“The Man Who Followed Me Home”

It’s been eight years, and I still can’t take the same route home twice in a week.

Back then, I was twenty-two, broke, and living in a tiny basement apartment on the edge of downtown. The rent was cheap because the walls were thin, the plumbing rattled, and the windows barely latched.

I worked closing shifts at a bookstore. We locked the doors at 10 p.m., but by the time I finished cashing out, stacking the last display, and shutting down the lights, it was always close to 10:30 before I stepped out into the night.

Downtown was busy in the day — coffee shops, buskers, the smell of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner. But after dark, it felt like an entirely different city. Streetlights hummed, shop windows turned black, and the only sound was the echo of my own footsteps.

At first, I felt safe enough. I’d been walking that route for months without incident. But one night in April, everything shifted.

---

I noticed him for the first time on a Wednesday. He stood beneath a flickering streetlight, hands in the pockets of a long, dark coat. He wasn’t facing me — he was staring at something across the street — but I still caught the shine of his polished black shoes.

I told myself he was just waiting for a bus. The stop was right there, after all.

The next week, I saw him again. Same place. Same coat. Same shoes. This time, his head turned as I passed. His face was expressionless, his eyes following me until I turned the corner.

Something about that stare stuck with me the whole way home.

---

The third time, he didn’t stay by the streetlight.

I heard the footsteps first — slow, deliberate, heavy against the uneven pavement. When I turned my head, he was walking behind me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could hear his breathing between his steps.

Every instinct screamed at me not to go straight home. My apartment was only three blocks away, but if he followed me there, he’d know where I lived.

Instead, I made a sharp left toward the all-night laundromat.

---

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I pretended to dig for coins in my bag while keeping him in my peripheral vision. He stopped right outside the glass door, hands still in his coat pockets, his shadow stretching toward the entrance.

He didn’t move for fifteen minutes.

I tried not to look directly at him, afraid of what might happen if I made eye contact. When he finally walked away, I stayed put for another thirty minutes, flipping through an old gossip magazine with trembling hands.

When I finally made it home, I locked every bolt and pushed a chair against the door.

---

I didn’t see him for a while after that. I convinced myself it had been a coincidence — maybe even my imagination.

Then, one month later, I was in the grocery store picking up milk when I froze. In the reflection of the glass door, I saw him.

Long dark coat. Polished shoes.

And he was smiling.

---

I wish I could tell you I called the police. But I didn’t.

I told myself it would sound paranoid. That they’d ask for proof I didn’t have. That they’d file a report and send me home, and nothing would change except he’d know I had spoken to them.

Because deep down, I was sure of something: if he wanted to find me, he could.

So I moved.

I packed my life into four boxes, left the keys on the counter, and didn’t leave a forwarding address. I never even said goodbye to my neighbors.

---

For a long time, I thought that was the end of it.

But sometimes, when I’m walking alone, I catch a glimpse of a figure in the distance — tall, still, wearing a dark coat.

I tell myself it’s just another stranger.

And yet, every time, I change direction.

Because maybe it’s him.

Or maybe it’s just the fear he left behind.

Either way, I still never take the same way home twice.