My Mafia Stalker

I'm Not Crazy

I woke up to the sound of my camera shutter clicking. For a heartbeat, I thought I was dreaming—then I realized the camera wasn’t even in my hands. It was across the room, on the table. My pulse spiked. The air felt thick, too heavy to breathe. Someone was in the apartment. I froze, straining to listen, but all I could hear was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of the wall clock. The camera sat motionless, lens pointed toward the window. I must have left the self-timer on. I must have. That’s what I told myself, though I couldn’t remember ever setting it.

By the time Mia arrived later that morning, I had taken apart the camera and checked every corner of the apartment twice. I must have looked like hell—hair messy, eyes swollen from lack of sleep—but Mia only frowned softly and handed me a paper cup of coffee.

“Ali, you’ve been up all night again?” she asked, concern dripping from every word.

I nodded absently, wrapping my hands around the cup just for the warmth. “I heard something last night. I think someone came in again.”

Her expression stiffened, but only slightly. “You changed the locks last week.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I can still feel it. He’s here, Mia. He’s watching me. Even when I’m asleep.”

She sighed and sat across from me. “Ali, listen to me. You’re exhausted. You’ve been—”

“Don’t say it,” I snapped, too fast, too sharp. The look in her eyes made me regret it instantly. I softened my tone. “Please. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this. I know what I feel.”

Mia pressed her lips together, nodding slowly, but I saw it—the flicker of disbelief, the pity. That same look she had given me when I first told her about him. I didn’t trust that look anymore.

That afternoon, I went out to photograph the pier. The light was strange that day—bright and harsh, casting everything in an overexposed glare. I used to love that kind of light. It made things feel alive. But now every shadow looked wrong, every movement in my peripheral vision made my stomach clench. When I turned around to scan the crowd, I could swear I saw him again—a shape leaning against the railing, just beyond focus. My breath caught, and I raised my camera to zoom in.

Click.

Nothing.

Just a blur where his face should’ve been.

I lowered the camera and stared at the image on the tiny screen. The blur was too perfect, too smooth—like a smudge over reality. The more I looked, the more I thought I could see faint outlines of fingers pressed against the lens, like someone had touched it while I wasn’t looking.

When I got home, Mia was waiting in my apartment. She had a key, of course, but something about seeing her sitting there in the dim light, waiting for me, made my stomach twist.

“You shouldn’t leave the door unlocked,” she said, too gently.

“I didn’t,” I murmured.

She hesitated. “Ali… we need to talk.”

Her tone made me want to bolt.

“What did you do?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing. I just—look, I called someone. A doctor. He wants to talk to you. Just to help you sort through what’s been happening.”

“No,” I said immediately. “No doctors.”

“Ali, please. You haven’t slept properly in weeks. You’re scared all the time. You’re talking about someone following you when there’s no evidence. You’re not—”

I stood up so fast the chair screeched across the floor. “You think I’m crazy.”

“I think you need help.”

The words hung there like a sentence.

I laughed, but it came out cracked and wrong. “You think this is all in my head? Mia, he’s been in here. He touches things. My camera goes off at night. My photos—”

She rose, reaching for me. “Ali, calm down—”

“Don’t touch me!” I stepped back, clutching the camera like a weapon. “You don’t understand. He wants me to lose it. That’s what he’s doing. He’s making me look insane so no one believes me.”

Mia’s face softened, but her voice turned careful, measured, the way you talk to someone standing too close to a ledge. “I’m on your side. You know that. But maybe—just maybe—it’s stress. You’ve been under pressure. Your exhibits, the move, the deadlines…”

She was lying. I could tell. There was something in her eyes—something I hadn’t seen before. Pity? Fear? Or maybe guilt.

After she left, I checked the locks again. Then I blocked the door with a chair. I knew she’d be back.

The next few days blurred together. I stopped going out. The curtains stayed closed, the lights dim. I could still feel him though—his gaze trailing over me like static, constant, patient. My reflection in the mirror didn’t look right anymore; she blinked too slow, her expression always a little off. I started taking photos of myself, frame after frame, trying to catch it, whatever was wrong. But every picture just looked emptier, like something was being peeled away from me.

When Mia came again, she brought groceries and a forced smile.

“You need to eat,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

She watched me too closely as I unpacked the bag. I saw her glance toward the camera on the counter, then back at me.

“You’ve been using that thing a lot lately,” she said.

“It’s the only way to prove he’s real,” I replied.

Her jaw tightened. “Ali, you’re scaring me.”

“Good,” I said quietly. “Now you know how it feels.”

That night, I dreamt of the pier again. Only this time, Mia was there too—standing beside the shadowed man, whispering something I couldn’t hear. When I woke up, there were fresh photos scattered across the floor. My camera had gone off during the night again. In the photos, I was asleep. The first few were normal, but then, frame by frame, something shifted. A hand appeared on my shoulder in one of them. Not mine. A man’s hand. And behind me, in the dim corner near the curtain—there was a figure. Out of focus, but there.

I ran to Mia’s apartment with the photos clutched in my hands. She opened the door groggy and annoyed.

“Ali, it’s three in the morning—”

“Look!” I shoved the photos toward her. “He’s real! Look at these!”

She took them reluctantly, flipping through them. Then she looked up at me with that same awful pity. “Ali… these are just long-exposure distortions. You probably moved in your sleep. The camera—”

“Stop lying to me!”

“Ali, you need help!”

I could hear the panic in her voice now. It was real panic, not fake. But I couldn’t tell who she was scared of—me or him.

She reached for her phone. “I’m calling Dr. Patel. He can come tomorrow. We’ll talk to him together, okay?”

“No.”

“Ali—”

I turned and ran before she could finish.

The street outside was empty, the night air sharp. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I reached the edge of the pier again. The same spot I’d seen him last week. The lights shimmered across the water, and for the first time in days, I felt a kind of calm. He was out there somewhere, watching. He always was.

But what if Mia was right? What if I was unraveling?

I thought about the photos. The hand. The figure. Could I have imagined it? Could my mind really twist things like that? I sank down on the cold wood, clutching the camera. I wanted to destroy it, to end this madness, but I couldn’t. If I broke it, I’d never know the truth.

When I finally returned home, there was a note taped to the door. It was Mia’s handwriting:

Ali, please don’t shut me out. I’m scared for you. Let me help before it gets worse.

The next day, I found her talking quietly on the phone near the stairwell, her voice hushed but trembling.

“She’s getting worse,” she whispered. “She thinks I’m part of it now. Yes… yes, I think it’s time.”

Time for what?

When she saw me, she froze. “Ali—hey. I was just—”

I smiled too wide. “Calling him again?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“I know what you’re doing, Mia.”

“Ali, please—”

“He’s not real to you because you’re working with him. Isn’t that right? You let him in.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh God, Ali…”

I backed away slowly. The walls felt closer, the air heavier. Every sound in the hall echoed too loud. I could feel him again, right behind me, breathing against my neck.

I turned, camera trembling in my hand, and pressed the shutter.

Click.

The flash lit up the hall—Mia flinched, covering her face. But when I looked at the screen, she wasn’t alone.

Someone was standing behind her.