging
over my head, golden steel warped in an intricate design with
crystals dangling from the tips. It’s always been Nana’s most prized
possession.
The black and white checkered floors lead directly to the black
grand staircase—large enough to fit a piano through sideways—and
flow off into the living room. My boots squeak against the tiles as I
venture further inside.
This floor is primarily an open concept, making it feel like the
monstrosity of the home could swallow you whole.
The living area is to the left of the staircase. I purse my lips and
look around, nostalgia hitting me straight in the gut. Dust coats every
surface, and the smell of mothb@lls is overpowering, but it looks
exactly how I last saw it, right before Nana died last year.
A large black stone fireplace is in the center of the living room on
the far left wall, with red velvet couches squared around it. An ornate
wooden coffee table sits in the middle, an empty vase atop the dark
wood. Nana used to fill it with lilies, but now it only collects dust and
bug carcasses.
The walls are covered in black paisley wallpaper, offset by heavy
golden curtains.
One of my favorite parts is the large bay window at the front of the
house, providing a beautiful view of the forest beyond Parsons
Manor. Placed right in front of it is a red velvet rocking chair with a
matching stool. Nana used to sit there and watch the rain, and she
said her mother would always do the same.
The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black
stained cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island sits in
the middle with black barstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used

to sit there and watch Nana cook, enjoying her humming to herself
as she whipped up delicious meals.
Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the
rocking chair and flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a
buttery soft glow emits from the bulb. A few days ago, I had called to
get the utilities turned on in my name, but you can never be too sure
when dealing with an old house.
Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another
shiver to wrack my body.
Sixty-two g@dd@mn degrees.
I press my thumb into the up arrow and don’t stop until the
temperature is set to seventy-four. I don’t mind cooler temperatures,
but I’d prefer it if my nipples didn’t cut through all of my clothing.
I turn back around and face a home that’s both old and new—a
home that’s housed my heart since I could remember, even if my
body left for a little while.
And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor. It’s
how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has
passed down through the generations. Nana used to say that she
liked it best when she was the brightest thing in the room. Despite
that, she still had old people’s taste.
I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of
lace around them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the
middle? That’s not cute. That’s ugly.
I sigh.
“Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted,” I whisper to the
dead air.
“Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. I
glance over at Marietta, noting how she’s absently holding out the
mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into the
small building. This local bookstore wasn’t built for a large number of
people, but somehow, they’re making it work anyway.

Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging in
a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove over
the crowd, silently counting in my head. I lose count after thirty.
“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone’s attention,
the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me,
creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. It makes my skin crawl, but
I love my readers, so I power through it.
“Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you
all for coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I’m
incredibly excited to meet you all. Everyone ready?!” I ask, forcing
excitement into my tone.
It’s not that I’m not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward
during book signings. I’m not a natural when it comes to social
interactions. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen
smile after being asked a question while my brain processes the fact
that I didn’t even hear the question. It’s usually because my heart is
thumping too loud in my ears.
I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs off to
handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She’s
witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get
secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the downfalls
of representing a social pariah.
Come back, Marietta. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the only
one getting embarrassed.
The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her
hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face.
“Oh my god, it’s so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims, nearly
shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.
I smile wide and gently take the book.
“It’s awesome to meet you, too,” I return. “And hey, Team
Freckles,” I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and
mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting over
her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get stuck on
a weird conversation about skin conditions.
Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.

“Megan,” she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My
hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick
appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much
represents the entirety of my existence.
I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.
As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face.
Someone is staring at me. But that’s a f@ck@ng stupid thought
because everyone is staring at me.
I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but the
feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing beneath the
surface of my skin while a torch is being held to my flesh. It’s… it’s
unlike anything I’ve felt before. The hairs on the back of my neck
rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating to a bright red.
Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing
reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep
the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source of
my discomfort without making it obvious.
My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A man.
The crowd shrouds the majority of his body, only bits of his face
peeking through the gaps between people’s heads. But what I do
see has my hand stilling, mid-write.
His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into a
well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it’s nearly white, reminding
me of a husky’s eyes. A scar slashes straight down through the
discolored eye, as if it didn’t already demand attention.
When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and looking
back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same spot,
creating a big black ink dot.
“Sorry,” I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and snag a
bookmark, sign that too, and tuck it in the book as an apology.
The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten, and scurries
off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he’s gone.

“Addie, you need to get laid."
In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my
blueberry martini as deeply as my mouth will allow. Daya, my best
friend, eyes me, entirely unimpressed and impatient based on the
quirk of her brow.
I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.
I don’t say this out loud because I can bet my left ass cheek that
her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger d@ck instead.
When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and rips
the plastic from my lips. I’ve reached the bottom of the glass a solid
fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through the
straw. It’s the most action my mouth has gotten in a year now.
“Whoa, personal space,” I mumble, setting the glass down. I avoid
Daya’s eyes, searching the restaurant for the waitress so I can order
another martini. The faster I have the straw in my mouth again, the
sooner I can avoid this conversation some more.
“Don’t deflect, b@tch. You suck at it.”
Our eyes meet, a beat passes, and we both burst into laughter.
“I suck at getting laid, too, apparently,” I say after our laughing
calms.
Daya gives me a droll look. “You've had plenty of opportunities.
You just don’t take them. You’re a hot twenty-six-year-old woman
with freckles, a great pair of t@ts, and an ass to die for. The men are
out here waiting.”
I shrug, deflecting again. Daya isn't exactly wrong—at least about
having options. I’m just not interested in any of them. They all bore
me. All I get is what are you wearing and wanna come over, winky
face at one o’clock in the morning. I’m wearing the same sweatpants
I’ve been wearing the past week, there’s a mysterious stain on my
crotch, and no, I don’t want to f@ck@ng come over.
She flips out an expectant hand. “Give me your phone.”
My eyes widen. “F@ck, no.”
“Adeline Reilly. Give me. Your. F@ck@ng. Phone.”
“Or what?” I taunt.
“Or I will throw myself across the table, embarrass the absolute
sh@t out of you, and get my way anyways.”

My eyes finally catch on our waitress and I flag her down.
Desperately. She rushes over, probably thinking I found a hair in my
food, when really my best friend just has one up her ass right now.
I procrastinate a little bit longer, asking the waitress what drink she
prefers. I’d look through the drink menu a second time if it weren’t
rude to keep her waiting when she has other tables. So alas, I pick a
strawberry martini in favor of the green apple, and the waitress
rushes off again.
Sigh.
I hand the phone over, slapping it in Daya’s still outstretched hand
extra firm because I hate her. She smiles triumphantly and starts
typing away, the mischievous glimmer in her eye growing brighter.
Her thumbs go into turbo speed, causing the golden rings wrapped
around them to nearly blur.
Her sage green eyes are illuminated with a type of evilness you
would only find in Satan’s Bible. If I did a little digging, I’m sure I’d
find her picture somewhere in there, too. A bombshell with dark
brown skin, pin-straight black hair, and a gold hoop in her nose.
She’s probably an evil succubus or something.
“Who are you texting?” I groan, nearly stomping my feet like a
child. I refrain, but come close to allowing a little of my social anxiety
to air out and do something crazy like throwing a temper tantrum in
the middle of the restaurant. It probably doesn’t help that I’m on my
third martini and feeling a tad adventurous right about now.
She glances up, locks my phone, and hands it back a few seconds
later. Immediately, I unlock it again and start searching through my
messages. I groan aloud once more when I see she s@xted Greyson.
Not texted. Sexted.
“Come over tonight and lick my p@ssy. I’ve been craving your huge
c@ck,” I read aloud dryly. That’s not even all of it. The rest goes into
how h@rny I am and touch myself every night to the thought of him.
I growl and give her the filthiest look I can manage. My face would
make a dumpster look like Mr. Clean’s house.
“I wouldn’t even say that!” I complain. “That doesn’t even sound
like me, you b@tch.”

Daya cackles, the teeny little gap between her front teeth on full
display.
I really do hate her.
My phone pings. Daya is nearly bouncing in her seat while I’m
contemplating googling 1000 Ways to Die’s contact information so I
can send them a new story.
“Read it,” she demands, her grabby hands already reaching for my
phone so she can see what he said. I jerk it out of her reach and pull
up the message.
GREYSON: About time u came to your senses, baby. Be over
at 8.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I really f@ck@ng hate you,”
I grumble, giving her another scowl.
She smiles and slurps on her drink. “I love you too, baby girl.”
“F@ck, Addie, I’ve missed you,” Greyson breathes into my neck,
humping me against the wall. My tailbone is going to be bruised in
the morning. I roll my eyes when he slurps at my neck again,
groaning when he rolls his d@ck into the apex of my thighs.
Deciding I needed to get over myself and blow off some steam, I
didn’t cancel on Greyson like I wanted to. Like I want to. I regret that
decision.
Currently, he has me pinned against the wall in my creepy hallway.
Old fashioned sconces line the blood red walls, with dozens of family
pictures from generations in between. I feel like they’re watching me,
scorn and disappointment in their eyes as they witness their
descendant about to get railed right in front of them.
Only a few of the lights work, and they just serve to illuminate the
spiderwebs they’re crawling with. The rest of the hallway is
shadowed entirely, and I’m just waiting for the demon from The
Grudge to come crawling out so I have an excuse to run.
I would definitely trip Greyson on the way out at this point, and not
one inch of me is ashamed.

He murmurs some more dirty things into my ear while I inspect the
sconce hanging above our heads. Greyson said in passing once that
he’s scared of spiders. I wonder if I can discreetly reach up, pluck a
spider from its web, and put it down the back of Greyson’s shirt.
That would light a fire under his ass to get out of here, and he’d
probably be too embarrassed to talk to me again. Win, win.
Just when I actually go to do it, he rears back, panting from all the
solo French kissing he’s been doing with my throat. It’s like he was
waiting for my neck to lick him back or something.
His copper hair is mussed from my hands, and his pale skin is
stained with a blush. The curse of being a redhead, I suppose.
Greyson has everything else going for him in the looks
department. He’s hot as sin, has a beautiful body and a killer smile.
Too bad he can’t f@ck and is a complete and utter douchebag.
“Let’s take this to the bedroom. I need to be inside of you now.”
Internally, I cringe. Externally… I cringe. I try to play it off by jerking
my shirt over my head. He has the attention span of a beagle. And
just like I suspected, he’s already forgotten about my little blunder
and is staring intensely at my t@ts.
Daya was right about that, too. I do have great t@ts.
He reaches up to tear the bra from my body—I probably would’ve
smacked him if he actually ripped it—but he freezes when loud
banging interrupts us from the main floor.
The sound is so sudden, so violently loud that I gasp, my heart
pounding in my chest. Our eyes meet in stunned silence. Someone
is pounding on my front door, and they don’t sound too nice.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asks, his hand dropping to his
side, seemingly frustrated by the interruption.
“No,” I breathe. I quickly tug my shirt back on—backwards—and
rush down the creaky steps. Taking a moment to check outside the
window next to the door, I see the front porch is vacant. My brow
furrows. Letting the curtain fall, I stand in front of the door, the
stillness of the night closing in on the manor.
Greyson walks up beside me and looks over at me with a
confused expression.

“Uh, you gonna answer that?” he asks dumbly, pointing at the door
as if I didn’t know it was right in front of me. I almost thank him for
the directions just to be an ass, but refrain. Something about that
knock has my instincts blaring Code Red. The knock sounded
aggressive. Angry. Like someone had pounded on the door with all
their strength.
A real man would offer to open the door for me after hearing such
a violent sound. Especially when we’re surrounded by a mile of thick
woods and a hundred-foot drop into the water.
But instead, Greyson stares at me expectantly. And a little like I’m
stupid. Huffing, I unlock the door and whip it open.
Again, no one is there. I step out onto the porch, the rotting
floorboards groaning beneath my weight. Cold wind stirs my
cinnamon hair, the strands tickling my face and sending shivers
racing across my skin. Goosebumps rise as I tuck my hair behind my
ears and walk over to one end of the porch. Leaning over the rail, I
look down the side of the house. No one.
No one on the other side of the house, either.
There could easily be someone watching me in the woods, but I
have no way of knowing with it being so dark. Not unless I go out
there and search myself.
And as much as I love horror films, I have no interest in starring in
one.
Greyson joins me on the porch, his own eyes scanning the trees.
There’s someone watching me. I can feel it. I’m as sure of it as I
am about the existence of gravity.
Chills run down my spine, accompanied by a burst of adrenaline.
It’s the same feeling I get when I watch a scary movie. It begins with
the beat of my heart, then a heavy weight settles deep in my
stomach, eventually sinking to my core. I shift, not entirely
comfortable with the feeling right now.
Huffing, I rush back into the house and up the steps. Greyson trails
behind me. I don’t notice he’s in the middle of undressing as he
walks down the hallway until he steps into my room after me. When I
turn, he’s stark naked.

“Seriously?” I bite out. What a f@ck@ng idiot. Someone just banged
on my door like the wood personally put a splinter in their ass, and
he’s immediately ready to pick up where he left off. Slurping on my
neck like one would slurp jello out of a container.
“What?” he asks incredulously, splaying his arms out to his sides.
“Did you not just hear what I heard? Someone was banging on my
door, and it was kind of scary. I’m not in the mood to have sex right
now.”
What happened to chivalry? I would think a normal man would ask
if I’m okay. Feel out how I’m feeling. Maybe try to make sure I’m nice
and relaxed before sticking their d@ck inside me.
You know, read the f@ck@ng room.
“You serious?” he questions, anger sparking in his brown eyes.
They’re a sh@tty color, just like his sh@tty personality and even shittier
stroke game. The dude gives fish a run for their money, the way he
flops when he f@cks. Might as well lay out naked in the fish market—
he’d have a better chance of finding someone to take him home.
That person is not going to be me.
“Yes, I’m serious,” I say with exasperation.
“Goddammit, Addie,” he snaps, angrily swiping up a sock and
putting it on. He looks like an idiot—completely naked save for a
single sock because the rest of his clothes are still thrown
haphazardly in my hallway.
He storms out of my room, snatching up articles of clothing as he
goes. When he gets about halfway down the long hallway, he stops
and turns to me.
“You’re such a b@tch, Addie. All you do is give me blue balls and
I’m sick of it. I’m done with you and this creepy f@ck@ng house,” he
seethes, pointing a finger at me.
“And you’re an @ssh@l@. Get the f@ck out of my house, Greyson.”
His eyes widen with shock first, and then narrow into thin slits,
brimming with fury. He turns, c@cks his arm back and sends his fist
flying into the drywall.
A gasp is ripped from my throat when half of his arm disappears,
my mouth parting in both shock and disbelief.

“Since I’m not getting yours, thought I’d create my own hole to get
into tonight. Fix that, b@tch,” he spits. Still sporting only one sock and
an arm full of clothes, he storms off.
“You d@ck!” I rage, stomping towards the large hole in my wall he
just created.
The front door slams a minute later from below.
I hope the mysterious person is still out there. Let the @ssh@l@ get
murdered wearing a single sock.
  
  

    
      
        
        
          April 4th,1944There's a strange man outside my window.I don't know who he is or what he wants from me. ButI think he knows me. He watches me through the windowswhen John's not home. He wears a top hat on his head,concealing his face from me. I've tried to approach him,but when I do, he runs away.I haven't told John yet. I cannot fathom why, butsomething keeps me from opening my mouth and admittingthat a man is watching me. John wouldn't handle it well.He'd go out with his shotgun and try to find him.I must admit, I'm more afraid of what would happen tomy visitor should my husband succeed.I'm very afraid of this strange man.But my God, am I also intrigued.'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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