So when I was 20 or so, my best friend Emily started seeing this
guy Alex. At first I thought he was pretty
cool. He was funny and seemed really
relaxed, always with that easy smile that made everybody like
him. He had some charm that made it
feel like he would be the life of the party.
But there was something more too, something he didn't really
talk much about. He lived with his Aunt Margaret,
who seemed very strict to my eyes.
He would make light of how she was tough on him, giving him
curfews as if he were some little kid, but he was in his
20s. He would laugh about it, but I
could tell it got to him. Margaret made him be home by
9:00 PM every night, and she wasn't playing around.
Alex said that if he wasn't home on time, she would either lock
him out or threaten to call the police.
Honestly, sometimes it was hard to believe.
How can one be that strict with a full grown man?
But then again, Alex was never in a mood to discuss that, and
neither did Emily urge him to do so.
We just accepted it as one of those weird parts of his life.
Even so, Alex spent a lot of time at Emily's place, and I was
there most nights too. We had a good laugh together,
we'd play cards, drink cheap beer, and make fun of each
other. It was pretty much normal, and
before long Alex was pretty much a part of our little group, but
every now and then I would catch something like how he'd suddenly
go silent when anyone even mentioned Margaret's name, or
how he always checked the clock even if we were just lounging.
I convinced myself it probably was nothing at all.
Still, a small voice at the back of my head, I've since
discovered, always asked what if.
Then came that one night. Emily and I were just beginning
a new round of cards when Alex charged into the room.
It was like 930 way past when he was supposed to be home.
He looked rough, all messed up in the hair and kind of dirty in
his clothes. He had that look in his eyes
like he'd just gone through something.
He said he had gotten into a fight on the way over.
I do not know whether to believe him or not, but he was always
getting into some kind of trouble so we just shrugged it
off. We started playing cards again,
but it wasn't the same. Alex was acting weird, He
laughed at things that weren't funny too loudly and his hands
wouldn't stop shaking when he picked up his cards.
I tried to brush it off, but it was hard to ignore.
I remember looking over at Emily and she gave me this look back
like she was wondering the same thing I was.
What was going on with Alex? Around midnight, Emily asked him
about Margaret. She wanted to know if she was
going to freak out since he wasn't home.
Alex hesitated, then said Margaret was asleep.
He said he'd snuck out and she probably wouldn't even notice he
was gone until morning. It made sense, I guess, so we
didn't press it. We just kept playing, but the
air felt heavy, like there was something none of us were
saying. The rest of the night seemed to
drag on forever. I kept watching Alex, trying to
figure out what was wrong with him.
He would smile, but it never reached his eyes.
He kept looking at the door as if he was waiting for something
to happen. It made me feel on edge, but I
didn't say anything. I just played my cards, laughed
when everyone else did, and tried to ignore the knot in my
stomach. In retrospect, I wish I had
trusted that feeling. Things might have been different
if I had done so. The next day I went home
exhausted from staying late up with Emily and Alex.
It had been a weird night and something about Alex was gnawing
at me no matter how much I was trying to shake it from my head.
I did not really have much time to ponder it because my phone
was ringing off the hook around noon.
It was Emily, she sounded like she was falling apart.
Jamie, you have to check the news now.
She said, her voice shaking and thick with tears.
I could hardly understand her, but the panic in her voice made
me sit up straight. My hands fumble as I pulled up
the local news website. I wasn't ready for what I saw.
There was Alex's face, his mug shot staring back at me from the
screen. The headline read Local man
arrested for brutal murder. My eyes skimmed over the words,
but it was like they didn't make sense.
Margaret, dead, bludgeoned in her own home.
My stomach lurched. I felt like I was going to be
sick. I could hear Emily crying on the
other end of the line, but I managed to push the words out.
Emily, what happened? I asked, though I wasn't
entirely sure I wanted to hear it.
She took a wavering breath and began to explain.
After I left the previous night, Alex had confessed to her.
He told her how he'd snapped. Margaret had yelled at him
again, something about being late, and he couldn't take it
anymore. He grabbed a hammer and Emily
couldn't even finish the sentence.
I could hear her gasping for air, trying to pull herself
together. She said Alex had talked about
it like it was no big deal, like it was just something that
happened. He'd even smiled while he
talked. Emily said she was terrified but
knew she had to act calm, so she acted like she was on his side,
telling him that they could run away.
She even started packing her bag while Alex watched.
All the time she thought of how she might get out from under
him. Locking herself in the bathroom
finally worked and she immediately called 911,
whispering to the operator so Alex would not hear.
The police came quickly. Emily said it felt like forever,
but it really wasn't more than a few minutes before they were
pounding against the door. She could hear when they busted
the door open, the yelling, the crash of furniture as they took
Alex down. She stayed in the bathroom, too
scared to come out, until one of the officers came and knocked on
the door and told her it was safe.
I didn't say anything. My best friend had been sitting
next to a murderer, pretending to be OK, pretending to run away
with him just so she could live. I felt cold all over.
I thought of Alex sitting across from me, laughing too loud, his
hands shaking as he dealt the cards.
I thought of the streaks on his sleeve, the way he kept glancing
at the door. It all made sense now, but it
was too late that day. Emily and I talked for a really
long time. She cried until she almost
couldn't breathe anymore, and I tried to comfort her, though I
was shaken too. We both knew nothing would ever
be quite the same again. Alex was gone, locked away, but
the memory of that night would live with us.
Every time I thought of it, this heavyweight would fall onto my
chest, knowing we had come so close to something so dark and
we hadn't even seen it. The house was so silent I could
almost hear the dust drop. I had collapsed onto the couch,
my body sinking back into the cushions as I held my Nintendo
Switch zoned out to the jaunty music of Animal Crossing.
The afternoon had slipped by quietly enough, me chatting
easily with Jake over my gaming headset.
Nothing seemed out of place until I heard it, A definite
crunching of gravel outside, right from the driveway.
It wasn't the familiar sound of my dad's truck tires or the
friendly rumble of the neighbor's car.
I paused the game and moved toward the window, my eyes
searching the driveway. There it was, an old blue van,
sitting awkwardly like it didn't belong.
I peered through the curtains, my breath catching for just a
moment. A man in an unwieldy black
hoodie and boots caked with mud climbed down from the van.
His clothes were too heavy for the weather, and he moved all
wrong. Too purposeful, too intense.
He strode toward the front door, long and confident, as if he had
a purpose in here. My stomach twisted as he
approached, and I ducked behind the curtain, careful not to make
a sound. I could hear him now, pounding
on the door. The sound echoed through the
hallway, a hollow, demanding sound that filled every empty
space of the house. I stayed in hiding, holding my
breath. Each knock was louder than the
last, as if he was determined to be let in.
A few seconds passed, and I looked again.
He was no longer in front of the door.
My gaze followed him as he walked past the van, his
direction toward the side of the house.
A tendril of unease curled across my skin.
Scrambling to the opposite side of the room, I stayed low,
tracking his movement. He disappeared around the
corner, heading out into the backyard.
Crackling in my headset jolted me.
It was Jake, asking how things were going.
I whispered to him, trying to explain, but my words felt thin
and shaky now. The creak of the backyard gate
reached my ears, followed by a metallic clatter as it swung
open, my mind racing. The sliding door.
My parents always forgot to lock it.
I had to see what he was doing, but I couldn't let him see me.
I crept down the stairs, each step a deliberate, conscious
movement in an attempt to keep the sound beneath a whisper.
I could hear him through my hiding place by the kitchen,
testing the sliding door, then the thud, as if he were striking
it, testing its resolve. The noise clanged through the
vacant kitchen, vibrating through the atmosphere until it
dropped into silence. I crouched behind the wall,
hardly daring to breathe. The minutes dragged on, each
second longer than the last. I could hear the man muttering
to himself, his voice low, the words indistinct.
I didn't dare peek, not until the muttering stopped and the
sounds of footsteps on the deck faded away.
I slowly inched my way back up the stairs.
I literally snatched the headset off the hook and my hands were
shaking violently as I whispered frantically to Jake about what
just happened. He told me to stay calm, watch
where the man went next. I moved over to the window in
time to see the man standing beside his van.
He wasn't leaving, He just stood there, staring at the house.
His eyes, too, went over every window, searching for movement,
for some sign of life. Inside.
I saw the back of his van, a rusty crowbar, a heavy chain,
and a soiled tarp haphazardly thrown into the open space.
He stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the
house. I remained still, my pulse
pounding in my ears, praying he didn't see me.
And then, finally, he climbed back into the van.
The door slammed shut. The van reversed, its headlights
flickering, and slowly disappeared down the road,
leaving the driveway empty once again.
The silence settled back into the house, only it was no longer
an easy one. It was heavy and thick and bore
down from all sides like a physical thing.
I couldn't get out of my head the feeling that something
fundamental had changed in the time between those knocks and
now. As he drove away, I stood at the
window watching the empty Rd. waiting for some any sign.
The only sound was the soft ticking of the kitchen clock
marking off the minutes since the van had disappeared down the
road. Finally I unstuck myself from
the window, still scouring the street with my eyes for some
sign he might come back. The house felt strange, no
longer my own. Every corner, it seemed, had
shadows that hadn't been there before, and every Creek of the
old wooden floors felt like an intrusion.
I needed to know what he had done.
I propelled myself forward, my legs heavy as if the air around
me had thickened. My first stop was the sliding
door to the backyard. The doormat lay tossed aside,
the once neat line of flower pots now Askew, some knocked
over spilling soil out onto the deck.
He had been searching, looking for something, a way in.
My gaze swept the area, dropping down to the small stone ornament
sitting precariously near the door.
I lifted it, feeling again the weight of the extra key beneath
still tucked away. He hadn't found it, relief
tempered by something else, something darker that I didn't
want to name. The gate was still open, swaying
slightly in the wind. I closed it carefully, trying to
erase any sign of what had happened here, trying to regain
some sense of control. As I turned back to the house,
the kitchen window glared back at me.
It's clear glass. Suddenly feeling like a
vulnerability, I stepped back inside and closed the door
behind me, locking it. The click of the lock wasn't
nearly as reassuring as I'd have liked.
The phone was on the counter, and I reached for it, dialing my
dad. My voice was shaking, trying to
explain what happened, words in halting fragments.
He told me that if my sister was there, he was going to call the
police, and I could already hear the worry in his tone.
He said I should stay put, lock all the doors and windows, and
that he would be home as soon as he could.
I put down the phone, pausing a beat on its receiver before I
turned away from it. Minutes later, the strobe of a
patrol car lit up the front of the house, casting eerie shadows
across the walls in hues of blue and red.
I let him in. When he knocked on the door, his
presence was both a relief and a chilling intrusion.
He asked questions, what the man looked like, what he had done,
what he drove. I replied, my voice sounding far
away, as though I was telling a tale that had befallen another
person. He nodded, writing notes, his
eyes straying occasionally toward the windows, as though he
half expected the man to reappear at any moment.
When he left, silence came back, thicker now and filled with all
that could have happened. I walked through the house,
checking each lock twice, then a third time.
The windows that had let the light in now felt like eyes
watching me, exposed and vulnerable.
I moved from room to room, my gaze drifting to each shadow,
every corner, as if daring something to come out.
The hours dragged on, and the darkness outside seemed to press
against the house. I found myself standing in the
living room, staring out the front door, replaying every
sound, every movement. The van, the man, the way he had
stared at the house. Vivid memories that refused to
fade. The crowbar, the chain, the
tarp, things that seemed to promise something much worse
than a simple breaking and entering.
The fear stuck to me like a limpet, persistent that safety
was not assured. Eventually I dropped down onto
the couch, still keeping my eyes on the door, my ears straining
for any sound that didn't belong.
The clock continued to tick, each second feeling like a small
victory, A moment that I had managed to stay safe.
But the house was different now, and I knew the fear would stay
long after the night had passed. The stranger might have gone,
but his presence still lingered, etched into the walls, woven
into the silence that now filled the house.
I had always been the type of person who would help others,
open my home to someone in need. So when Hannah called and I
could tell by the quietness in her voice that something was
wrong, I didn't think twice. She had nowhere else to go, and
although rumors swirled around her eviction, I wanted to
believe her story. I wanted to help.
She moved in on a cold winter's afternoon, carrying just two
bags and a tired smile, and she kept thanking me again and
again, and I kept telling her it was no problem, that we'd work
it out. But right from the very start,
things weren't quite right. The first night I woke to hear
her in the kitchen at 2:00 in the morning, the hiss of the
kettle, the clink of a spoon against a mug.
I pulled the blanket over my head, but the smell had wafted
in, bitter and strong. When I mentioned it the next
day, she looked at me, her eyes slightly unfocused, as if she
couldn't remember, and shrugged. I couldn't sleep, she said.
Her voice was so quiet, almost apologetic.
I let it go and the days turned into weeks and the oddities
piled up. I would come home from work and
all the doors would be closed, though I always left them open
for the cats. They started to hide in my room.
Their usual playful selves now seemed wary and distant.
Hannah spent most of her time on the couch, staring out the
window, expressionless. She said little, and when she
did, it seemed her mind would wander.
Her answers were incomplete and at times completely unrelated to
the question. One night, I jolted awake.
The room was dark and still. Gradually, my eyes adjusted to
the dim light, and then I saw her.
Hannah was in the doorway. She was just staring at me.
Long hair fell in front of her face, hands hanging limply from
her sides. My mouth was open to speak, but
the words got stuck in my throat.
She did not move. She didn't blink.
It felt heavy, this stillness, a crushing air falling down on top
of us in the room. Hannah.
I managed finally, my voice barely a whisper.
She turned, then, slowly, and walked back into the living room
without a word. I lay awake the rest of the
night with the image of her silhouette burned into my mind.
Then I began to lock my bedroom door at night.
I started hiding things, knives, scissors, anything sharp.
It felt silly, like I was overreacting, but there was
something in her eyes that unsettled me.
A vacancy. It was all attempts at
conversation with her. Inquiries about her being OK
came to nothing as she would only stare, eyes distant, as if
she were looking at something I was not.
There was a darkness there, something I couldn't quite
grasp. One night, there had to be a
breaking point. I was jolted awake by the acrid
smell of something burning, rushing into the kitchen.
There she was, standing over the stove, burning instant coffee
granules in a frying pan. The flames licked the air,
casting shadows over her face, sunken and hollow.
Her eyes were staring into the fire.
Hannah, what are you doing? My voice shook, but she didn't
answer. She just stood there, watching
the flames dance. That was when I knew I had to
get her out. Whatever was happening to her, I
couldn't help. I could neither save her nor
keep living like this, with the constant fear, the tension that
coiled tighter with each passing day.
I had opened my home to help a friend, but all I wanted now was
my home back, my life back, free of the shadow that Hannah had
brought with her. Worst are mornings, the days
after Hannah sitting at the kitchen table, half empty mug in
front of her with eyes turned into blanks to some empty field
outside. And then this frozen posture
into emptiness that the previous night hasn't happened wouldn't
let her sleep on an open nerve. The charred grains of coffee,
the motionless form standing in my doorway, it was all as if it
vanished with the break of day, leaving only the lifeless shell
of the human being sitting at my table.
I would stand there, watching, waiting for some sort of sign
that she knew what was going on, but it never came.
The apartment started to feel different, smaller.
It wasn't just the mess, though that certainly added to it.
Hannah's long hair seemed to be everywhere, clogging the sink,
clinging to my clothes, tangled in the cat's fur.
She would leave dishes piled in the sink and clothes strewn
across the living room. The air was heavy, as if her
presence had seeped into the walls, the floors, the ceiling.
I found myself spending more time at work, loitering after my
shifts just to put off the moment of coming home.
Now with the cats wouldn't leave my bedroom, no more scatter.
As soon as Hannah made a move, they were slinking away.
I thought to hide under the bed or in the closet.
Don't blame them. Something about the silence from
her was quite unnerving, the way she'd flit around unnoticed at
least. No comments following her, going
across softly on bare feet over the floor.
She would sit on the couch for hours, eyes glazed, hands lying
limply on her lap. When I talked to her, it was
like my words just bounced right off of her, never quite reaching
wherever it was her mind had gone.
One night, I woke to the sound of footsteps.
Slow, deliberate. My bedroom door was closed, but
I could hear her moving just outside my room, pacing back and
forth in the hallway. I lay still, listening.
The footsteps would stop, then start again, a nervous drum beat
that seemed to go on forever. When I finally dared to open the
door, the hallway was empty. The living room was darkened,
but I could make out her form by the window.
Standing there, staring into space, I softly shut the door
behind me and turned the lock. The next morning she was back at
the table, her coffee untouched, her eyes vacant.
I sat across from her, trying to find the right words, trying to
understand what was happening. Hannah.
I said, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet kitchen.
Are you OK? Do you need help?
She didn't look at me, she looked out the window, her lips
parted as if she were going to say something, but she didn't.
I waited, but the silence stretched on until I couldn't
bear it anymore. It was later that night that I
found the knife. I had hidden them all, locked
them away, but somehow she had found one.
It lay on the kitchen counter, blade glinting in the dim light.
I picked it up, my hands shaking.
I turned, and there she was, standing in the doorway,
watching me. Her eyes were dark, hollow, and
something else flickered there now, Something like anger, or
maybe fear. I couldn't tell.
Hannah, you can't have this. I said, fighting to keep my
voice level as uneasiness ate through my insides.
She didn't respond, just turned and disappeared into the living
room shadows. I put the knife away with the
others and locked it, my mind spinning.
It wasn't just the knife, it was everything.
The pacing, the staring, the vacancy in her eyes.
I had to do something. I had to get her out before it
was too late. I didn't fall asleep that entire
night. All I did was sit on the bed as
the door creaked open slightly, listening to her silent feet
moving about through the rooms of the apartment.
She must have been searching for something, treading so softly.
Whatever had taken its hold on her wasn't releasing its grip
and me trapped there with it until morning for a way out.
Morning came, but the feeling of apprehension lingered.
Light didn't chase the mood away.
Walls began to close in and the air was heavy.
I knew today had to be the day. I could not postpone it one more
day. So I dialed my friend Eric and
asked if he could come over. I didn't give him the full
details, just enough so that he knew that I needed him.
He knew me well enough not to ask too many questions and I
could hear the concern in his voice as he agreed to come by
later that afternoon. When Eric arrived, I could see
the tension in his shoulders as he stepped inside.
He looked around, taking note of the state of the apartment, the
stacked dishes, the blanket hanging off the couch, the
general clutter that had taken over since Hannah moved in.
I gestured toward the bedroom for him to follow me out of
Hannah's line of sight. She was sitting on the couch,
facing away from us, and was watching the TV, which was
turned off. I kept my voice low, telling him
I needed her to leave, that I couldn't do it alone.
He nodded, his face set, and together we went back inside,
into the living room. My ears were throbbing with
pulse and my hands slightly dampened as I clutched them into
fists. Hannah.
I said, trying to sound calm. She didn't turn around, didn't
say anything. I took a deep breath.
Hannah, it's time for you to leave.
We've packed your stuff. Eric gestured toward the bags by
the door, the two small bags she had brought with her when she
moved in. For a long moment she didn't
move. The silence stretched out, heavy
with it. Then, slowly, she turned her
head and our eyes met. Something was there, something
dark and unreadable. She got to her feet, her
movement slow and deliberate, and walked toward the bags.
Eric and I stepped back, giving her space.
She picked up the bags, still looking at me, and then
wordlessly turned and walked out the door.
The door clicked shut and the fist in my chest slowly began to
unclench. Eric breathed out and rubbed a
hand through his hair. You OK?
He asked, scanning my face. I nodded, although I wasn't sure
it was true. I felt drained, like I'd just
walked out of a battle I hadn't even known I'd won.
The apartment was silent that night.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't hear the creak of the
floorboards, the restless pacing in the hall.
The cats came out from under the bed and climbed up beside me.
As I sat on the couch, staring at the empty space where Hannah
had been, I wanted to think it was over, that the darkness she
had brought with her had left, too.
A week later, though, I heard the news.
Hannah set her new apartment on fire.
The reporter on the screen described in careful detail how
she had doused accelerant across the floors, how the neighbors
tried to pull her out, how she had fought them off screaming
that she had to finish it. They said she was in custody
now, in a psychiatric facility. I turned the television off, and
the silence of the apartment pressed in around me.
I sat, all of it settling into place, the fear, the confusion,
the guilt. I had tried to help her, and I
had failed. I opened up my home, my life,
and in return I was left with shadows I wasn't sure would ever
lift. I looked at the cats, curled up,
their eyes half closed, and wondered if they too could feel
it, this tingling sense that something had been there,
something that had left its mark even after it was gone.
I had arrived at the cottage when the dusk was really setting
in and the cold started to seep into my bones.
I shivered, standing as the last light of the day disappeared
behind the hills. My phone battery was almost dead
and frustration gnawed at me. I kept looking at the empty Rd.
hoping to see somebody coming. Anybody.
And then finally, after what felt like an eternity, there was
a figure, a man cycling up the winding Rd.
That had to be Luca, the host. He was tall, with unkempt hair
that showed up when he removed his helmet, and the strong smell
of alcohol stuck to him, a thing which I could not overlook.
He muttered some apology for this, said something about
losing track of time and hurrying over so as not to keep
me waiting. His attempt at an assuring smile
made me uneasy, but I wrote it off as the cold and my own
fatigue. I just wanted to go inside and
dropped the whole thing. Luca led me through the gate,
down a narrow, overgrown path that twisted its way to the
cottage. The cottage was somewhat
isolated in that it sat among trees, and his main house loomed
up the hill, half hidden in the shadows.
He moved with haste, eager to show me around the small,
obviously old cottage with creaky wooden floors, a dusty
fireplace and furniture that had seen better days.
The air inside was stale, and I could tell it hadn't been used
much, but it was quiet and I had the place to myself, which was
what I had wanted. As we walked through the living
room, Luca pointed to a small door partly concealed behind a
cabinet. He said it opened into a cellar
under his house, but added very quickly that it was locked.
There was something in the way he had zeroed in on that point,
as if he was working too hard to try to make me feel better.
I pretended not to care, nodding as his words made a hidden door
between my unit and his, sound unsettling.
He stood there a moment longer after handing me the keys before
his eyes finally left mine and he turned to go.
The moment he closed the door behind him, the silence came
crashing in. I stood still for a moment,
trying to shake this strange vibe that hung in the air.
So I told myself, just tired nerves, nothing more.
With a resolute spirit, I then went about unpacking, though my
attempts at ignoring every little creak of the wooden
floorboards were fruitless. The cottage was too quiet and I
could hear every whisper of the wind brushing against the
windows. Then, just as I was starting to
relax, came a soft wrap on the door.
I froze, listening. Before I could react, I heard a
key turn in the lock. My stomach twisted as the door
opened and Luca stepped inside. He smiled, but it was a little
strained. His eyes wouldn't meet mine as
he mumbled something about forgetting his phone charger.
He began to work his way around the room, rummaging through
drawers and along shelves without waiting for my response.
The sight of him prowling in and out of the cottage set my skin
crawling. I was determined to remain
civil, insisting that I had not seen the thing, but he hardly
seemed to hear me. He finally left, giving me that
same unnerving grin as he closed the door behind him.
I stood there for a long time, looking at the door as a cold
unease washed over me. I didn't like that he could walk
in any time he pleased. This was supposed to be my
space, at least for the next few days.
I took a deep breath and told myself I was overreacting, but
the feeling lingered, that sense of needing to be on guard.
The sun had just gone and the cottage was swallowed whole by
darkness. I tried to reassure myself that
Luca was just awkward, maybe even socially inept or perhaps
harmless, but I couldn't dispel the tension coiling inside me.
I paced through the small space and checked every window, every
lock, pushed heavy books in front of the back door just in
case my eyes would keep straying back to the narrow door in the
living room, the one Lucas said led to his cellar.
Even from behind the cabinet, it seemed to call to me.
He had said it was locked, but it offered no comfort.
Every time my eyes went back to it, unease twisted tighter in my
gut. I went into the bedroom to take
my mind off it. There, all told in another room,
was an antique room with heavy wooden furniture and a large bed
hanging apparently under its weight.
Within one corner of the room stood a pair of wood backed
chairs. A thick rope lay coiled around
the leg of one of them. If for no purpose at all, it was
wrong. It looked as if somebody must
have left it there. My mind began running with
questions. Had it ever been used for
something? By whom?
Determined to feel safer, I dragged one of the chairs in
front of the cellar door in an effort to slow Luca down if he
tried to come in. But when I tested the door, I
realized it opened inward. My barricade was useless.
I felt a hollow pit form in my stomach.
All my efforts seemed pointless. Too tired, I lay down to try and
sleep. I kept my clothes on, just in
case I needed to leave in a hurry.
Lying in the darkness, I stared up at the ceiling, every creak
and groan of the old cottage amplified in the silence
outside. The wind howled and rattled the
windows as if it were trying to warn me.
The creaking in the living room sometime around midnight caught
my breath, A slow, deliberate sound not caused by the wind.
My body went rigid. The pounding of my heart
deafened my ears. I dialed my brother on my phone,
whispering for him to come get me.
He could hear in my voice that I was really scared and said he
would try to make it as soon as possible.
It was an eternity. I kept looking at the bedroom
door as each little noise made me jump.
My hands were shaking and my pulse was racing.
Then headlights cut across the window and I felt a flush of
relief. I grabbed my bag, giving only a
cursory glance inside to make sure everything was there, and
bolted out of the cottage, running full tilt to my
brother's car. I turned back one last time to
the cottage. As we drove away, in the faint
glow of the tail lights, I could have sworn that I saw a figure
standing at the window, watching us leave.
I didn't say anything to my brother, but a shiver ran
through me. Something was deeply wrong in
that place, and I felt very happy to have listened to my gut
leaving before it was too late. Even as we drove on, the feeling
of unease lingered on the sense that I had narrowly avoided some
awful fate. I pushed open the door to
Crafthaven and the warmth of the store hit me.
Aunt Margaret stayed in the car, her knee was giving her trouble
again, so it was just me. I felt proud, like I was on a
mission. I had to get the candle wax and
nothing else. Well, maybe a quick look at the
paints just for fun. The air inside was filled with
that craft store smell, glue, dried flowers, and something
else I could never really name. I headed toward the back where
the candle supplies were. As I moved through the aisles, I
saw a man near the entrance. He looked different.
His coat was worn out and kind of dirty, and his jeans looked
like they hadn't been washed in a long time.
His eyes seemed empty, like he hadn't slept in days.
I shook it off and focused on finding the wax.
I found the right aisle and bent down to pick up a pack of wax.
I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder.
There he was. He wasn't even pretending to
look at anything, just standing there staring.
His lips moved like he was talking to himself.
I tried to ignore it, but my hands were starting to shake a
little. I kept telling myself I was just
imagining it, but something felt off.
I decided to make my way to the toy aisle.
I wasn't ready to leave yet, but I wanted to see if maybe I could
lose him. I walked slowly, pretending to
browse the shelves. I saw some plush animals and
picked one up just to look busy. When I glanced up, he was at the
end of the aisle, still staring, his eyes wide.
He muttered something, but I couldn't hear it.
My chest felt tight. I turned away and kept moving,
faster now. I went down to more aisles,
zigzagging through the store, hoping that maybe he'd get bored
or just go away. But every time I looked up, he
was still there, still following me, his steps slow but steady.
I felt trapped, like no matter which way I turned, he'd be
there. I ended up in the floral
section, my hands gripping a fake rose.
I turned around, hoping he'd finally gone, but instead he was
closer, way too close. He had his back to me and his
hand was moving inside his coat. His eyes looked crazier now,
like he was getting more worked up.
I didn't wait to see what he was doing.
I dropped the Rose and ran. I ran like my life depended on
it. I could hear his boots, heavy on
the tile floor, coming after me. He was muttering louder now,
almost growling. I couldn't understand the words,
but it didn't matter, I just knew I had to get out.
I burst through the sliding doors and there was Aunt
Margaret's car right in front. I threw myself inside, locking
the door as fast as I could. Aunt Margaret turned to me, her
eyes wide. What's wrong, Emily?
She asked, but I couldn't even speak.
Before I could explain, I saw him.
The man. He came out of the store, his
face twisted in anger. He pointed right at me and
yelled. She stole.
That girl stole from the store. Aunt Margaret looked confused,
but I could tell she felt something was off.
She locked her door and told me to stay down.
The man reached the car, banging on the window, his face just
inches from mine. He pulled at the door handle,
shaking the whole car. Aunt Margaret didn't wait, she
threw the car in reverse, her hands shaking on the wheel.
We backed up so fast I thought we might hit something, but she
didn't stop. The tires squealed as we speed
out of the parking lot. As we drove away, I looked back.
The man was standing in the middle of the lot, staring after
us, his figure getting smaller and smaller until he finally
disappeared. It's been a few weeks since that
night at Crafthaven, but it still feels like it just
happened yesterday. I remember how the police came
to our house after Aunt Margaret called them.
I tried to describe the man, the way he looked, the wild look in
his eyes. I did my best, but it was hard
to find the right words. The officers nodded seriously,
taking notes, and promised they would check the security footage
from the store. They said they'd do everything
they could to catch him, and they did.
Aunt Margaret told me that they caught the man not long after.
She tried to keep things simple, but I overheard some of what she
told Uncle John. The man had been in trouble
before, lots of trouble. He had hurt people before, even
girls like me. I remember feeling both relieved
and scared at the same time. He wouldn't be able to follow
anyone else for now, but just knowing what he was capable of
made my stomach twist. Even though he was caught, I
couldn't really feel safe again. Every time I walk by a store
with sliding doors, I feel like he's right there, just out of
sight. The squeak of the doors opening
makes my skin prickle, like he might walk through them any
second. Aunt Margaret keeps saying that
it's over, that the man is gone, but the memory of him hasn't
left me. Crafthaven used to be my
favorite place, full of colors and fun.
Now whenever I think about going back, all I see are his eyes
staring at me, empty and dark. Aunt Margaret tries to help,
though she knows I've been having trouble sleeping.
Some nights I lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying
everything in my head. I keep thinking about what would
have happened if I hadn't run fast enough, or if Aunt Margaret
hadn't locked the door. I can't help but imagine all the
awful things that could have happened, and it makes me scared
to close my eyes. Aunt Margaret sits with me
sometimes and tells me stories or just talks to me until I
start to calm down. She tells me how scared she was
too, but how she knew she had to stay strong for both of us.
I like those talks, even though they're about scary things.
They make me feel like I wasn't alone in being afraid.
I try to go back to normal. I go to school, I do my
homework, I help Aunt Margaret with chores, but I don't feel
like the same Emily anymore. I used to love crafting with
Aunt Margaret, but now every time I pick up a candle or think
about going to the craft store, I get this knot in my stomach.
Aunt Margaret bought some new supplies the other day, trying
to get me interested again. She brought home colorful wax
and molds for making new candles, but I couldn't even
look at them without remembering that man.
I know she wants me to feel better, but it's hard when
everything reminds me of that night.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering what would have
happened if Aunt Margaret hadn't been there.
What if I had been alone? What if the car door had stayed
unlocked? The thoughts circle around in my
head, making me feel shaky and cold.
Aunt Margaret saved me that night, and I know I should feel
lucky, but it's hard to feel anything but scared.
I'm grateful, but the fear is always there, lurking in the
background, like a shadow that won't go away.
I know I have to be stronger now.
I can't just pretend nothing happened, but I also can't let
it control me. I tell myself that I'll never
see him again, that he's gone for good, but even saying it out
loud doesn't make the fear vanish.
I keep hoping, wishing that one day I won't feel this way
anymore, that I won't have to look over my shoulder or feel my
stomach twist every time I go to a store.
Until then, I just try to be careful, to stay alert, because
now I know how quickly everything can change.
I learned that the world isn't always as safe as I thought, and
that's something I won't ever forget.
I hadn't seen Michelle in years, and when she invited me to her
wedding, I was excited but apprehensive.
It wasn't just about seeing her. So many other people from the
old days would be there, people from when I lived in that small
ultra conservative community. So when I entered the well
decorated reception playing music, Michelle lit up upon
seeing me. But the looks that were given to
me just made me feel like some sort of outsider, like I did not
belong. I genuinely felt as if I walked
into the wrong party. I just tried to ignore it and
located a table where I could sit and remain silent for some
time. That's when I met Derek, a
friend of the groom. He introduced himself with a
smile so genuine I felt like I was seeing a long lost buddy
from childhood. We started talking and before I
knew it, I found myself laughing at his jokes and forgetting
about everybody else. Derek was charming, he seemed
genuinely interested in my life, not just making small talk.
We danced to songs that I remembered when I was growing up
and suddenly I started to feel at ease.
Maybe this wouldn't be an uncomfortable night after all.
A while into it, Derrick said he had to go to the bathroom, so I
thought I'd take a break too. Went back to the table, but my
purse wasn't there. I could have sworn I put it on
the chair. Had this strange nagging feeling
like something wasn't quite right.
Maybe I left it in the car when I first came in.
I hoped that's what it was, so I went out to the parking lot.
I opened the door of the car and there it was, lying on the
driver's seat. I sat there for a second,
staring at it, feeling a little perplexed.
Did I really leave it there? I picked up the purse and did
not think much about it. It was just a stupid mistake,
probably. Back at the reception, I looked
around for Derek, but he wasn't there.
The groom told me Derek had gone home because he wasn't feeling
well. That seemed strange, but I
shrugged it off. All of a sudden, I felt tired
myself. Maybe it was just all the noise
and the nerves catching up to me.
I decided it was time to go. I walked towards the car,
realizing just how quiet the parking lot had gotten.
I opened the door, got in, closed it behind me, and
proceeded to adjust the rear view mirror.
That's when I noticed movement behind me.
I froze, staring into the mirror, trying to make sense of
what I was seeing. Then I turned around and there
was Derek, crouched down in the back seat, his eyes locked and
opened wide. Not one of us moved.
For a beat, I felt out of myself, like this was happening
to someone else and I was watching.
And then I screamed. I yanked open the door and
stumbled out, my feet hardly catching the ground as I ran.
I could hear him behind me, footsteps pounding on the
pavement. He kept calling my name, his
voice steady, like he was trying to calm me down.
But it only made things worse. I burst back into the reception
hall, nearly knocking Michelle over.
I was shaking so badly I could hardly speak, but Michelle
grabbed my arm, her face turning pale as she listened.
Her husband, Mark, wasted no time.
He grabbed a flashlight and insisted on walking me back out.
When we got to the car, Derek was gone.
There was no sign of him, and Mark said Derek's car was
nowhere to be seen. I drove home that night with
every nerve on edge and locked all the doors behind me as soon
as I got inside. But sleep wouldn't come.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Derek in my car, crouched
down, waiting. I knew this wasn't over.
The fear stayed with me, whispering in the dark corners
of my mind, hinting that the nightmare was just beginning.
It started just days after the wedding.
I was going out to check the mail and felt something was off.
As I approached the mailbox, the door was wide open and letters
were scattered all over the ground, so I picked them up and
inside this particular one with no return address.
My breath caught as I saw what it was, a photograph of my
driver's license, my home address, there for anyone to
see. I knew then it had to be Derek,
who must have taken it. My mind went back to the
reception, my purse mysteriously in the car.
He had gone through it, taken my ID, and now he knew everything
about me. It wasn't just creepy anymore,
it was terrifying. I felt like I'd been marked,
like he was playing some twisted game Where?
And then Derek started showing up.
The first time I saw him across the street as I was leaving my
apartment, he didn't wave or call out, just stood there
watching me. The next time I was at work and
I saw him near the parking lot, staying just out of sight.
I knew it was him, even if I couldn't always see his face
clearly and the feeling that he was always present just around
the corner. 1 evening I went out to my car after work and found a
note stuck under my windshield wiper.
It said I'm watching. The handwriting was rushed,
almost frantic, like he had written it in a hurry.
My stomach turned as I crumpled it up and looked around.
I didn't see him, but I knew he had been there, watching me.
It wasn't just me who noticed. A few of my coworkers mentioned
seeing a guy hanging around. They thought he was my
boyfriend. I remember one of them smiling
as she said he seems really into you.
I forced a smile back, but inside I felt sick.
He had told people he was my boyfriend.
He was weaving himself into my life, making it seem like he
belonged there. So then I knew I had to do
something. I went down to the police and
applied for a restraining order, but it was going slowly and I
didn't feel any safer. Derrick always seemed to be one
step ahead, like he knew what I was doing before I even did it.
I packed a bag and moved in with my aunt.
I thought maybe I could get away from him there, but even there,
the feeling of being watched never left.
One night my aunt's dog began barking loudly and in a very
aggressive manner. His hair was up straight and he
was facing the front door. My aunt tried to calm him down,
but he wouldn't stop. I peeked out the window and
there at the edge of the yard, I saw a figure standing in the
shadows. He remained there, not moving,
until finally he slipped away into the dark.
One evening I saw muddy footprints at the back window.
The glass was smeared like someone had pressed their face
against it, trying to look in. My gut twisted and I just knew
it had to be Derek. He was out there.
Even if I could not always see him, he was always out there.
I did everything, change routines, lock doors, nothing
worked. He was relentless.
That fear became part of me like a shadow, always there.
Each time the dog barked, each time I heard a noise outside, I
knew it could be him. I knew he wouldn't stop.
He was still out there somewhere, waiting and watching.
I just didn't know what he would do next.
I knew only that it was not over.
When Jack and I moved into the cottage, I thought it was going
to be a fresh start. The house was small, tucked away
in a quiet village in Wales. It was surrounded by thick
woods, giving it that cosy storybook look.
But there was something about the silence that made me uneasy,
as if the place held its breath when no one was looking.
I tried to shake it off, telling myself I just needed time to
adjust. We met a few of the neighbors,
including Henry, who lived across the narrow Rd.
He seemed nice at first, maybe a little too friendly.
He always seemed to be around, ready to chat.
Whenever I stepped outside, he would stand just a bit too
close, talk a bit too long. Jack said I was being paranoid,
that Henry was just trying to be friendly, but I couldn't help
but feel uncomfortable. After a while, Jack and I
started having problems. Eventually he got a job
overseas, and just like that, I was alone in the house.
It was quiet, far too quiet. So I adopted a cat named Oliver.
He filled the empty spaces with his purring and playful antics,
and for a while things felt better.
But then Henry started coming around more often.
He would pop up out of nowhere, always wanting to talk.
His eyes lingered a little too long and his questions felt
intrusive. He asked about Jack, where he
was, if he was coming back. He asked if I was lonely.
I tried to keep my answers short, but he never took the
hint. One afternoon, I was playing an
online game when Henry knocked on the door with a parcel.
I told him to leave it by the door, but he insisted on
bringing it in. I let him in, hoping he'd just
drop it and leave, but instead he stood behind me, watching me
play. I could feel his eyes on me, and
it made my skin crawl. He didn't say anything, just
watched, breathing heavily as I tried to focus on the game.
I eventually turned around and told him I had to get back to
work. He smiled, but there was
something off about it, something that made me uneasy.
He left, but the feeling of being watched didn't.
A few weeks later I started noticing strange things.
My trash bins, which I always left out by the street, were
being brought back to the house. At first I thought maybe a
neighbour was just being helpful, but then I found things
in the bins that I hadn't thrown away.
Random junk. Things that weren't mine.
I decided to set up a camera in the window just to see what was
going on. One night I checked the footage
and there he was. Henry.
He was out there late at night, pulling my bins back, standing
by my windows, looking in. I felt sick.
I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to confront him,
didn't want to make things worse, so I kept quiet, hoping
he'd lose interest. But deep down I knew this wasn't
over. After Christmas, things got
worse with Henry. One night there was a knock on
my door, way later than anyone should have been visiting.
I was hesitant, but eventually I opened it.
There he was, swaying slightly, eyes glassy.
He had a gift bag in his hand, wrapped in crumpled paper, like
he hadn't really put much effort into it.
He told me he had something for me and pushed it into my hands.
I could smell the alcohol on him, sharp and sour.
He slurred something about it being a Christmas present, and
then out of nowhere, he said he wanted to kiss me on the cheek.
I stepped back, trying to keep my voice calm, but before I
could say anything, he leaned in, planting a wet kiss on my
cheek. I froze, my mind was blank and I
just wanted him out of my house. I thanked him quickly, stepping
back and trying to close the door, but he held it open,
rambling on about how lonely he was.
I kept nodding, inching the door closed bit by bit until finally
it clicked shut. I locked it, then leaned against
it, my hands shaking. The gift bag was still in my
hand and when I looked inside I saw two dusty bottles of ale, an
open can of chips, and some chocolates that had clearly
melted and re hardened. I threw it all in the trash.
After that night, Henry started showing up more often.
He would knock on my door minutes after I got a delivery,
like he was watching, waiting. It didn't matter if it was early
in the morning or late at night. Every time I heard that knock I
would feel my stomach twist. I started ignoring him,
pretending I wasn't home. I would hide upstairs, trying to
be as quiet as possible, hoping he'd just go away.
Sometimes he'd call out for me, his voice muffled through the
door, saying he was just checking on me, that he was
worried. I never answered.
Eventually, I knew I had to do something.
I called the police and filed a harassment report.
I felt stupid, like maybe I was overreacting, but I couldn't
take it anymore. The officer I spoke to was kind.
He listened to everything, took notes and gave me a case number.
He asked if I wanted them to talk to Henry, but I said no.
I didn't want to make things worse, I just wanted it on
record in case things got out of hand.
A few days later there was another knock at my door.
I peeked through the window and there he was again, looking
angry. This time I opened the door just
to crack, and before he could say anything, I told him we
couldn't keep talking, that it wasn't appropriate.
His face changed, his eyes going dark.
He said I just wanted to be your friend.
There was something in his voice, something that made me
uneasy. I told him again, more firmly
this time, and then I closed the door.
I stood there, listening, waiting for him to leave.
Eventually, I heard his footsteps fade away.
For a while, things seemed to settle down.
I didn't see Henry around as much, and the knocks on my door
stopped. But one cold night, as I was
locking up to go get groceries, I saw something move in the
shadows near my driveway. It was quick, just a flash of
movement, but it made me stop. I looked again, but there was
nothing there. Still, I decided not to go out
that night. Instead, I went inside and
ordered a motion sensor light the next day, hoping it would
help me feel a little safer. A couple of months passed and
things were starting to feel normal again.
The motion sensor light helped a lot.
Every time it lit up I would check, but most of the time it
was just a stray cat or the wind moving the branches.
It made me feel a bit more in control, like I could keep an
eye on things. I was even starting to relax.
Until one night when it wasn't a stray cat, I was in the kitchen
feeding Oliver. He was purring, rubbing against
my leg, and I was focused on pouring the food into his bowl.
Suddenly, the light outside flicked on.
I glanced out the window, expecting to see the usual, but
then I saw something strange. In the corner of the window.
There was a dark shape, something crouched low.
I leaned closer, squinting to see through the glare of the
light, trying to make out what it was.
Then I saw him. Henry crouching just outside the
window, his face partially hidden by the shadows.
He was staring right at me. I froze, the spoon still in my
hand, and for a second I didn't know what to do.
He didn't move, just kept watching, like he was waiting
for something. My chest felt tight, and I could
hear Oliver meowing, but it sounded far away, like
everything else had gone quiet. I don't know what came over me,
but I finally found my voice. I yelled, louder than I think
I've ever yelled before. What are you doing?
Get away from here. My voice shook, but I didn't
care. Henry's eyes widened, and for a
moment he looked almost confused, like he hadn't
expected me to react. Then, slowly, he stood up.
He didn't say anything, didn't try to explain himself.
He just turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.
I grabbed my phone and called the police right away.
My hands were trembling as I told them what had happened.
They took me seriously this time.
An officer came by later that night, taking my statement.
He told me they'd had complaints about Henry before, that he had
a history of bothering other women in the village.
Hearing that made me feel both angry and scared.
I wasn't the only one. And yet he'd been allowed to
keep doing this. A few days later, I watched from
my window as they arrested him. His wife was standing on their
porch, her face pale and her hands covering her mouth.
I hadn't even known he had a wife.
The officers led him away, and he didn't look back at me, not
once. They told me later that he'd
received a caution, that he was forbidden from coming near my
house or contacting me again. It wasn't much, but it was
something. For a while, it felt like things
were finally over. But one day, I saw him again.
I was in the shower and I'd forgotten to pull down the
blinds. When I looked up, I saw him
through the window, just standing there, watching.
My stomach twisted and I quickly pulled the blinds down, my heart
pounding. That was it.
I couldn't stay here any more. I packed up and moved far away,
leaving the cottage, the village, and all the memories
behind. I hope I never see Henry again.
I hope he never finds someone else to scare the way he scared
me. I'm done being polite.
He's a predator and now everyone knows it.