Beware of the Pen

As soon as I walked into my house, I knew something was wrong. It was this feeling I had that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Someone was here, uninvited.

Standing in my entryway, with my hand still on the doorknob, I begin to slowly look around the living room, noticing that picture frames on the mantle and side table have been rearranged and moved. As my eyes slowly move around the room, noticing changes, something catches my eye by the fireplace. What is that? It looks like a small piece of paper and that definitely was not there when I left the house a few hours ago. Wait. I think there’s something written on it. I stand on my tippy toes, hoping to somehow have a better advantage to see what is written on the paper. My 5’2” height doesn’t allow for much peeping over fences or seeing a parade walk by from the back row. Nor does it help now, trying to see that stupid piece of paper.

“This is stupid,” I mutter to myself. Forcing myself to let go of my front door and close it softly, I quietly walk to the offending piece of paper, that could very well be a distraction set to lure me inside so a serial killer can do away with me and pick it up.

My hands are shaking so badly that I have to hold the piece of paper with both hands so I can read what it says:

I love what you’ve done with the place. I hope you don’t mind, but I moved some things around. More to my liking. Remember what I told you? You are running out of time. Leave. Leave before the end of the week or I will kill you. It’s as simple as that. And don’t tell anyone that you are leaving. They won’t even know you’re gone.

Crap. My thoughts immediately go to Monday, when I began getting phone calls and messages from some creep telling me what I did that day, what I was wearing, where I went, even what I ate. I don’t frighten easily, and on Monday I just blew the whole thing off thinking was just some troll from one of the social media sites that didn’t like my latest comment. Besides, working with homeless teens I’ve learned to get a thick skin. Even yesterday, when I got the text message telling me I had till Friday to disappear or I would be killed, I wasn’t overly concerned. But now, with the break-in, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about it being nothing'.

“Ok Mari, just breathe,” I tell myself. My anxiety is beginning to increase as I continue to look around the room. Aside from a few pillows that have been thrown in a corner, nothing else seems to be out of place. My heart feels like it is skipping every other beat as I realize, I will have to walk through the house to make sure I am alone. Of course, my gun is in my bedroom, at the back of the house. I mentally slap myself on my forehead and begin making plans to buy a gun for every room in the house.

Taking another deep breath, I grab the fireplace poker and carry it like I’m about to hit a home run, Babe Ruth style. Of course, if I really do swing it like that, I will probably break a few things, put a hole in the wall, and probably hurt myself, but never-the-less, I am ready to defend myself.

I walk into the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks. Honestly, I feel a little like one of the three bears after Goldilocks came for a visit. Whoever broke in, not only made themselves at home, but they also made a mess. Every piece of fruit has a bite taken out of it. Milk is left on the counter, with the lid off and it is obvious that someone drank straight from the jug. My bread looks like someone choked it, which makes my own throat begin to close up.

Packages of food that were in the pantry, and had not been opened, were now open and most of the contents are spilled all over like they were thrown confetti style. My emergency tub of chocolate icing is laying upside down on the countertop. I gingerly reach out to pick it up while keeping one eye moving around the kitchen and see that someone has been eating it. The spoon still has trace amounts of icing on it although it appears that someone made an attempt to lick the spoon clean.

“Damn! I could really use some chocolate now” I mutter as I look at what is left of the icing. Deciding that I didn’t want to test my luck, I put it back on the counter without even a small taste. I’m about to walk out of the kitchen, consigned to the fact that it would require many hours of cleaning and then restocking everything when I see another piece of paper.

The paper is sort of hanging out of my cutlery drawer. I inch closer, still not sure there isn’t a bomb in the drawer, or a snake, or something. I open the drawer all the way and pick up the paper. Before I can read what it says, my eyes dart to my silverware. I can feel my anger rising as I take a careful, closer look.

A yell sounding more like a war cry escapes my lips and at that precise moment, I feel like I could shoot laser beams from my eyes. “Oh no, Honey. You have stepped over the line. The hunted is now the hunter.” Inside the drawer are two empty cans of my favorite soda; both have been poured into the drawer. First the icing, now my soda. This. Means. War.

Forgetting my fear, I drop the fireplace poker, snatch the piece of paper before it gets ruined by the sugary lake in my cutlery drawer, and sit down on one of my barstools along the countertop leading into the dining room. Fuming and muttering under my breath about inconsiderate people who waste other people’s food, I look at the note:

I was a little hungry so I thought I would grab a ‘bite’. I do love chocolate icing, but you really shouldn’t consume so much sugar. Soda’s are bad for you. I did you a favor pouring it out. Sorry I missed the sink, luv. Remember…Tick-Tock!

I throw the paper down on the counter, rub my temples, and close my eyes. “Think Mari” I tell myself. Who could this be and why would they want to literally kill me? I put my head down on the counter, cradling it in my arms, and begin to focus on my breathing. I know I have to remain calm. I need to think logically, not irrationally. I can’t just jump online and call this mysterious person out. Something tells me that she would enjoy the public attention, not to mention an opportunity to do more damage.

Then it happens. A thought begins to form. No. A question. If I concentrate too much, it slips between my fingers. “Stay relaxed. Just breathe” I remind myself. And then it becomes clear. The notes. There is something about the notes.

I run back into the living room, pick up the first note and examine it. I compare it with the note I found in the kitchen and there it is. The link between the notes, and hopefully to the idiot that thought this was a good idea.

First, let me say I love pens and markers. All colors. I have hundreds. But the pen that wrote these notes is no ordinary pen. It is a fountain pen and if you are not familiar with fountain pens, then writing with them can be messy. If I put one note on top of the other, I can see where the ink bled through to the next page. That means both pages were still in a notebook of some sort when the first one was written. And when the second note was written, she either did not see the bleed-through or didn’t care. And that was her first mistake.

But where is my fountain pen? I didn’t see it in the mess in the kitchen. And a quick look around the rest of the house shows it is relatively undisturbed and sans fountain pen. A slow smile makes its way across my face as I realize that she took the fountain pen with her. This was her second mistake.

I am almost giddy as I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket and flip through my apps. My fountain pen, like many of my belongings, is a multitasking device. Sure it writes beautifully. It is also a GPS tracking device. And I can turn it on remotely. Locating the app for the pen, I click to get the current location and run out of the house, quickly locking the door behind me.

Once in my car, I follow the directions on my phone that lead me directly to the location of my fountain pen. My new favorite fountain pen.

It is almost dark by the time I get to my destination. I double-check that the pen is still at this location, and it is. Coming here was an impulsive act so I have no idea what I am going to do now that I am here. As I am debating going to the house, banging on the door, and demanding an explanation, a dark figure comes out of the house. I instinctively slink down in my seat and try to make out who the figure is at the same time. With daylight dwindling down, the shadows of the trees put the front of the house deeper into shadow. The figure drives away without giving me or my car a second look.

I wait a few minutes, check for the location of my pen, which is still in the house, look up and down the street looking for headlights or shadowy figures lurking in bushes. Seeing nothing, I quietly slink to the shadows in front of the house. Reaching the front door, I test the knob and am surprised it is unlocked. I quietly open the door and slip inside.

The house is dark, and I have to wait for my eyes to adjust so I don’t knock into anything. Not hearing a dog or beeping from an alarm system I move into the front room. It is artfully arranged, but my eyes are fixed on my pen. My plan, now that I have one, is to grab the pen and leave before I am caught. Then I notice what the pen is laying on…a little black notebook.

The notebook is closed but something is keeping it from closing all the way. Like a junk journal with too many things pasted in it, it requires a rubber band to keep it closed. Gingerly, I pick it up, take off the rubber band, and open it.

Words and pictures jump out at me as I flip from one page to the next. Notes about me fill several pages. Did someone pay her to threaten me and get rid of me? As I read, my anger returns. Quickly I take photos of the pages with my cell phone, then I write my own little note:

Hello Ms. Habburd. I found you. Now I am the predator, and you are the prey.

I leave the note inside the notebook, but leave it open to the page, so it is easy to find. As I put the notebook down, I notice a bundle of money. Twenty thousand dollars to be exact. I add to my note:

Thanks for the cash.

And go home.