The next two days felt like a drag as I had put myself on lockdown in my room. It didn't bother me too much. Not like I'd been missing anything important anyways. Well, except maybe the chance to snoop. Patty's invitation to go vision hunting yesterday was tempting. But I had turned her down. That way, I could think undisturbed. Too bad my plans were working a little too smoothly. I could think alright—just not in the ways I wanted to.

Saturday night, a few hours after returning home from Mr. Jefferson's diner, I fully expected to catch another shadow lurking around our house. But nothing. All of Sunday was the same, and I was thinking of calling it quits for today too. After all, stalking the streets from my window felt hopeless. Maybe I'd imagined things like Patty thought. Hell, I didn't know anymore.

"Right on time," I cheered under my breath as the postal vehicle cruising down the street broke me from my trance. I then hopped off the window sill and darted out of my room.

"Don't eat while you're laying down! You'll choke!" I called out to Junior, whilst rushing past the living room. He was flat on his back, a bag of chips lying on his stomach. He shot back, what I assumed was, a smart remark, that I couldn't understand through his crunching and munching. I rolled my eyes and let out a long sigh at his childish behavior.

Since locking myself in my room, my mother thought it was the perfect opportunity for me to keep an eye on Junior while she worked. And of course, he chose today to act like a little spoiled brat. By the time I approached the curb, Byron parked his truck in front of me.

"Good afternoon, Tyler. Here's your mail for today," Byron said, his usual small smile gracing his face. He handed me a few envelopes—per usual—and surprisingly, a small brown box with a thin brown string tied around it. A package? With my name on it? Well, that was unusual.

"Is this for me?" I asked, my nose screwed up.

"Uhh, that's what it says, isn't it? You weren't expecting a delivery?" Byron's eyebrows pinched together as he leaned forward, examining the package with me.

I shook my head, murmuring, "No, I don't remember ordering anything recently. . ."

"Maybe your mom ordered something?" he suggested.

"I don't know, maybe." I shrugged. I doubted it though. She always told us when she had a package out for delivery. "Thanks anyway, Byron. Drive safely."

"No problem, kid. And thanks," he said. Then, he was off.

If I didn't order anything and my mother didn't order anything, then where the hell did this package come from? Junior, possibly? No, I didn't think so. The white sticker on the box had my name and address. Nothing more. So, I was dealing with an unknown sender then. Just Perfect. Because sure, that was exactly what I needed on top of everything else.

My hands were busy with the string as I kicked the front door shut behind me. Sheesh, this thing was tight. It didn't budge until I was back in the privacy of my room. I flopped down on my bed, the package fit snugly on my lap.

"What the hell is this?" A frown touched my lips as I pried the box open. What greeted me from inside, was an old piece of newspaper taped to the front of an old tape recorder. That wasn't the weirdest detail of all though. After a quick scan of the article, I noticed it was dated back to 1965. What? No, that wasn't right. Someone had to be messing with me. Right? That had to be.

"Lake Bellinor's Group Home for Teens celebrates its grand opening. . ." I read the title of the article word for word. The more it sucked me in, the higher my nose screwed up.

Oh, this article was from 1965, alright. It was so old it was turning brown. Not to mention parts of the article were missing, as though someone had shredded sections of it. For whatever reason that might've been. I didn't think I wanted to know the answer to that.

I scooped the tape recorder into my other hand and set the newspaper down beside me. A loud, nasally voice—sounding like that of an older woman—mixed in with static, oozed from the recording on the other end. The noisy background nearly made it impossible to understand.

"I think this is a good thing. It's a good thing that's been needed in this town for a long time now, you know? Lake Bellinor's very first group home. A place, you know, for all the troubled youth. For all the kids without a home. It's great and—" I pressed pause.

An interview recording from 1965? Was that what this was? No way. I refused to believe that. For an object with a recording so old, it was too up to date. Unlike its newspaper counterpart.

I played, then paused the tape recording again.

"Dammit. . ." Still not clear enough. Finally, I repeated those steps two more times before I'd been able to come to a conclusion—the interview had been recorded off of something. Perhaps a TV or a laptop. Either way, after listening twice more, I'd heard the faint background noise layered on top of the original noisy background on the recording.

Someone had gone through the trouble to record the interview on a tape recorder and send it to me. Why? My next question would have been who, but unfortunately, I already had an idea. My stalker wasn't so imaginary, after all.

I tossed the tape recorder to the side and the first thing I grabbed was my phone. "Lake Bellinor's Group Home for Teens," I repeated the name as I typed it in on my Google. The minute the search results popped up, I clicked into the image tab.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting. But as I laid eyes on the very lake house that'd been the bane of my existence lately, and a sinking feeling traveled through my abdomen, I realized it most certainly wasn't a picture of a group home in the same location. No, not even just the same location. They were the same exact house. Well shit.

"Lake Bellinor's Group Home for Teens was the lake house. . ." I frowned again. Even saying it aloud didn't sound right to me. Nor did it sit right with me. Why would my stalker want me to know this? Better yet, what the hell did they want from me? So many questions, so little answers. Nonetheless, I snapped a screenshot of the group home.

After collecting as much evidence as I could, I tucked the tape recorder and the newspaper back into the box. My mind was spiraling with too many thoughts. For starters, how the hell was I going to tell Christian about this? I couldn't imagine he'd be keen to know I received a mysterious package from a mysterious person with questionable motives.

Yeah, sure, that'd go over well with him—definitely not.

I sent Christian a quick message, stating that we needed to talk, then proceeded to slide the box under my bed. When it was hidden back far enough, I checked the window—out of habit. No one was out there except for our not-so-friendly-looking new neighbor standing on his lawn.

He stood in an almost military-like stance; arms folded, with wandering eyes. It was then I noticed the two curly-headed children kicking a ball back and forth in the front yard. Both their faces beamed with bright smiles. Wherever they and the ball went, his eyes were two steps ahead. He was protective, I'd give him that. I'd say, on constant high alert too.

"Alexis! Jasper! Don't you dare run into that street!" My thoughts were interrupted by a loud, booming voice. I looked over to find the man speed walking towards the curb. Both children appeared to have just stopped running. I watched them stand by the edge of the sidewalk, their moans and complaints just as loud, as they pointed to their ball bouncing along the street. It bounced and bounced until it landed at the foot of our lawn, slowly rolling to a stop.

I could've sworn I felt my eye twitch. Of course. And to think I'd never have to interact with the man. He was on a mission to get the ball back, obviously, seeing as he was already on the move. But I was faster. Much faster. Maybe a little too fast, actually.

I charged out of my room and down the stairs, ignoring Junior's rapid questioning as I passed him by. I then swung the house door open. Hopefully not with too much force, where it looked like I was stalking them. The man was halfway to our house. I could see his face a lot clearer today. There was no cap on his head, and his eyes were darker than I was used to.

The only thing more intriguing than that was the scar along the top of his right shoulder blade. I wasn't sure how but I was just now noticing it. Probably because he was wearing a black ting-top today. The scar was thick too. Thick, long, and wide. Perhaps a knife mark? Maybe.

"Is this yours?" I asked the obvious, picking the ball up.

He paused. One foot on the curb, the other in the street.

"It is," he said. Nodding, I walked to him.

The walk felt a lot longer than it should have. Probably because I was three seconds away from shitting my pants. There was something about this guy—something I couldn't put my finger on—that told me he wasn't to be messed with. Starting with his permanent glare. Whether it was directed at me or not, I wasn't sure. I knew it wasn't going anywhere though.

I was prepared to step back as fast as possible, after slipping the ball into his hands, my mind, however, had other plans. Yelling ensued in my head upon skin contact.

"Robert, stop this instance! Robert!" I didn't think the screams could get any more disturbing than that. The noises that followed were even more disturbing. I saw a fist flying forward, and heard a crunch in my ear. The sound of someone's bones cracking. Someone's nose? Seemed like it. That thought was confirmed when the events became clearer.

Robert, or as I knew him—our not-so-friendly-looking neighbor—straddled the waist of a stockier boy, bloodied from his nose to his jaw. The punches were repeatedly, and Robert's face was the face of a man who was ready to commit murder. How long ago was this? He couldn't have been any older than twenty-years-old. Nor could he have been younger than my age. Same for the boy on the end of his wrath. I feared he'd fall unconscious if this continued.

It'd appear I wasn't the only one who thought so. As teenagers crowded around them in what looked like a small, open, patchy grass area, adults attempted to pull Robert off the boy. But Robert was determined. Angry. It was a side of him I feared could go into action at any moment. But worse. Much worse. It made me wonder if he still had that kind of anger in him.

"What is it, kid? You got something you want to say to me?" Speak of the devil, and he shall interrupt my thoughts again. The vision disappeared, and instead, I'd been graced with Robert's narrowed eyes. He rotated the ball in his hands, lips pulled up into a scowl.

"Oh, ah, um. . ." I fumbled.

"Staring is rude. Nobody ever told you that?" He cocked an eyebrow at me. Shit, the man was so intimidating, I could hardly get a word out. And my vision did nothing to help with that. Suddenly, Robert sighed. "Listen here kid, you do that a lot, you know? You shouldn't go around just staring at any and everybody, okay? It can make people uncomfortable."

"A-ah right. Ha, I'm sorry." I mentally cursed myself for stuttering.

He surveyed me a moment too long, before checking back over his shoulder for his kids, who watched with curious eyes, then back at me. "You got a name kid?" That was the softest I'd ever seen his face. Which wasn't much considering he still looked far-too intimidating for words.

I gulped. "Tyler."

"Robert," he said. "From now on, no more staring. You have a question, you just ask."

"Okay, yeah. I understand," I said, shaking my head vigorously. The blood didn't start flowing to my head again until he ventured back across the street. As I stared at the scar on his shoulder, I wondered about the brutal fight I'd witnessed. It wasn't even much of a fight, honestly, since the stockier boy stood no chance.

Still, what the hell pissed him off so much that he was willing to beat him bloody? It was unclear who started it. Robert damn sure finished it though. And I wouldn't be able to rest until I knew, for sure, how much more there was to the events than I'd seen.