The fake metallic butter wafted from the kitchen to Melody’s favorite movie-watching armchair in her living room. The whirring from the microwave ceased and it announced louder than necessary over the crescendoed pulse of the streaming platform opening screen that the popcorn was ready, which created her ideal ambiance for a night in. Until her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Is this Melody Whitman?” the man on the line said.
“Yes, this is her. May I help you?” She gazed at the title screen of the movie she was about to watch. The line went dead.
Melody heard a knock at her door. She looked at the clock and it read 8:49 p.m.. I wonder if that could be an Amazon package, she thinks. To be extra cautious, she went into her spare closet near the front door to grab one of her chipper club from her golf bag her dad gave her before slowly opening the door.
Standing there on her welcome mat was a vaguely familiar man, though she didn’t know from where she might have recognized him. He was tall, slim, and was awfully pale even under her orange-tinted porch light. In front of his chest he is holding a bouquet of flowers still in its grocery store wrapping, and beside him on her porch bench was a black duffle bag.
“C-can I help you?” She left the door half open to partly cover her body.
“Melody Whittman, ever since I saw you at that restaurant a few weeks ago I couldn't get you out of my mind. I just couldn't help it anymore and I had to come tell you that I'm in love with you. I can't live without you Melody.” He thrusted the bouquet of roses towards her.
She slammed the door, missing his hand by an inch. He watched as the petal she clipped off the rose drifted to the ground in front of his feet. Two locks clicked and she threatened through the door, “If you don't get off of my porch in 30 seconds, I'm calling the cops!” The man dropped the bouquet on the doorstep, picked up his duffle bag, and casually walked off down the sidewalk. He didn't look back once.
Melody pulled out her phone to call 911 or the police station to either find the man and arrest him or at least file a restraining order but as she typed it in she realized she had no idea what his name was or anything about him other than a basic description of what he looked like. She decided to call anyway. Her phone rang before she could type in any numbers. She hung up, but the number continued to try again and again, until she gave up and answered. “What?” Her teeth were clenched together.
“I just wanted you to know who I was before I kill you.” Beep.
She whipped her phone from her face and held the power and volume buttons down together to call 911. Maybe if they're fast enough they’ll see him walking or driving out of the neighborhood.
“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator took no time to pick up the phone.
“Hi, a strange man just left my doorstep and headed towards the front entrance of my neighborhood–Palazzo at The Springs—in Springdale. I have no idea who he is but he knew my full name and address. He said he loved me and I just shut the door. I received a call right after and I think it was him threatening me but I'm not sure how he got my number.”
“Okay, ma’am, we will send out a patrol car as soon as one becomes available. Lock your doors and stay inside, please.” Beep.