It was a cold October morning when I walked into the office
expecting just another regular day.
But the second I stepped inside I knew something was terribly
wrong. There were detectives
everywhere. My heart started to pound as I
saw David, my Co worker, being LED away in handcuffs.
His face was pale, his clothes wrinkled, and he looked
terrified. The scene felt like something
out of a nightmare. The office, usually filled with
the hum of computers and quiet chatter, was now filled with
whispers and tense faces. I took a deep breath and walked
over to one of the detectives. I had to know what was going on.
I'm Emily. I said, my voice shaking.
I work with David. What happened?
The detective looked at me, his eyes filled with something that
made my stomach turn. Pity and fear.
David's been arrested for something extremely serious, he
said, not giving me any more details.
The way he looked at me made me feel like there was something
even worse he wasn't saying. They started questioning me
about David. It felt like hours, and my
anxiety grew with every question they asked about David's
behavior. If I noticed anything unusual, I
told them everything. How David always seemed a little
off, how his smile never quite reached his eyes, and how he
would sometimes stare at me for just a bit too long.
I even told them about the time I joked with my husband, Mark,
that if anything ever happened to me, David would be the first
person to suspect. I never thought those words
would feel so real. The detectives weren't just
questioning me, they were going through David's desk, taking
apart everything. They took pictures of his
papers, his pens, even his sticky notes.
It was like they were looking for something specific,
something hidden. I couldn't help but feel a chill
run down my spine as I watched. What had David done?
What had he hidden right here, just a few feet away from me?
All this time? Later, one of the detectives
mentioned they had searched David's home.
He said they found things there, things that were worse than they
expected. I tried to ask more, but he
wouldn't tell me. Then he asked for my name and my
husband's name. My heart sank.
Why did they need Mark's name? I gave it to them, my voice
barely a whisper. And then I quickly called Mark,
trying to calm myself down, but I couldn't shake the feeling
that something was very, very wrong.
By the end of the day, the lead detective called me into a room
one last time. He looked exhausted, his eyes
red like he had been crying. He wouldn't even look at me
directly. Emily, he said.
You need to be careful until we're sure David is locked up.
You need to change your routine. Stay with friends if you can,
and don't be alone. His voice cracked a little and
my fear spiked. He told me that David had been
keeping a journal about me, a journal filled with pages and
pages of his obsession. He wrote about how he thought we
were meant to be together and how my husband Mark was the
problem. I felt sick.
The detective went on explaining how David had planned to make it
look like Mark was cheating on me, and then my stomach twisted.
David had written about how he would kill Mark and after that
he would come for me. The detective's voice shook as
he apologized for scaring me, but he needed me to understand
how real the danger had been. I could barely breathe.
All I could think about was David sitting just a few desks
away from me every day, smiling that empty smile while he
planned to destroy my life. As I left the office that day,
everything felt different. The people around me, the office
I used to feel safe in, it all felt dark and threatening.
I realized then that you could never really know the people
around you. Sometimes the real monsters are
the ones who hide in plain sight.
It was hard to go back to work after that day.
Everything about the office felt different.
The light seemed dimmer, the air heavier, and the smiles from my
Co workers seemed fake. I couldn't shake the feeling
that someone else could be hiding something just like David
had. My stomach twisted in knots
every time I walked in. I kept my eyes down and stayed
quiet, avoiding eye contact as much as possible.
I just wanted to get through each day unnoticed.
I changed everything about my routine.
I started coming in at different times, taking different routes
home, and I even parked in a different spot every day.
Mark was just as shaken as I was.
He insisted on driving me to work some days, just to make
sure I got there safely. I could tell he was scared too,
even if he tried to put on a brave face.
Every night we double checked the locks on our doors and
windows. Sometimes I would wake up in the
middle of the night, convinced I heard a noise, and I'd lie there
in the dark, listening until my heart stopped racing.
The nightmares started soon after.
I would dream about David, his eyes cold, his smile empty.
In my dreams, he was always watching me, waiting just out of
sight. I would wake up drenched in
sweat, the terror still gripping me even after I realized it was
just a dream. Mark would hold me, telling me I
was safe, but it was hard to believe him.
I knew how close I had come to losing everything.
Even at work, David haunted me. His empty desk was a constant
reminder of what had happened. I avoided it, taking the long
way around just so I wouldn't have to see it.
But it wasn't just his desk, it was the way people looked at me.
Some of my Co workers seemed curious, whispering when they
thought I couldn't hear. Others seemed scared, as if just
being near me made them uneasy. I couldn't blame them, I felt
uneasy being near myself too. One day a detective called me
again. They told me that David had been
denied bail and would stay in custody.
I should have felt relief, but instead I felt empty.
Knowing he was behind bars didn't change the fact that he
had once been close enough to hurt me.
I still couldn't stop looking over my shoulder, expecting to
see his face in every shadow. Mark and I tried to move on.
We tried to do normal things, watching movies, cooking dinner
together, even just sitting on the porch and talking, but there
was always something lurking between us.
We didn't talk about it, but I knew he was just as scared as I
was. We both knew how lucky we were
that David had been caught before he could do anything
worse. One evening Mark suggested I see
a therapist. At first I resisted.
I didn't want to talk about what had happened, I wanted to forget
it. But the nightmares weren't going
away and the fear was eating me alive, so I went.
The therapist was kind. She listened as I told her
everything. The arrest, the journal, the
plans David had made. She didn't judge me or tell me I
was overreacting. She just listened, and somehow
that helped. It took time, but slowly I
started to feel a little stronger.
I began to trust myself again, just a little.
I started to take small steps, like walking to my car alone
during the day without feeling terrified.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
I knew I would never be the same as before, but maybe that was
OK. I had learned that monsters
could look just like regular people.
They could sit next to you every day, smile at you, and still
hide terrible secrets. Stay safe out there.
It was just supposed to be a fun night.
Mason and I needed a break from our routine, so we went to the
Drive in theater. A perfect pick.
Cheaptickets, a horror movie. Just us under the stars.
We parked, sat back to watch a movie, and had no idea that the
real horrors would come afterward.
It was after midnight that we finally pulled out of the drive
in. Mason lay half asleep beside me
as I started the drive home. The freeway stretched off into
the distance, dark and nearly empty.
There was just the sound of the humming engine and I felt that
sort of calm you get in those quiet early morning hours.
I glanced over at the sleeping Mason and couldn't help but
smile to myself. All was well until it wasn't.
I had been driving in the right lane when I saw a slow moving
black SUV ahead of us. I flipped on my blinker and
moved over to pass it, glancing in my mirrors.
There was nothing behind me, or so I thought.
Out of nowhere, headlights appeared.
A dark blue pickup truck speed up right behind us, closing the
gap in a matter of seconds. The truck's high beams flashed
on, and my mirrors were instantly awash in a blinding
light. I winced, squinting into the
glare. Did I cut them off by accident?
I wondered. My heart's starting to pound.
I moved over into the right lane to let them pass, but instead of
speeding by, the truck followed me.
It was too close. Way too close.
The driver is flashing his brights over and over again.
I'm trying to keep my calm and think maybe I'm doing something
wrong, but something doesn't feel right.
Why wouldn't he just pass? There were three open lanes to
the left of me, yet he just sat there on my tail, swerving every
time I changed lanes. My hands began to shake on the
wheel. I elbowed Mason, whispering.
Mason, wake up, something's wrong.
He groaned, rubbing his eyes as he sat up.
I could sense his confusion turn into fear the moment he saw the
truck through the rearview mirror.
What's going on? He asked, his voice groggy.
I don't know. I said, straining to keep my
voice level. He won't stop following us.
Can you call the police? Mason kept his eyes fixed on the
truck, not speaking for a moment.
The pickup still followed us, zigzagging from side to side,
right on our tail. My stomach twisted in fear.
I could feel my heart beating faster as I hit the gas, the
speedometer needle climbing higher.
But no matter how fast I went, the truck kept up, the lights
flashing in the mirror. It's like he wanted to push us
off the road. Then I saw it coming up an exit.
It was an old highway I remembered from when I was
younger. It wasn't part of our route, but
I knew I had to do something, anything, to lose him.
I glanced over at Mason, watching the truck, his face
pale. Without thinking, I reacted.
I yanked the wheel to the right, and the tires let out a screech
as we hurtled toward the exit ramp.
The truck's headlights slewed to the left, and for one brief
moment under the street lamp, I saw his face.
The face of the driver. He was glaring at us, his face
distorted with rage. And then I saw something in his
hand. Something metallic.
A gun. I choked back a SOB as the
reality of the danger hit me like a punch to the gut.
My heart was pounding as we flew down the deserted old highway.
The truck hadn't followed us off the ramp.
I didn't know why, and I didn't care.
All I wanted was to be far, far away from that man.
I drove until I saw a gas station ahead, bright lights
cutting through the empty lot. I pulled over, my whole body
shaking. Mason put an arm around me as I
began to cry, the fear finally catching up to me.
We were safe for the time being, but I knew I would never forget
the look on that man's face or the glint of the gun aimed at
us. The night that started out so
peacefully had turned into a nightmare, one that would stay
with me forever. I was still shaking when Mason
took over driving. The lights at the gas station
were too bright, almost harsh against the dark of early
morning. Mason pulled me into a hug
before helping me into the passenger seat.
I felt like my legs could barely hold me up, and the moment I was
seated, I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to catch my
breath. Mason fired up the car and we
pulled out of the gas station. There was a heavy, thick silence
between us, like neither of us knew what to say.
Every once in a while, Mason would glance in the rear view
mirror, making sure that the blue pickup hadn't found us
again. I couldn't blame him.
My eyes were also going skittishly from shadow to
shadow, half expecting those blinding headlights to appear
out of nowhere. The road was quiet, too quiet.
My heart still pounded, and the thought that the driver of that
truck was probably still out there somewhere, looking for us
wouldn't leave me. The ride felt like it took
forever. I keep looking back, waiting for
that moment when I'd see that truck again, waiting for those
high beams to catch us. But they never did.
When we finally pulled into our driveway, I let out a shaky
breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding home.
It was supposed to be a place where you felt safe, but I
couldn't help feeling like the danger wasn't over.
Mason turned off the car, and for a long moment we just sat
there in the silence, the fear still wrapped around us like a
thick blanket. Are you OK?
Mason finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, but it was a lie. I wasn't OK.
I didn't think I'd ever feel OK again.
We both got out of the car, went inside and locked the door
behind us. I felt my knees begin to shake
again as I dropped down onto the couch, burying my face in my
hands. Mason sat down next to me, his
hand falling softly onto my back.
We sat that way for a very long time, neither of us uttering a
word. There wasn't anything to say, we
both knew what had just happened, and we both knew just
how close we had come to something unthinkable.
Finally, I took a deep breath and looked up at Mason.
What do you think he wanted? I asked, my voice trembling.
Mason hesitated, then looked at me with a mixture of fear in his
eyes, something else I couldn't quite decipher.
He had a gun, Lisa. He said softly.
He wasn't just trying to scare us, he wanted to hurt us, maybe
worse. The reality of it all crashed
down on me and I felt tears well up in my eyes once more.
Mason pulled me close and I let myself cry, the fear and the
relief all swirling together into a confusing, overwhelming
mess. I didn't know why that man had
picked us. I didn't know what we had done,
if anything, to set him off. All I knew was that we were
lucky to be alive, and I hoped with all my heart that I would
never see that man or his truck again.
I took a deep breath as I stepped out of the library, the
chilly evening air biting against my skin.
The campus had thinned out. Most students had either gone
home or tucked themselves away in their dorms by now.
It had been a long day, and I was eager to get back to my
apartment. The shortcut behind the library
was the quickest route, and though it wasn't well lit, it
would get me home faster. The narrow side street was
almost claustrophobic in its darkness.
A single street light flickered on and off, casting erratic,
jagged shadows against the walls.
I walked briskly, my footsteps echoing against the brick
buildings on either side of me. Something in the pit of my
stomach stirred, a sense of unease that I tried to shake
off. It's just your imagination, I
told myself, hugging my backpack tighter against my shoulders.
But the feeling lingered. Halfway down the street, I saw
movement from the corner of my eye, a man stepping out from
behind a dumpster. He was tall, his dark hair wild
and tangled. He had the kind of eyes that
seemed to pin you down, piercing and unblinking.
He blocked my path before I even had the chance to react.
Hey there, He said, smiling in a way that felt wrong, like he
knew something I didn't. You look lost, need some help?
My heart hammered in my chest. I shook my head, trying to
sidestep him. No, I'm fine, just heading home.
He mirrored my movement, still blocking me Home, huh?
Where's that? Maybe I could walk you there.
His voice was smooth, too casual for the way he'd emerged from
the shadows. I tried to swallow my fear, but
it clawed up my throat, leaving me with nothing but a dry mouth
and trembling hands. I glanced around, hoping for
some sign of help. Anyone else walking down the
street? That's when I saw him.
Another man, older, standing just across the narrow St.
He was leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his
lips, the ember glowing in the dark.
He had a scar running down his cheek, his eyes locked on me
with an intensity that made my stomach drop.
He didn't move, didn't say a word, just watched.
Panic set in, tightening my chest.
They were working together, I knew it with a cold certainty
that made my legs feel weak. The first man took a step
closer, his smile widening. You got a name?
He asked, his tone dripping with false friendliness.
I ignored him, my mind racing. I could feel the wall against my
back, the cold bricks pressing into me as the second man
flicked his cigarette away. The ember hit the ground and
snuffed out, and I couldn't help but feel like it was a symbol of
my chances dwindling to nothing. The older man said something in
a language I didn't understand, his voice sharp, commanding.
The first man's grin faltered for a moment.
Then he reached out, his fingers brushing my arm.
I jerked away, fear clawing at my throat.
There was an opening, a tiny chance at the end of the alley.
Beyond them was an abandoned building with a gaping black
doorway, and I knew that was where they wanted to take me.
I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't end up in that dark,
empty building. The fear pushed me forward, and
without thinking, I ducked under the man's arm and bolted.
I heard them shout behind me, their footsteps pounding against
the pavement as they chased me, but I didn't look back.
I ran, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, my feet
barely touching the ground. The darkness around me blurred,
and the only thing that mattered was getting away.
The flickering street light ahead was my only guide, and I
pushed myself toward it, praying that I would make it out of the
alley before they caught me. I sprinted as fast as I could,
my heart pounding in rhythm with the frantic thud of my
footsteps. The men's shouts echoed behind
me, but I didn't dare look back. The narrow alley seemed to
stretch endlessly, and I couldn't shake the feeling that
they were closing in on me, their shadows reaching out like
fingers ready to drag me down. I could hear the pounding of
their shoes growing louder, my fear spurring me on even as my
muscles burned with exhaustion. The night seemed to tighten
around me, dark and suffocating, the flickering street light
ahead my only sliver of hope. I had to make it.
I had to reach that light. Suddenly I saw it, a gap between
two buildings just wide enough for me to squeeze through.
It was a gamble, but I had no choice.
I darted to the right, throwing myself into the narrow space.
The rough brick walls scraped my shoulders, and I pressed myself
flat, holding my breath. The sound of footsteps thundered
past, and I waited, every second feeling like an eternity.
Their voices filled the dark alley, angry and confused, but
they didn't seem to realize where I had gone.
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying they wouldn't find me.
My body was shaking, my breath shallow and quick, but I kept as
still as I could, willing myself to disappear into the darkness.
After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps began to
fade. I opened my eyes, peering out
from the shadows. The alley was empty, the men
nowhere Insight. Slowly, I inched my way out of
the gap, careful not to make a sound.
My body ached, every muscle tense and ready to bolt again if
I needed to. I scanned my surroundings, my
senses on high alert. I needed to get to safety, and
fast. The main road was still a block
away, and I knew I had to move carefully.
I stuck to the shadows, every sound making me flinch, my heart
pounding in my ears. I couldn't let my guard down,
not yet. After what felt like an
eternity, I reached the main road.
The neon lights of a late night diner blinked in the distance,
and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
It wasn't much, but it was something.
A safe place, A place with people.
I hurried towards it, my legs trembling with each step, my
breath still shallow. I pushed the door open, the
warmth and light of the diner washing over me like a blanket.
The bell above the door jingled softly, and I stumbled inside,
heading for a corner booth. I sank into the seat, my hands
still trembling as I pulled out my phone.
I needed to call someone, anyone.
I needed to hear a familiar voice, to feel like I wasn't
alone. The waitress approached, her
kind eyes filled with concern. You OK, honey?
She asked, her voice gentle. I nodded, though I knew I wasn't
convincing. Yeah.
I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Just a long night. I dialed the number, my fingers
shaking as I listened to the ringing on the other end.
I looked around the diner, trying to convince myself that I
was safe now, but the fear lingered, a shadow that refused
to let go. The men were still out there
somewhere, and I couldn't shake the feeling that they might come
looking for me again. When the voice on the other end
of the line answered, I felt a small sense of relief.
I wasn't alone any more, but I knew that the memory of this
night would stay with me, a dark reminder of how quickly
everything could change. I had trusted my instincts, and
it had saved me, but I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever
feel truly safe again. The day Jen and I went to the
nature reserve started like any other.
We walked down the path, the sun just starting to dip below the
trees, turning everything golden.
It was so quiet, the only sounds were the crunch of our footsteps
on the dirt and the occasional rustle of leaves.
Jen kept talking about school and I tried to listen, but
something felt off. The woods were too quiet, like
all the animals had disappeared. I glanced around but nothing
seemed out of place. We reached the clearing and
everything seemed fine at first. Jen was laughing and I was
trying to shake off that weird feeling.
Then I noticed him. There was a man standing farther
down the trail, half hidden by the trees.
He was just standing there, staring at us.
I nudged Jen and she looked over but shrugged it off.
Probably just another hiker, she said.
But I couldn't ignore the way he was watching us.
He wasn't moving, just standing there like he was waiting for
something. We kept walking, trying to
ignore him, but after a few minutes I glanced back and he
was still there. Only now he was closer, I could
see his face better, scruffy dark eyes, clothes that looked
like they hadn't been washed in a while.
He wasn't just walking, he was coming after us.
I whispered to Jen and she turned around.
Her smile faded and I could tell she understood now he wasn't
just some random hiker. Jen grabbed my arm and we
started walking faster, our footsteps pounding on the dirt
path. The man speed up too.
My hands started to shake and I fumble for my phone.
I called my uncle, my voice coming out all shaky.
I tried to tell him where we were, but I didn't really know.
The trail twisted and turned and all I could say was that we were
at the nature reserve and someone was following us.
Stay loud. My uncle said.
I screamed. I screamed as loud as I could,
hoping someone would hear us. The man was getting closer, I
could hear his heavy footsteps. Jen and I ran, but the trail
seemed to go on forever. My legs were burning and I
didn't know where we were going, just away from him.
The woods were getting darker and I could barely see the path
in front of me. Then we hit a fence, old and
rusty, blocking our way. There was nowhere to go.
To our right, a tall cement wall marked the edge of the gated
community. I shoved Jen towards the wall,
yelling at her to climb. She scrambled up, her fingers
digging into the rough cement. I threw my phone and pocket
knife over, then tried to follow.
My hand slipped on the cold surface, but somehow I managed
to pull myself up. I could hear the man behind us,
closer now, and he was yelling, an angry, ugly sound that made
my stomach twist. We tumbled over the wall,
landing hard on the grass. I looked up, and there was an
older man walking his dog, staring at us like we were
crazy. Jen tried to explain but the
words wouldn't come out right. I grabbed my phone and told my
uncle we made it over. I could hear him yelling
somewhere on the other side, his voice echoing through the trees,
telling the man to back off. The older man with the dog LED
us to a gate in the wall and we slipped through, finally meeting
my uncle. He had his shotgun with him and
his face was tight with anger. He put his arm around me and we
started back down the trail towards his truck.
Every sound made me jump, the wind, the branches.
My uncle kept looking around, the shotgun ready, but the man
was gone. When we got home, I tried to
tell my aunt what happened, but the words wouldn't come out
right. I couldn't forget the way the
man looked at us, the way he chased us through the woods.
I used to love the nature reserve.
Now I couldn't even think about it without feeling that fear all
over again. The older man with the dog
helped Jen and me find the gate out of the community.
We slipped through and there was my uncle running towards us with
his shotgun. His face was full of worry and I
could tell he was ready to do whatever it took to keep us
safe. He put his arm around me,
pulling me close and we started back down the trail towards his
truck. Jen stayed close and we didn't
say anything. There was nothing to say.
Every sound around us made me jump.
The rustling leaves, the crack of a branch, even the sound of
our own footsteps. My uncle kept his eyes on the
trees, his shotgun ready. I knew he was trying to keep us
safe, but it didn't make me feel any better.
I kept looking back, expecting to see the man again, expecting
him to come out of the shadows and chase us all over again.
But he was gone. The woods were empty.
When we finally reached the truck.
My uncle opened the door for us, and Jen and I climbed in.
I sat there, my hand still shaking, as my uncle got in and
started the engine. The ride back felt like it took
forever. Nobody spoke.
I just kept staring out the window, watching the trees pass
by, wondering if the man was still out there, hiding
somewhere in the darkness. When we got home, my aunt was
waiting on the porch. She rushed over as soon as she
saw us, her face pale. She pulled me into a hug and I
tried to tell her what had happened, but the words wouldn't
come outright. Everything felt jumbled and I
could barely think straight. My uncle told her what he knew
and she let us inside, her arms still around me.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I
saw the man's face. I saw the way he looked at us,
the way he started running after us.
I could still hear his footsteps, still hear the way he
yelled when we climbed over the wall.
I kept thinking that he was out there, that he knew where we
were. I kept thinking that he might
come back. My uncle stayed up all night,
sitting by the front door with his shotgun.
I could hear him moving around, checking the locks on the doors
and windows. My aunt stayed with Jen and me
in my room. She tried to calm us down, tried
to make us feel safe, but I couldn't.
I just kept thinking about the nature reserve, about how
different it looked now. It wasn't a place to relax
anymore. It was a place where danger was
hiding, waiting for us. The next day, my uncle drove us
past the nature reserve on the way to town.
I looked out the window and everything seemed normal.
The sun was shining, the trees were green, and the path was
empty. But I knew better now.
I knew what could be hiding in those woods.
I knew that I wouldn't be going back there again, not ever.
And as we drove away, I whispered under my breath, Let's
not meet again. The rain pattered hard on the
roof. That afternoon.
Dad and Emma had gone into town for groceries, leaving me
behind. It was just Rusty.
Our dog and I left in the old creaky farmhouse.
I was in my room reading a book when through the window,
headlights came pulling up our long, muddy driveway.
It wasn't our car. The vehicle came closer and I
realized it was Mr. Whitaker's truck.
He never really came over unless he had some reason to talk to my
dad, always unannounced. The thought of him being here
made me feel uneasy, especially since I was alone.
Quickly, I got up and drew the curtains shut, making sure to
close everyone in the house. The house did seem darker now,
and I could hear the wind pressing against the walls,
mingling with the sound of the rain.
I rushed to check all the doors, the front, the side, the back.
I locked them all. The old locks clicked loudly and
I kept looking out the windows, hoping maybe Mr. Whitaker would
just drive away. I saw his truck stop right
outside, and I heard the door slam as he got out.
His boots were heavy and crunched on the gravel.
I could hear Rusty barking from outside in the yard.
I could hear Mr. Whitaker yelling at Rusty, telling him to
be quiet. His voice was sharp and my chest
felt tight. I didn't know what he wanted,
but I didn't want him to know I was here.
I grabbed a kitchen knife and ducked under the pantry table.
The small dark space felt stifling, the pounding of the
rain making everything seem louder.
I tried to keep my breathing quiet.
The floorboards creaked as he stepped onto the porch.
I heard him try the handle of the front door, rattling it like
he was testing if it was locked. He moved on to the side door,
then the back door, trying each one before walking around the
house. His footsteps thudded on the
wooden porch and then the gravel path.
I again heard his voice. He was saying my name, repeating
it over and over like he knew I was in there.
He kept moving, trying to see through the windows, tapping on
the glass, calling for me to come out.
I didn't move, the knife held tight in my hand.
The rain outside kept coming down in sheets, and the house
was dark except for the flashes of lightning that lit up the
rooms for a split second. One of those flashes lit up Mr.
Whitaker's face in the back window.
His eyes were wide, and he was smiling in a way that made my
stomach turn. He continued to circle around,
his voice sometimes soft and coaxing and other times angry
and loud. Then he said something that made
me freeze completely. I'm going to burn this place
down, he yelled. But I'll let you out first.
I couldn't make out if he was serious or if he was trying to
scare me. Either way, I knew he wanted me
to come out. He wanted to make me scared
enough to do what he wanted. He stood there for what felt
like forever, but finally I heard him walk back over to his
truck. The door shut and then the
engine cranked. I remained under the table until
I could no longer hear his truck driving.
My fingers hurt from squeezing the knife so hard.
The house was still dark and I didn't move until I heard my
dad's car coming up the driveway.
Only then did I crawl out, my legs shaky and weak as if they
weren't used to standing anymore.
I waited a long time under the table after hearing the truck
drive away. The house was silent except for
the tapping of the rain against the windows and an occasional
rumble of Thunder. My legs ached and my fingers
hurt from holding the knife too tightly.
Finally, I let go and drop the knife to the floor beside me.
I did not want to move until I was quite sure Mr. Whittaker had
really left. I felt relieved when I heard my
dad's car pull up the driveway. I crawled out from under the
table, my legs shaky and weak. I peeked out the window and saw
the familiar headlights. My dad and Emma were finally
home. I unlocked the front door just
as they reached the porch, and my dad looked at me in
puzzlement. Alex, what's going on?
He asked, seeing the knife on the floor and the shaking.
I guess I tried to tell him everything that had happened,
the words spilling out. My dad's face went from a what's
wrong to an angry one as I told him about Mr. Whittaker trying
to get in and how he'd been calling out my name.
Emma was standing beside him, her eyes huge as she listened.
My dad said nothing for a moment.
He looked out into the darkness, his jaw clenched.
Get your things. He finally said, his voice
tight. We're not staying here tonight.
I nodded, too shaken to argue. Emma and I quickly grabbed some
clothes and whatever else we could cram into a bag.
My dad stood guard by the window, his eyes raking over the
driveway as if he expected Mr. Whittaker to come back.
We left the house that night, driving away with Rusty in the
back seat, still barking at every shadow.
The rain kept coming down, and the headlights cut through the
darkness barely at all. Not a word was said by my dad,
though I could guess he was angry and scared at the same
time. I looked back as we drove away
at the farmhouse, its windows dark, the house looking empty.
I hoped I would never have to see it again.
We ended up at my uncle's place, which was a small, cramped
caravan in his yard. It wasn't much, but seemed at
least a bit safer than the farmhouse.
My uncle was surprised to see us.
I mean, he welcomed us in without asking too many
questions. That night I slept on a very
tiny couch, Rusty lying on the floor beside me.
I hardly slept at all. Every little noise made me jump,
and I couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Whitaker's face at the
window. And so days turned into weeks
and we stayed at my uncle's place, trying to figure out what
to do next. My dad was looking for a new
place somewhere far from Mr. Whittaker.
He hardly ever spoke about that night, but I could see the worry
on his face. Emma tried to act like
everything was fine, but I knew she was just as scared as I was.
I did not know if we would ever feel safe again.
One day my dad told us we found a new place in a different town.
It wasn't perfect, but it was ours.
As we packed up what little we had, I couldn't help but reflect
on the farmhouse and all that had happened there.
I wanted to forget it, but I knew I never would.
Some things just stick with you, no matter how fast you run.
I can still remember that nightmare very distinctly, even
years later. It was not merely a fear of
darkness or some wild imagination of a child.
On the contrary, it has left something more real, more deep
inside the corridors of my mind. I was six years old, sharing a
small, cramped bedroom with my twin sister Sarah.
Our bunk bed was pushed up directly against the window that
faced into the dense woods behind our neighbours yard.
Those woods were always like an endless shadow, dark and
mysterious. Even in the daytime, something
about them was unsettling. But that night it felt like
something crawled out of that darkness, something malevolent.
I remember lying in bed and looking out at the sky.
It was not the soft blue of night, nor even a deep purple of
twilight. It was red.
An unnatural, bloody red that made me feel very uncomfortable.
I tried to close my eyes, tried to force myself to sleep, but I
couldn't take the feeling that something was watching.
That's when I saw him. A pale, moon like bald head
slowly came into view from the bottom of the window.
My breath caught in my throat and I could not move.
The man's eyes were aglow with yellow, unnaturally bright, like
a cat's eyes reflecting light. Only there was no light.
He grinned at me, a sinister smile that seemed to stretch too
wide for his face, revealing yellow teeth.
I tried to scream, but nothing came out.
My throat felt tight, my body frozen.
The man lifted a hand, fingers long and thin, with each ending
in a jagged claw like fingernail.
He began to tap on the window, the sound reverberating in the
quiet room. Tap, tap, tap.
It was almost as if he was attempting to hypnotize me, each
tap drawing me deeper into fear. His eyes did not leave mine, and
I felt doused by those glowing orbs, paralyzed by the malice
they held. Somewhere deep in me, I found
the ability to scream. It tore out of me, raw and
terrified, filling the small room.
Everything after that is a blur. I remember Sarah waking up pale
with confusion and fear etched on her face.
I remember our mother bursting into the room, eyes wide with
panic as she pulled both of us into her arms.
She kept asking what was wrong, but all I could do was point out
the window. I had lost my voice to silent
sobs when my mother looked. There was no man.
The window was empty, the dark woods swaying gently in the wind
beyond. She held us close and rocked us
back and forth, telling us it was only a nightmare.
But I knew better. I knew what I saw.
Years later, I was telling this nightmare to my brother, Mark
and Sarah in a hotel room. I fully expected both of them to
burst out laughing over my story, telling me it was just
some silly imagination of a child.
Instead, my brother looked at me, his face turning serious.
He told me it wasn't a nightmare, it was real.
The blood in my veins seemed to turn to ice as he spoke,
recounting details that I had long buried, things I had never
known. The man wasn't a figment of my
imagination. He was real.
For weeks he had followed Sarah home, lurking in his rusted out
van, always keeping his distance but always watching.
That night he had tried to break into her room first.
Mark remembered waking up to Sarah's scream, our father
running down the hall with an old baseball bat.
The man had fled, but he wasn't done.
He had come to my window next. It hit me like a punch to the
gut. Whatever had haunted me all
these years wasn't a nightmare. It was a memory.
A memory of glowing yellow eyes, a sinister grin, and tapping
claws on the window pane. A memory of real danger lurking
just beyond the glass. Nothing was ever the same after
that night. The fear had clawed its way into
the innards of our family, and it wouldn't release its grip.
My parents tried to put a good face on, but I could sense the
tension in their eyes, the taut way they walked around the
house, always listening. They installed additional locks
on every door, nailed shut every window, but still it didn't seem
enough. That sense of security, one
which I had always taken for granted, was gone, broken by the
man with the glowing yellow eyes.
I would lie in bed every single night, and all my gaze would
focus on that window, now covered by heavy curtains.
My heart would pound with the creak of the floorboards, the
rustle of the leaves outside and the distant howl of the wind.
Every sound felt like a warning, a reminder that he could come
back. I would close my eyes and
attempt to fall asleep, but all that I could see was his face,
his grin, those eyes. I was always on the alert,
waiting for those taps to start again.
My sister Sarah did not say a word about it.
She tried to act like nothing had happened.
But I have also seen fear there. She would not go near the
windows, she would not play outside unless our parents were
watching her. She clung to our mother in a way
she never had before, and it broke my heart to see it.
The carefree innocence we once knew was gone, replaced with an
ever present gnawing fear. My older brother Mark tried to
be the strong one. He was the one who told us that
everything was OK, that the man would not come back.
But he, too, was not spared the terror.
I would catch him at night, standing by the front door with
the old baseball bat in his hands and his eyes scanning the
darkness beyond the window. He slept little after that
night, and so did I. Indeed, none of us did.
Our father, once so strong and unshakable, seemed different,
too. He was more cautious now, more
guarded. He would check all the locks
every night, his eyes moving toward the windows, toward the
shadows outside. He never spoke about what had
happened, not to us, not even to Mother.
Still, I could see the weight of it in his eyes, the unspoken
fear that hovered over him like a dark cloud.
The police came that night, sweeping their flashlights
through the darkness, searching the woods behind our house.
They promised to patrol the area, to keep an eye out, but it
didn't bring any comfort. The man was gone by the time
they arrived, vanished into the shadows of the forest, and even
though they never found him, I knew he was still out there
somewhere, watching, waiting. The days passed, turned into
weeks, but fear did not leave it.
Crouched in every nook and cranny of our home, in the dark
bunks below the bed, in the whispering of the wind outside
the window, my mother tried to do all the usual things.
Cooking our favorite dish, humming our favorite tunes,
cracking jokes that would make us smile.
But there was a tautness in her smile, a tightness in her voice
that told me she was just as scared as the rest of us.
We never talked about that night again.
It was as if the words would make it real all over again,
bring him back. But it was always there, just
beneath the surface, a shadow following us wherever we went.
And even now, all these years later, I can still see his face.
I can still hear the tapping and I still wonder if one day he'll
come back. I thought I had buried that part
of my life for good. Ethan was nothing more than a
distant, unpleasant memory, a relic of my past that I had
firmly locked away. But that afternoon, as I stood
in the kitchen, my phone buzzed with a text message that would
drag everything back to the surface.
It was just a simple, unfamiliar number and a question.
Is this Emily? My instinct was to ignore it.
I got plenty of spam messages, and this seemed no different.
But something in me hesitated. Maybe it was the formality of
it, maybe the odd curiosity, but against my better judgement, I
replied yes. Who is this?
Seconds later, my phone buzzed again.
It's Ethan, How are you? I felt the air rush out of my
lungs, and for a moment the kitchen spun around me.
My hand went cold, trembling slightly as I held the phone.
Ethan. The name alone brought back a
tidal wave of memories. The screaming fights, the tears,
his dark, angry eyes glaring down at me.
The nights I'd lain awake, terrified of the next argument,
the next threat. For a moment, I considered not
responding. My gut told me to put the phone
down, to block the number and forget this had ever happened,
but I couldn't. I typed back, my fingers
shaking. I'm fine, I hope you're well
too. It was polite, neutral, final,
everything I hoped would keep this encounter brief.
What are you doing these days? Do you ever think about us?
His response came quickly, almost too quickly, and the hair
on my arms stood on end. I tried to keep my breathing
even, but my heart hammered in my chest.
I didn't want to talk about us. There wasn't even an us to speak
of. Just a twisted relationship that
had left me bruised and broken, both physically and emotionally.
I typed slowly, carefully. I'm married now, Ethan.
I have a family. I think it's best if we don't
communicate. There was a long pause.
My phone remained silent and I hoped, prayed, that this would
be enough to put an end to it. Maybe he would see that I had
moved on and leave me alone. But then one final message
appeared. OK, sorry.
I sighed, relieved. Maybe this was it.
Maybe he had just wanted closure, a way to confirm that I
had moved on. I placed my phone down on the
counter, my hands still unsteady.
But the sense of relief was fleeting, replaced by a gnawing
feeling in my stomach, a fear I couldn't quite shake.
Days went by and the message faded into the background of my
busy life. Work, taking care of my toddler,
preparing for the new baby. But the gnawing feeling didn't
disappear. It was as if a shadow had re
entered my life, lingering in the corners of my mind.
And then the visit from Ethan's mother.
She appeared at the office unannounced, her face gaunt, her
eyes glassy. She asked after me, her voice
soft, her smile brittle. We exchanged pleasantries,
though I couldn't help but feel the unease return, growing
stronger with every passing 2nd. Did you hear about Ethan?
She asked, her eyes never quite meeting mine.
They put him in an institution for a while.
I swallowed hard, a lump forming in my throat.
I heard. I replied, my voice barely above
a whisper. I'm sorry to hear that.
She leaned in closer, her eyes dark, her voice dropping to a
conspiratorial whisper. He was killing animals, that's
why they took him away. She paused, studying my
reaction. I could feel my skin crawl, my
body instinctively recoiling from her words.
I didn't know what to say, the room suddenly feeling too small,
the walls closing in around me. She went on, almost casually.
You know, you were always his favorite.
He still talks about you, wonders what could have been.
Would you ever be open to talking to him?
I forced a smile, my heart pounding in my ears.
I'm married now. I don't think that's a good
idea. My voice cracked slightly, but I
forced myself to stay composed, to get out of there as quickly
as possible. It was nice seeing you, but I
really have to get back to work. I turned and walked away,
feeling her eyes on me the entire time.
As soon as I was out of sight, I ducked into the backroom,
breathing heavily, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
This wasn't supposed to be happening.
I had moved on. I had built a life, a family,
and yet the past was clawing its way back, trying to drag me
under once again. After Ethan's mother left the
office that day, the gnawing fear that had settled into my
chest refused to loosen its grip.
It was as if I could feel Ethan's presence again, that
same dark energy hovering around the edges of my life,
threatening to breakthrough the fragile barrier I had built to
keep him out. I told myself I was being
paranoid, that the past was exactly where I had left it,
behind me. But the nagging feeling that he
wasn't done, that he was somehow closer than I wanted to believe,
remained. It was a Wednesday night when
the first strange noise came. Michael was working late, and I
was home alone with our son, Tommy.
I had just finished putting him to bed, the house quiet save for
the occasional creak of the floorboard settling.
I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard it, a faint
tapping sound, almost rhythmic. I paused, listening, my heart
skipping a beat. The noise came again, tapping
against the window above the sink.
I forced myself to glance up, trying to make out anything
beyond the dark glass, but all I saw was my own reflection
staring back at me, wide eyed and tense.
It could have been a branch. It could have been anything.
I convinced myself of that, taking a shaky breath and
turning away. But the anxiety had already
planted itself, a pit of dread slowly blooming in my stomach.
I left the dishes in the sink and went to check the locks on
the front door and then the back.
Everything was secure, I told myself.
I was safe. But that night sleep did not
come easy. I kept waking up, certain I had
heard something. A rustle, a creak each time I
lay still in bed, straining to hear anything else, my eyes
fixed on the shadows playing across the ceiling.
Michael came home and I pretended to be asleep, too
afraid to speak and betray the fear that was choking me.
It felt childish to be this scared, scared of a ghost from
my past, scared of something that wasn't even there.
The next morning I went about my routine as usual, but I couldn't
shake the exhaustion, the unease.
I went to work, trying to focus, but my eyes kept drifting
towards the front door of the office, expecting, dreading to
see Ethan's mother standing there again, or worse, Ethan
himself. I felt like a haunted animal,
constantly glancing over my shoulder, heart racing at every
small noise. Two days later, the blocked
calls started. The first one came just after
midnight. I had been dozing on the couch,
waiting for Michael to come home when the phone buzzed, the sound
startling me awake. I fumble for it, blinking at the
screen. No caller.
Idi hesitated, then answered, my voice groggy.
Hello. Silence.
A thick, oppressive silence that seemed to fill the room.
I could hear the faintest noise on the other end, breathing slow
and deliberate. My heart thudded in my chest.
Hello. I said again, louder this time,
trying to sound confident. Nothing.
I hung up, my hands trembling. The calls kept coming the next
night, then the night after, always around the same time,
always the same silence. I stopped answering, but the
ringing itself was enough to unsettle me, enough to make the
hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I knew it was him. I couldn't prove it, but I knew.
One night, as I was driving home from work, I felt it.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, and there, just barely
visible in the fading light, was a car following me.
My stomach twisted, and I forced myself to take a deep breath, to
stay calm. Maybe it was nothing, maybe it
was just a coincidence, but when I turned onto my street, the car
turned to hanging back just far enough that it was almost out of
sight. I pulled into the driveway, my
fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly they ached.
The car kept going, slowly passing by, and I caught a
glimpse of the driver, a silhouette, dark and unfamiliar.
I rushed inside, locking the door behind me, my heart
pounding in my ears. I peeked out through the
curtains, watching the car disappear down the street.
I knew I couldn't keep pretending everything was fine.
I couldn't keep pretending that Ethan wasn't a threat, that he
wasn't out there, waiting, watching.
I picked up my phone and called Michael, my voice breaking as I
told him everything. The messages, the visit from
Ethan's mother, the calls, the car.
He was silent for a moment. Then he promised me we'd take
action. We'd go to the police, we'd
install cameras, whatever it took to make me feel safe again.
But as I hung up the phone, a chill ran through me.
I couldn't shake the feeling that it was already too late,
that Ethan had already wormed his way back into my life and
that no matter what I did, he wasn't going to let me go.
I worked the late shift at the supermarket, clocking in at 5
and leaving usually around midnight.
It wasn't exactly a glamorous job, but that was a means to pay
the bills. And during the pandemic, steady
work was a blessing. So most days I kept my head
down, ran through my duties, and tried not to get entangled with
the frustrations of the customers.
The tedium of the cycle of greetings, complaints, and sighs
all blended together until I literally felt like I was
sleepwalking through it all. And then came Chris.
He was the new guy, fresh to the store and wanting to learn.
He was wearing a mask, which wasn't surprising since it was
2021, but there was something too cautious about him.
The mask tightened over his face, his eyes watchful, sizing
everything up. I had to train him, and at first
everything seemed normal enough. I went over the basics,
restocking shelves, helping customers, fixing self checkout
errors. Chris listened, nodding to each
word, his eyes never quite meeting mine.
It was during one of our quieter shifts late in the evening that
Chris's question started getting a bit too personal.
He asked me if I had any hobbies.
I told him a few things, reading mostly a little cooking.
He nodded, but didn't seem interested.
Instead, he pressed me about the outdoors.
Did I enjoy camping, hiking, fishing?
I brushed that off, telling him I wasn't much of an outdoorsy
type. He smiled behind his mask, and I
swear it looked like the kind of smile someone gives when they
know something you don't. And then Chris started to get a
bit too comfortable. He would come over to my side
during the shift and ask more questions about my family, if I
had any siblings, if they still lived around here.
I answered with caution, not trying to reveal too much.
My instincts told me to restrain myself.
I brought up my aunt's place on the outskirts of town, just to
keep things light hearted. Chris seemed to latch on to
that. He kept circling back to it,
bringing up the woods near her place, talking about exploring
unmarked trails and getting lost in the forest.
He used words like tracking and stalking, and though he was
supposedly talking about wildlife, there was this strange
edge to it, a fascination that made my skin prickle. 1 evening
we were all alone in the self checkout section.
The store had quieted down, the only sounds were the beeps of
scanners and the rustle of plastic bags.
Chris sidled up next to me, his voice low and his question
sharper. He asked how tall I was, how
much I weighed. I laughed it off, asking if he
was planning to take my measurements for a suit.
He didn't laugh. Instead, his eyes lit up, really
lit up, when he asked if I'd ever been to the old quarry on
the other side of the woods. Nobody goes there anymore, he
whispered. You ought to come along with me.
It'd be a real adventure. A chill ran down my neck.
Something in the way he said it, like it wasn't an invitation so
much as a statement. Or maybe it was the way his mass
crinkled with a smile when he went on late at night, moving
through the woods like shadows. It's just you in the darkness.
That's when the real fun starts. I swallowed, fighting to keep my
face neutral, but inside, unease slowly creeped up my throat.
I forced a smile and made some excuse about being busy before
turning away. Chris did not leave.
He lingered on for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as if
he was trying to read my mind. Finally, he backed off, walking
away without another word. That night, I felt as though I
had narrowly escaped some great evil.
The way Chris spoke, the way his eyes bored into me, it wasn't
just weird, it was predatory. I tried to tell myself I was
overreacting, that he was just some guy being a little too
intense about his hobbies, but deep down I knew better.
Something was off about Chris and whatever he had planned out
there in those dark woods. I wanted no part of it.
After that late shift, Chris didn't come in for a few days.
They said it was just a scheduling mix up, something
about the new hires not getting enough hours.
But the relief I felt when I walked into the break room and
saw his absence really caught me by surprise.
I knew something was off with him and that he was out of
sight. Gave me a chance to breathe at
least some. One day on one of those shifts I
was hanging out in the break room talking with a couple of Co
workers. I have no idea why I even
mentioned it, but all of a sudden there it was.
I told them about Chris, the weird questions, the quarry.
At first they laughed, thinking it was just kind of harmless
creepiness. Then Jenny, who worked mornings,
spoke up. She said Chris had been asking
questions about me, if I lived around the place, if I normally
worked late shifts, if I had somebody waiting for me at home.
My stomach twisted at her words. The fear simmering in the back
of my mind now felt like a cold stone pressing against my chest.
The next time I saw Chris, something was different.
He wasn't asking questions anymore.
He was suggesting he wouldn't let the quarry go and kept on
insisting that we had to go. He described it going into great
detail, of how the moonlight filtered through the trees, the
silence just before dawn, and how easy it was to disappear in
those woods where nobody could find you.
He spoke of it like it was some sort of sacred thing, something
meant to be seen. I could hear the edge in his
voice, that thinly veiled hunger which made my skin crawl.
I tried to deflect, to change the subject, but Chris wouldn't
let it go. He leaned in, his voice dropping
to a conspiratorial whisper. The real fun starts when
everything is quiet. He said, his eyes fixed on mine.
When nobody knows you're out there.
I forced a smile, but inside my instincts were screaming at me
to get away from him. The fear finally became real,
tangible, a low hum at the back of my mind.
I could hardly sleep, and when I did, I dreamt of dark woods and
something moving just out of sight.
Watching, always watching. I finally decided to report
Chris to a supervisor. I didn't care if it sounded
paranoid. I told him everything.
The questions, the quarry, the way he looked at me.
My boss listened, head nodding, but I could see the doubt in his
eyes. He said he was going to talk
with Chris, that something was definitely going on.
But before he got a chance to say anything, Chris vanished.
He just stopped showing up for his shifts.
His phone went straight to voicemail and nobody knew what
happened to him. Some said he quit, others
thought he got fired, but I could not get out of my head
that he was still out there somewhere.
I found myself continuing to expect him to turn a corner and
find those watchful eyes staring back.
The image of the quarry waited in my mind, an echo of his
whispered promise. The real fun starts when
everything is quiet. It felt like a warning, a
reminder of how things could have so easily gone another way.
Even now, there are moments when I'm alone in the store late at
night and I catch myself glancing at the shadows, half
expecting to see Chris there, waiting.
The fear never really leaves. It's always there, a constant
reminder of how close I came to something dark and dangerous,
something I never want to face again.