I've been receiving letters . I'm pretty sure someone is going to kill me

Ever since my parents left on a trip alone for my father's birthday, I've been receiving letters in the mail. On the second day they left, I noticed a white envelope lying on my front doorstep. I tore it open, expecting something mundane like the annual birthday letters my aunt sends for my father. However, a single sentence on the page sent shivers crawling up my spine: "I see you, Luke." I placed the note on the counter and peered out the front door, half-expecting one of my friends to appear and reveal it as another one of their pranks. But there was no one in sight. Nervously, I locked the door and tried to dismiss it as a foolish joke. I even chuckled, crumpling the note and tossing it into the trash can.However, when the second letter arrived, my anxiety skyrocketed. "I'm watching your every move," it declared. "You can't escape, Luke." I glanced outside, searching for any sign of a presence. Nothing. As time went on, the letters continued to arrive every day, each one more haunting than the last. They contained stolen pictures of me, captured without my knowledge, showing me in vulnerable moments like sleeping or eating dinner. It dawned on me that I had a relentless stalker.Desperate for answers, I purchased a security camera to capture the identity of the person leaving these sinister letters at my doorstep. But upon reviewing the footage, there was eerie silence throughout the night. No movements, no cars approaching the house, and no sounds. Discouraged by the lack of evidence, I turned my attention to the front door, only to spot another white envelope pressed against the glass. My hands trembled as I retrieved it and tore open the paper, revealing a message written in menacing red ink: "2:27 AM." The current time was 1:50, and I couldn't comprehend the significance of the cryptic message. Fear consumed me as I began to believe that my life was in imminent danger. I envisioned the stalker finding me and executing their malicious plan during my most vulnerable moments.Frantically, I sprinted through my house, securing all doors, closing every window, and drawing all blinds. I switched off all lights, ensuring that no point of entry remained accessible. Clutching a knife from my kitchen, I took refuge under my bed, muttering to myself about a plan in case the intruder managed to enter. As the clock struck 2 AM, I remained huddled in fear, each passing minute amplifying my paranoia in anticipation of the specified time written on the letter.

Having called my mother repeatedly, I was met with her voicemail, further intensifying my perspiration-soaked anxiety. The realization set in—this was it. I was trapped, destined to meet my demise, with no possible escape. At 2:15, tears streamed down my cheeks as I wept uncontrollably. I didn't want to die, not like this. But accepting my cruel fate proved even more challenging than I had ever imagined.Finally, at 2:27, I pressed myself against the wall beneath my bed, gripping the knife tightly in my trembling hands. The front door creaked open, and heavy footsteps resonated against the wooden floor, each step accompanied by a haunting squeak. The sound of furniture crashing in the distance caused me to whimper, covering my ears with my hands. Curled up into a ball, I rocked back and forth, consumed by tears of helplessness. The vibrations of approaching footsteps on the staircase pierced through my terror, compelling my eyes to open wide as my trembling hand clutched the knife once more. Shaking violently, I continued to weep, the tears mingling with my overwhelming dread.My doorknob slowly turned, the door groaning open inch by inch. Convinced that the moment of reckoning had arrived, I summoned all my courage and seized onto the intruder's ankles from my hiding place beneath the bed. With a surge of strength, I yanked with every ounce of my being, hoping to bring him crashing to the ground. The resounding thud of his shadow hitting the carpet spurred me into action. I dragged myself out from under the bed and unleashed a piercing scream, making a stabbing motion with the knife, targeting the assumed location of the intruder. But before my blade could find its mark, a strong grip seized my wrist, forcing the knife to clatter to the floor. My eyes remained tightly shut as I went limp, overwhelmed by fear and grief, and my cries turned into helpless sobs. The door swung open once again, and as I mustered the courage to open my eyes, I was confronted by the sight of police officers standing above me. "GET HIM AWAY FROM ME!" I shrieked in terror. "HE'S TRYING TO KILL ME!" The officers grasped my arms, attempting to console and communicate with me, but their words were drowned out by the thunderous pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears. They guided me out of the room, maneuvering past the torn-open letters that infested the floor, and settled me down on the couch.

"Your neighbors called," they informed me urgently. "They told us your parents are away on vacation. Is that correct?" I managed to squeak out a weak affirmation. "Luke, your neighbor informed us that your mother couldn't reach you, but she was able to reach your neighbors." I nodded in response, unable to find the words to articulate the depth of my distress. "Your mother told her she left your schizophrenia medication in her car.”