“You are not alone. You are never alone,” a man’s voice whispered.
She spun around, her heart skittering. Who said that? Her gaze scanned the interior of her kitchen. Nothing. Standing, she walked into the living room. It was empty too. She moved into the bedroom and shivered as cold air swirled around her. Strange. There’d never been a draft before. Something wavered in her peripheral vision. Her head jerked toward the movement; her breath caught in her throat. The window was wide open, and the curtains fluttered in the encroaching fog.
Eleanor couldn’t move, her feet unwilling to step toward the window. Her unease came speeding back like an avalanche down a steep ravine. Someone had been in her house. Someone had broken in.
“Get a grip, Eleanor.”
Who would want to break into her house? But what other explanation was there? Gathering her courage, she walked to the window and yanked it shut, securing the lock. She looked out the window and down at the flowerbed beneath it. Nothing was disturbed, not even a footprint in the dirt or the tall grass that passed for her lawn. Nor was there anyone to be seen anywhere, but she hadn’t expected to see someone, not with the fog already creeping in.
Pulling the curtains shut, she stepped away from the window and rubbed her arms. She began to shiver uncontrollably. Her legs collapsed, dropping her to the floor, and her back collided with the side of the bed. Wave upon wave of grief consumed her. She gasped for air as the reality of her situation descended upon her. Great rasping sobs shook her body. She shuddered and cried, memories of her parents that she’d locked away rushed over her. And she knew that if anything happened to her out here, no one would know. No one would care. No matter what that whisper claimed, she was truly alone.