My Mafia Stalker

I know I’m not alone. Not really. Not when I can feel his gaze on me, on everything I do. No matter where I go, he’s there. I feel his presence like a shadow that clings to my skin, silent and patient, waiting for something I can’t name. It started subtly, in ways that were easy to dismiss. A flicker in the corner of my eye while walking home from work. The faint sound of footsteps that matched mine just a little too perfectly. A reflection in a window that disappeared when I turned around. I told myself it was nothing—just my imagination after too many late nights and too much coffee. But it didn’t stop. It grew. Now, every night when I step inside my apartment, I pause before locking the door, waiting. Listening. The air feels too still, too thick, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. I turn on every light, one by one, trying to chase away the shadows that seem to stretch toward me. It’s strange how quickly fear becomes routine. How easily paranoia becomes part of life. I used to love the quiet of my home—the hum of the refrigerator, the soft ticking of the wall clock, the muffled sounds of the city below. But now, the silence feels dangerous. Every creak of the floorboards makes my heart race. Every flicker of light feels like a signal I can’t interpret. I’ve started checking the locks three times before bed. I close the curtains tightly and push furniture against the balcony door. My friends say I’m being paranoid, that I should relax. “You’re safe,” they tell me with easy smiles. But they don’t see what I see. They don’t feel the way my stomach drops when I catch a silhouette just beyond the streetlamp. They don’t hear the faint click of a camera shutter when I leave my window open for air. It’s not in my head. I know it isn’t. Two nights ago, I woke up at 2:47 a.m. to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number. No words, just a photo—of me, sleeping. My heart stopped. My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped the phone. The photo was grainy, but unmistakable. The angle was from outside my window. I called the police, of course. They came, checked the building, took statements, and left with sympathetic smiles and polite reassurances. They said it was probably a prank, that I should block the number and keep my windows closed. One of the officers, a young man who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, even joked that I should get a cat for company. I laughed weakly, just to make him leave faster. But that night, when I finally forced myself to sleep, I dreamt of eyes. Countless, unblinking eyes staring through the dark. Watching. Waiting. I wake up now before dawn, long before the sun touches the horizon. The world feels quieter then, but not in a comforting way. It’s a kind of silence that hums under the skin, full of things that want to move but don’t. I make coffee just to have something to do with my hands. I keep the lights on, even when it’s bright outside. Sometimes, I catch my reflection in the mirror and don’t recognize myself. There are dark circles under my eyes, a faint twitch in my cheek that wasn’t there before. I’ve lost weight, too—my clothes hang looser than they used to. Fear eats away at you slowly, like acid. You don’t even notice until you’re hollowed out. And yet, the worst part isn’t the fear itself. It’s the doubt. The moments when I question whether I’ve lost my grip on reality. I’ll sit on the couch, staring at the front door, and tell myself I’m imagining things. That no one is there. That I’m safe. And just as the thought begins to settle, I’ll hear it—a faint scrape, like something brushing against the doorframe. Or the faintest sound of breathing, muffled and close. It’s driving me mad. I’ve tried everything. I changed my number. I moved my furniture. I even bought a new set of locks. But somehow, he always finds me. I don’t know how, but he does. It’s like he knows every step I’ll take before I take it. Sometimes I wonder if he’s inside the building. Maybe he’s a neighbor. Maybe he’s someone I pass by every day without realizing. Last week, I was walking home from the train station when I felt it again—the prickling at the back of my neck, the unmistakable sense of being watched. I turned around, but the street was nearly empty. A few people walked in the distance, their faces lost in the glow of their phones. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then I saw it—a figure standing beneath the streetlight across the road, motionless. Too still to be casual. I froze. My mouth went dry. The figure didn’t move. It was too dark to make out a face, but I could tell he was looking at me. I could feel it, like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. I wanted to run, but my legs refused to move. Then, just as suddenly as I noticed him, a car passed between us. When it drove away, he was gone. I sprinted the rest of the way home, locked the door, and sat on the floor until the sun came up. Now, even daylight doesn’t make me feel safe. I see faces in crowds that linger a second too long. I notice reflections in windows that don’t move when I do. Every time my phone buzzes, I flinch. Every unexpected sound makes my heart leap into my throat. I started keeping a journal to try to make sense of it all. I write down what I see, what I hear, what I feel. But when I read it back, it looks like the ramblings of someone losing her mind. The entries blur together—same words, same fears, over and over again. I feel like I’m writing myself into madness. And yet, something inside me knows this is real. This morning, when I left for work, there was something new waiting for me. A single photograph slipped under my door. It was of me again, walking down the hallway from two days ago, holding a grocery bag. The angle was from behind. Someone had followed me all the way to my door. The paper smelled faintly of smoke, like it had been developed in some forgotten darkroom. I wanted to scream, to tear it apart, but I couldn’t move. I just stood there, staring at the photo until the edges crumpled beneath my fingers. I didn’t go to work. I couldn’t. I spent the whole day inside, blinds drawn, sitting on the couch with my phone clutched in my hand. Waiting. Listening. Every sound from the hallway made my pulse race. When the mailman dropped a letter through the slot, I nearly screamed. I thought about calling the police again, but what would I even say? That I found another photo? That I can feel someone’s eyes on me even now? They’d just tell me to stay calm, to “document everything.” But how do you document a feeling? How do you explain the way your skin crawls when you know someone’s watching but you can’t see them? Night has fallen again, and I can’t bring myself to turn off the lights. The glow from the lamps casts long shadows on the walls, and sometimes, I think I see movement in the dark corners of the room. I tell myself it’s just my imagination, but the words ring hollow. There’s a sound outside. A faint rustle, like fabric brushing against the window. I hold my breath. It comes again, softer this time, almost hesitant. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can barely hear anything else. I move slowly toward the window, every step deliberate. The curtains are drawn, but I can see the faint outline of something—someone—standing just beyond the glass. I stop. The air feels electric. My throat is dry. I want to scream, but no sound comes out. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the shape moves away. I rush forward and pull the curtains aside, but there’s nothing. Just the dark street below, the flickering streetlight, the quiet hum of the city. I don’t sleep that night. At dawn, I catch my reflection in the window and barely recognize myself. My eyes look haunted, wide and glassy. My lips are pale. I look like a ghost trapped in my own home. Maybe that’s what I’ve become—something caught between fear and exhaustion, waiting for an ending that never comes. But even now, I can feel him. I can feel his eyes on me as I write this. Watching, always watching. Sometimes I wonder what he wants. Maybe it’s not me he’s after. Maybe it’s the fear itself. Maybe he feeds on it, like a parasite, growing stronger the more I spiral. Or maybe he’s just waiting for the moment I finally break. I’ve started leaving the lights off at night, just to see what happens. To test whether he’s real or not. The darkness feels alive, pulsing with quiet energy. I can almost hear him breathing, slow and steady, in rhythm with my own. I tell myself that if I can catch him—if I can see him, just once—I’ll prove I’m not crazy. But deep down, I think I already know the truth. He’s not outside anymore. He’s here. Somewhere in the room, hidden in the stillness, behind the sound of my own heartbeat. And he’s waiting.