**"No Escape"**

Megan had always felt safe in the anonymity of the internet. She was careful—never used her real name, never posted personal photos, and her location was always set to somewhere far away from where she actually lived. But the messages started coming about six months ago, and at first, they were easy to ignore. A random username, "Watcher23," had begun commenting on everything she posted.

“Nice photo. Bet it looks even better in person.”

“Do you always take your coffee at 8 AM?”

“Red’s a good color on you. Wear it more often.”

They were unsettling, but Megan brushed them off. The internet was full of weirdos, she told herself. Just block them and move on. And she did—she blocked Watcher23, but the messages kept coming from different accounts. The comments got more personal, more invasive.

“Funny, I didn’t see you at the coffee shop today. Everything okay?”

“Do you walk your dog in the park every evening? Looks like a peaceful spot.”

The realization that someone was following her, tracking her every move, sent a chill down her spine. She started changing her routines—different coffee shops, taking alternate routes to work, varying the times she walked her dog. But the messages didn’t stop.

Megan reported the accounts, contacted the platform’s support, even considered deleting all her social media. But a part of her resisted; why should she have to give up her online life because of some creep? Besides, what could he really do? He didn’t know who she was, where she lived… or so she thought.

One evening, after a long day at work, Megan came home to a quiet apartment. She locked the door behind her, kicked off her shoes, and tossed her keys onto the kitchen counter. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a notification from an unknown number. She hesitated before opening the message.

*“Nice place you’ve got here. Cozy. See you soon.”*

Her heart stopped. She felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at the screen, her mind racing. How did he get her number? How did he know where she lived?

Panicking, she ran to the windows, checking the locks, drawing the curtains. She tried to calm herself, but her hands were shaking too much to dial 911. Instead, she typed out a frantic message to her best friend, Beth.

*“Someone’s here. I think it’s him. He knows where I live. Help.”*

She hit send and then grabbed the nearest thing she could find—a kitchen knife. Her breath was shallow, her mind spinning in a hundred directions. She tried to listen for any sound, anything out of place.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door—three slow, deliberate knocks. Megan’s heart pounded so loudly in her chest she thought she might pass out.

The phone buzzed again. Another message. Megan forced herself to look at it.

*“I’m closer than you think.”*

The knock came again, this time harder, more insistent. She knew she couldn’t stay where she was. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to get out. She sprinted to the back door, but as she reached for the handle, she heard the unmistakable sound of the front door creaking open.

Megan froze, the cold grip of fear paralyzing her. The front door shouldn’t have opened. She was certain she had locked it. Slowly, she turned to face the darkness that seemed to pour into her apartment like a living thing.

The last message came through as the shadow of a figure loomed in the doorway:

*“Too late.”*