Chapter Three: The Stranger's Warning
Felicia woke before dawn, her sleep broken by the same old static—a low, electric hum that seemed to vibrate in her bones. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house creak and settle. In the next room, Lillian and Gary slept on, their breathing soft and even. For a moment, Felicia let herself believe that everything was normal, that she was just another mother with a messy life and too many worries. But the illusion shattered as soon as she checked her phone.
A new message blinked on her screen, unsigned and untraceable:
"They're watching. Don't trust anyone. Meet me at the corner store. 8 a.m."
Felicia's heart raced. She deleted the message and slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the kids. She moved through the morning routine in a daze—packing lunches, checking backpacks, kissing foreheads—her mind spinning with questions. Who had sent the message? Was it a trap, or was someone else out there who actually saw what was happening?
She dropped the kids at school, ignoring the wary glances from other parents. The whispers followed her—rumors about her mental state, about the police, about the "incident" at the doctor's office. She could feel the invisible wall growing higher, thicker, with every sideways look. She kept her head down and drove to the corner store, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached.
The store was nearly empty. A bored cashier scrolled through her phone behind the counter. Felicia wandered the aisles, pretending to browse, scanning every face. She was about to give up when she noticed a woman by the freezer section, her back to the door, hair tucked under a faded baseball cap. The woman glanced over her shoulder, made brief eye contact, and then looked away. Felicia's instincts screamed at her to leave, but curiosity—and desperation—kept her rooted.
She approached slowly, picking up a carton of milk she didn't need. The woman spoke without turning around. "Don't look at me. Just listen."
Felicia's breath caught. "Who are you?"
"A friend. Or as close to one as you'll find right now," the woman said quietly. "You're not crazy. They're making you look that way. They pay people to ignore you, to gaslight you, to keep you isolated. If you push too hard, they'll try to disappear you for good."
Felicia's hands shook. "Why? Why me?"
The woman shrugged. "You saw something. Or you know something. Sometimes that's all it takes. They pick a target, test their systems, see how far they can push. You're not the first."
Felicia's mind reeled. "My kids—are they safe?"
"For now. But you need to be careful. Don't trust anyone. Not your neighbors, not your friends, not your family. They can turn anyone with the right incentive. Money, threats, favors—everyone has a price."
Felicia glanced around, her paranoia sharpening. "What do I do?"
The woman slipped a folded piece of paper into Felicia's hand. "Read this when you're alone. Burn it after. And don't come looking for me. If they think you have help, they'll double down."
Felicia nodded, her throat tight. "Thank you."
The woman left without another word, blending into the morning crowd as if she'd never been there at all. Felicia paid for the milk and hurried to her car, her mind racing. She locked the doors and unfolded the note.
"They use frequency manipulation—sound, light, even smell. If you feel sick, dizzy, or like you're not yourself, that's them. Document everything. Hide copies in places only you know. Trust no one. If you're reading this, you're already a threat to them. Stay alive."
Felicia read the note three times before burning it with her lighter, watching the edges curl and blacken. She drove home on autopilot, every car in her rearview mirror a potential tail, every pedestrian a possible spy.
Back at the house, she set to work. She wrote down everything she could remember—names, dates, places, strange encounters. She hid flash drives in the air vents, behind loose bricks, inside a hollowed-out book. She encrypted files and sent them to anonymous dropboxes. She started a journal, coded and disguised, tracking every detail.
The paranoia was exhausting, but it was also empowering. For the first time, Felicia felt like she had a purpose, a plan. She wasn't just a victim anymore. She was a witness, a record keeper, a survivor.
The days blurred together. Felicia became hyper-aware of her surroundings. She noticed the same cars parked on her street, the same strangers at the grocery store, the same odd clicks and hisses on her phone line. She changed her routines, took different routes, kept her children close.
One afternoon, as she picked up Lillian and Gary from school, Lillian tugged at her sleeve. "Mommy, why do people look at us funny?"
Felicia knelt down, forcing a smile. "Sometimes people believe things that aren't true, sweetheart. But we know who we are, right?"
Lillian nodded, but her eyes were troubled. Gary clung to Felicia's hand, silent and watchful.
That night, Felicia found a strange envelope on her doorstep. Inside was a single photograph—her, walking the kids to school, circled in red marker. On the back, a message:
"You're being watched. Stay in line."
Felicia's hands shook as she tore the photo to pieces and flushed it down the toilet. She checked the locks on every door and window, then sat at the kitchen table, staring into the darkness. The fear was real, but so was her resolve.
She would not be silenced. She would not be erased. She would fight for her children, for her truth, for her very existence.
As the city slept, Felicia wrote in her journal, her words sharp and steady:
I am not alone. I am not crazy. I am not done.
She hid the journal in the freezer, behind a bag of peas, and went to bed with the weight of the world on her shoulders—but also, for the first time, a flicker of hope burning in her chest.