Vigil of the Unseen

Chapter Three: The Gift

The insistent scratching clawed at Ethan's sleep, a rusty nail on a chalkboard. He bolted upright, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Pre-dawn gloom clung to the apartment, thick and suffocating.

"What the hell was that?" he muttered, squinting at the clock. 4:13 AM. Way too early for the garbage truck or his perpetually cheery upstairs neighbor practicing the tuba.

He crept towards the door, every floorboard groaning a traitorous complaint. Reaching the peephole, he squinted through the blurry lens. "Hello?" he called out tentatively.

Silence. Just the desolate hallway, swallowed by the oppressive pre-dawn darkness. Relief flooded him, momentarily pushing back the prickling unease that snaked down his spine. Maybe it was just a stray cat, or a particularly enthusiastic squirrel.

Deciding not to tempt fate further, Ethan retreated back to bed. But sleep, once banished, refused to return. He tossed and turned, the scratching sound replaying on a loop in his mind.

Finally, with a groan of frustration, he threw off the covers. "Might as well check it out," he grumbled, grabbing his worn bathrobe.

He cautiously approached the door, each step a heavy thud in the silence. Reaching the handle, he took a deep breath and flung it open.

A small, misshapen package sat on the welcome mat, wrapped in brown paper that seemed to writhe in the dim light. No return address, no name. Just his, scrawled in a script that looked more like claw marks than handwriting.

Fury bubbled up in his gut. "Seriously?" he growled, snatching the package. "Who does this?"

He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the apartment complex like a gunshot. Back in his living room, the package pulsed on the coffee table, an unwelcome presence. He wanted to hurl it across the room, shatter whatever sick message it held.

But a morbid curiosity gnawed at him. "Maybe a wrong delivery," he muttered, trying to reason. He carefully tore open the paper, the sound a harsh rasp in the tense silence.

Inside, nestled in shredded brown, lay a sketchbook and a set of expensive drawing pencils. Relief, fleeting and treacherous, washed over him. Maybe a wrong delivery, a misplaced order. But as he flipped open the sketchbook, the relief drained from his face, replaced by a chilling dread.

Each page was filled with him – in chilling detail. A sketch from his favorite café, capturing the way he absentmindedly stirred his coffee. Another from the crosswalk, the precise angle of his stride perfectly mirrored. And finally, the one that stole his breath – a detailed rendering of his apartment building, his window circled meticulously.

"What the actual…" he choked out, the sketchbook clattering to the floor. The playful morning light filtering through the blinds seemed like a cruel joke. This wasn't a game. This was a violation, a chilling intrusion into his life.

He fumbled for his phone, his fingers shaking. "9-1-1," he barked into the receiver, his voice tight with a mix of anger and fear.

"Emergency services. What is your emergency?" a calm voice responded.

"Someone's been stalking me," Ethan blurted out. "They left a package outside my door, a sketchbook filled with drawings of me."

The dispatcher, unfazed, took his details with practiced efficiency. "Describe the drawings, sir. Anything specific?"

Ethan gripped the phone tighter, recounting the details in a rush. The café scene, the crosswalk, the terrifying apartment building sketch. Each word tasted like ash in his mouth.

"And the package itself? Anything unusual about it?"

He examined the crumpled brown paper on the floor. "No, just… plain brown paper."

The dispatcher sighed. "Alright, sir. We'll send a patrol car over to take a look. In the meantime, do you have any security cameras outside your apartment?"

"No," Ethan admitted, the answer a bitter pill to swallow. "I should have gotten some after that break-in last year."

"Try to stay calm, sir. And don't open the door to anyone you don't know."

Ethan hung up the phone, frustration and fear warring within him. He wasn't safe. Not anymore.

Just then, a rapping sounded at the door. He jumped, heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs. Who could it be at this hour?

He crept closer to the door, the peephole offering a sliver of reassurance. A uniformed officer stood outside, his face grim.

"Ethan Miller?" the officer asked through the door, his voice a welcome sound in the unsettling quiet.

"Yeah, that's me," Ethan replied, his voice hoarse. He fumbled with the locks, flinging the door open a crack. "Thank God you're here. This is…" he trailed off, gesturing towards the coffee table where the sketchbook lay open, a gruesome display.

The officer, a woman with a no-nonsense demeanor and a name tag that read "Officer Ramirez," stepped inside. Her gaze swept over the room, settling on the incriminating evidence.

"What's going on here, Mr. Miller?" she asked, her voice firm but laced with concern.

Ethan took a deep breath, forcing himself to speak coherently. "I woke up to this package at my door," he explained, gesturing towards the crumpled brown paper on the floor. "No name, no address, just my name scrawled on it like a bad horror movie."

Officer Ramirez knelt down, examining the paper with a practiced eye. "And what was inside?" she inquired, already suspecting the answer.

"This," Ethan said, his voice tight as he picked up the sketchbook and flipped through the pages, each sketch a fresh wave of nausea. "Drawings. Drawings of me. Like someone's been following me, watching me."

Officer Ramirez's brow furrowed as she studied the detailed illustrations. "These are… unsettling, Mr. Miller," she admitted, her voice grim. "Can you tell us where these places are?"

Ethan pointed at each sketch in turn, his voice shaky. "That's the café I go to every morning for coffee. This one's from the crosswalk near my office. And that…" he choked, pointing at the final sketch, "that's my apartment building, with my window circled."

A cold dread seeped into his bones as Officer Ramirez mirrored his action, her eyes lingering on the circled window. This wasn't just harassment; this was a twisted threat.

"Alright, Mr. Miller," Officer Ramirez said, her voice firm despite the unsettling evidence. "We're going to take this sketchbook and the packaging for analysis. We'll also need to dust your apartment for fingerprints, just in case."

Ethan nodded numbly, a wave of helplessness washing over him. "Do you think you'll be able to find who did this?" he asked, a desperate plea in his voice.

"We'll do everything we can," Officer Ramirez promised. "In the meantime, you need to be very careful. Don't open the door to anyone you don't know, and if you see anything suspicious, call us immediately."

As the officers finished dusting the apartment and collecting evidence, Ethan felt a flicker of hope. Maybe they could find something, a clue, anything that would lead them to the person behind this twisted game. But the hope was fragile, easily extinguished by the chilling certainty that lurked in the back of his mind – someone was watching him, and now, they knew exactly where he lived.

Outside, across the street shrouded in pre-dawn shadows, a figure stood motionless. Darian, a predator savoring the fear he'd instilled. The game had begun, and with a twisted smile, he watched Ethan's apartment building, his eyes fixated on the circled window. The hunt was on.