One Tiny Secret

Chapter Thirteen

My break at work couldn’t have come quick enough. I’ve spent the entire day at school—and so far, at work—in a daze, going over everything that’s happened. My mind is cluttered to the point of driving me insane. I even had to turn off my phone because I was afraid of getting a mocking text from that unknown bastard. I mean, how was this person able to make that video pop up on several screens in the computer lab, and then erase all evidence of the video and the texts? Not to mention the fact the person got a hold of one of my earrings. What did I do to deserve all of this?

I turn on the computer in the back office to do a Google search for “How to erase text messages on someone else’s phone,” and it comes back with a ton of results. Most of them say it’s not possible, but I know that it is since it happened to me. Then I find articles about phone apps with these capabilities. That must be how the person is doing it—an effing app. There’s one called Text Destruct, and it allows the sender to set a timer on the message before it destroys it. Great. Looks like I’ll never be able to prove this unknown person is sending me texts. Advancements in technology are great and all, but this shit’s ridiculous.

Feeling defeated, I resort to checking my email. I’m expecting some Friday issue corrections from Mr. Whitman. His email is at the top of the list, but right under it is one from a nameless sender. Thinking it’s one of the hundreds of emails I get about free cruises and winning the lottery, I flag it as spam and press delete. The moment I delete it and go to click on Mr. Whitman’s email, another message from a nameless sender appears right above it. This time, there’s a subject. It simply says:

Turn on your phone.

I stop in confusion and study the title. Clicking on the email, it appears on the screen. All that’s written is:

You can’t get rid of me that easily.

I want to yell, “Screw you” at the computer, but my boss would probably hear me and think I’m crazy…er. I fight with myself about whether to turn on my phone. Do I really want to give this creep the satisfaction of doing what they want?

Another ping on the computer screen draws my attention. There’s another email just above the one before with the subject:

I’m waiting…

How does this f*cker know my phone’s still off? I’m getting really tired of this.

Once more, a ping sounds from the computer, bringing along with it yet another email. I almost don’t even want to look at it, but I can’t resist taking a quick peek. I’m unable to read the subject by glancing at it, so I give it my full attention:

This is far from over...turn on your phone!

I sense from the exclamation point that the person is getting frustrated. Good! It’s about damn time they’re frustrated rather than me. Ignoring the emails from the unknown sender, I click on the one from Mr. Whitman. As I’m reading, I can’t help but be drawn to the slew of new emails that keep popping up behind the current window I have open. Unknown is filling my inbox with message after message, all saying to turn on my phone. The constant pinging is driving me nuts, so I mute the sound on the computer.

Trying to fight against reading any more emails, I return to Mr. Whitman’s. I can’t believe it. Instead of attaching the pictures of the mock-up cover, he decided to take them with his new camera phone and send them to mine. Seriously? That means I have to turn on my phone.

Retrieving the phone from my pocket, I proceed to turn it on, knowing full well this is a terrible idea. My heartbeat quickens when I hear the chime of the start-up tune as it comes to life, and fear what else I’ll find other than a picture message from Mr. Whitman. Slowly typing in my password, I cringe when I press enter and the home screen pops up. I feel kind of stupid when I avert my eyes, like something is going to jump out of my phone at me, but I’m just so effin’ worried about what Unknown has sent.

My phone seems to be normal. There are only three messages appearing in the top menu bar. One is from Mr. Whitman, one is from Rory, and one is from Parker. I wonder why Unknown was so persistent about me turning on my phone.

I press on Rory’s message first and it’s the usual, “How are you?” and “What’s going on?” text. Parker’s message is a little more interesting, asking if we can chat somewhere tonight in private. In private? Well, the last time we were in private…

Shaking the thought out of my head, I continue on to Mr. Whitman’s picture message.

While I’m perusing the proof images he sent over, my phone signals when another message comes through. I bet it’s from Unknown.

Closing out of Mr. Whitman’s text after saving the pictures, I open the one from Unknown.

Do as I say or your little video goes viral…

“Son of a bitch,” I curse to myself. That video can’t get out. I know this person isn’t bluffing because of what they did in the computer lab. Against my better judgment, I reply:

What do I have to do?

There’s a little lull between texts, but then another message comes through:

To Kill a Mockingbird…find it.

“To Kill a Mockingbird? What, like the book?”

I rise from the chair and head out of the back office toward the front of the store.

“Done with break already?” Joan asks from behind the counter as I pass her.

“Not quite,” I reply, heading into the stacks to locate Harper Lee in the classics section.

Scanning the bookshelves, I finally come upon Lee and pluck one of the five copies we have of To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelf. I’ve read this book a million times, but now I’m scared to even crack it open, fearing what will be within its pages. As I begin to flip through the book, I find nothing. No writing, no pictures, no notes…nothing.

I reach out for the copy next to the one I took in hopes this will be the one, but as I grab for it, I notice the fourth copy over has a small X etched on its spine. Pulling it out, I feel there’s something within the pages and can see the book bulging at the center. I turn to the middle of the book and find a folded piece of college-ruled notebook paper stuck there. The message on the paper reads:

Remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird…and oops, you just did. Well, not directly…

Is Janice the mockingbird? Is Janice dead? I really don’t think I can handle this right now. This isn’t funny or even remotely entertaining, and for the record, it never has been. There’s still more to the message:

Death of a Salesman…find it!

I really don’t want to play anymore, but I can’t risk that video getting out. I’m at the beck and call of this sick freak, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Okay, so Arthur Miller wrote Death of a Salesman, and technically it should still be in the classics, since it is one. I look through the shelves again, perusing for Miller.

“It should be right here near Lee,” I tell myself when I can’t find it right away. “Miller, found it.”

I look for the copy with the X on it because there are three. Taking the marked one, I flip it open to the middle of the book and find another folded piece of paper. The message reads:

You’re liked, but you’re not well liked.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I ask in a severe whisper, feeling confused and uneasy at the same time. This person is really testing my patience. There’s more:

The Masque of the Red Death…find it!

That’s one of my all-time favorite Edgar Allan Poe stories. I wonder if this person knows that. I wonder how well this person knows me in general. I mean, the person knows my schedule, where I work, has access to my school, my house. The more I think about it, the more fearful and vulnerable I feel. Clearly this person has done something to Janice, and now I’m officially the next target.

“How is this all going to end?” I ask myself before tracking down Poe in the stacks.

I know the aisle that Poe is in very well, and it takes me no time at all to find the book. I’ve spent many slow days here, perusing Poe’s works over and over again until I committed most of them to memory.

There are only two copies of the book—one is the standalone print copy, and the other is a part of the giant book of Poe. I don’t see an X on either one. Picking up the print copy, I don’t feel anything inside of it. There’s no bulge, and nothing falls out when I shake the book open with its pages facing downward.

I place that copy back on the shelf and pluck out the big book of Poe. I already know what page number The Masque of the Red Death starts on, so I immediately turn to it. There’s nothing there either. Then something dawns on me and I hurry out to where I last saw my boss.

“Joan, didn’t we have two paperback copies of Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death?” I ask, seeing her helping a customer at the checkout counter.

“Yeah, I just sold it to this gentleman here,” she replies, holding up the book for me to see.

I go into panic mode and try to think of some excuse to get that book back. A stroke of genius hits me like a lightning bolt as I rush over to the counter.

“Hey, let me see that copy real quick,” I say, extending my hand out for it.

“Why?” Joan asks, confused.

“Yeah, why?” the customer chimes in, also reaching for the book. “Come on, I’ve got to get going. I need to have this read before class tomorrow.”

I see Joan about to hand it over to the guy, and I pipe up. “Wait—is there an X on the spine of that book?”

Joan looks at the spine. “Yeah, there is.”

“That’s the defective copy. I marked it myself after reading some of it. It’s got some weird printing issues, and I just forgot to pull it from the shelf,” I lie, but I have to get that book.

“That’s okay. I just need to read it for class,” the guy insists.

Thankfully, Joan hesitates and then replies, “Dani will you please grab the other copy for this gentleman so that he can be on his way? We don’t sell defective copies in this store.”

“Got it. I’ll take that copy and do the return paperwork if you want, Joan,” I offer.

“Good idea,” she says, giving me the book.

I breathe an internal sigh of relief once I have the book in my hands. I seriously have to fight every temptation to not just rip it open and find the next message right then and there.

Hurrying back into the stacks to retrieve the other copy for the customer, I find myself succumbing to my want to see what’s inside. The bulge feels a little different in this one, and I’m surprised that neither the guy who was buying it nor Joan felt this and thought it was odd.

Opening the book to the middle, I don’t find a piece of paper. Instead I find my other skull-and-crossbones earring taped to the page. I want to scream, but find that no sound comes out. These earrings were on my dresser last night. I know they were because I took them off and put them there myself. This person has been in my room—probably while I was sleeping. Why didn’t the person just kill me then, or kidnap me? Why is Unknown toying with me?

My phone pings, signaling that a message has come through. Waking up the phone, I see it’s from Unknown.

Scary stuff, huh? Just imagine what I could’ve done…

There’s a picture attached to the message. I open it and gasp when I see it’s a photo of me sleeping. I drop my phone and crouch down in the aisle, not knowing what to do next. Tears fill my eyes as I think about the fact that this person watched me sleep. Unknown has invaded my personal space.

Alone doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling right now. The worst part is that no one will believe this is even happening, since Unknown will probably erase all the evidence.

I hear my boss call out to me from the front counter. “Uh, Dani, he’s waiting.”

Regaining my composure, I grab the phone and stand up. Wiping my eyes, I say, “I’m coming, Joan.” Quickly checking my messages from Unknown again, I see they’re all gone… just as I suspected they would be.