The Stranger

“One more shot for the road?” yells Samantha over the heavy thrum of the nightclub music. She hands me a shot glass filled with clear liquid.

“I guess one more can’t hurt,” I say, quickly tossing the shot back. The spicy tingle hits my tongue and the burn slides down my throat. “Ugh! You know I hate drinking vodka straight.”

“Yes, I know you’d much rather be at home with your nose in a book, but I appreciate you coming out for a bit.”

“Great! I’ve fulfilled my duty as the good friend for tonight. I’m going home to bed.”

I hug Samantha goodbye and head to the coat-check counter. While I’m waiting in line, I drunkenly fumble through my bag for my ticket, then I remember I placed it in my skirt pocket. I slide both my hands into the back pockets and I feel a crumpled piece of paper. I pull it out and hand it to the staff member; in return she hands me my trusty trench coat. It might not be fashionable, but it will keep me warm for my walk home.

Thinking about how happy I am that I decided to move closer to the city, I step out of the club and into the chilly night air. With a shiver, I slip on my coat and fasten the belt.

Walking briskly to keep warm, I place my hands in my pockets. I feel an object. It’s smooth and cool to the touch, firm beneath my fingers. I pull it out and take a closer look.

It’s a book. A slightly worn copy of the latest trashy thriller I’ve been wanting to read, The Stranger. It looks well-loved, with several dog-eared pages.

Puzzled, I wonder how this ended up in my pocket. This is definitely my coat; I recognise the coffee stain on the breast pocket. Shrugging it off, I assume it must have somehow slipped in while it was in the coat check.

Their loss is my gain, I think to myself. I can’t wait to start reading this tomorrow.

I remember talking to Samantha about this book earlier in the evening. I’d been describing the basic plot of the story — your typical stalker thriller: a pretty girl, a stranger just happening to appear wherever she goes, and the obvious question — what does the stranger want? Samantha just looked at me with a childish grin on her face.

“What?” I asked.

“For someone who’s such a bookworm, you have terrible taste. Every time I talk to you, you’re reading another one of those thrillers called The Something. Aren’t they like two dollars on Amazon?”

As I round the corner, I stumble a little and start to regret having that last shot. Why do I always have one more when I’m about to go home to bed anyway? There’s no point and now I’m going to be hungover tomorrow.

I pick up the pace and start clumsily thumbing through the book. I can hear the footsteps of someone else walking behind me in the distance, probably just another drunk clubber on their way home.

I admire the last person who owned this book, they really loved it. The spine is creased as if they took it everywhere with them. I look at the scuffs on the cover and imagine it travelling in someone’s handbag as they catch the train to work each day. They have a brief respite from reality as they read it on the way to work. At lunchtime, they read in the break room, hoping to look busy so no one else will try and talk to them.

Starting to majorly regret my shoe choice for the night, I slow down a bit. I should know by now I can’t wear heels like regular girls. I’m out wearing heels and drinking vodka, when I’d rather be at home in my Ugg boots, reading a book with a glass of wine.

Trying to take my mind off the walk, I scan the first chapter of the book. It starts with the woman walking to the train station in the early hours of the morning. She can hear footsteps behind her, but she just assumes it’s other commuters heading to work.

I turn the first page and my excitement increases as I notice the previous owner has scribbled some notes in the margins.

The first note says:

She doesn’t know she’s being followed yet.

This is fantastic, I’m going to love reading this book.

My stomach grumbles. I look up just in time to see Happy Kebab still open on the corner. If I eat something before I go to sleep, hopefully I’ll feel less hungover in the morning. I stop at the counter and order a chicken kebab. Not wanting to put the book down, I sit at one of the tables outside.

I’m instantly in heaven as I sink my teeth into the succulent, smoky chicken. Sauce drips down the side of my mouth while I continue leafing through the book. In chapter two, the woman is sitting at a café, she sees a stranger sitting at a table across from her. She catches him looking at her, and he quickly looks away.

There’s another note in the margin:

She should really get home.

Still feeling quite buzzed, I stand and continue my walk home. Suddenly, I realise how quiet the street is. When I left the club, there were still a few drunk people staggering around, but now it’s just me.

Footsteps echoing on the pavement, I move on to chapter three. The woman is walking home and she finally starts to suspect someone might be following her.

The note in the margin says:

She really needs to walk faster.

My skin starts to crawl. I hear those footsteps behind me again. I slowly turn my head, and the footsteps stop. There’s no one behind me.

Picking up the pace again, I keep moving. Not sure if I want to see what happens next, but also not being able to stop myself, I turn the page.

Of course, there’s another note:

They’re getting closer.

My heart rate quickens. I start to jog.

The footsteps are back.

Once again, I’m regretting that final shot; my brain is so foggy. Am I imagining things?

The footsteps behind me speed up to match my jog.

I turn the page:

She needs to get home now!

I’m so close to home, so I start running. No longer thinking about my sore feet, I race down the street. My heartbeat thuds in time with my feet hitting the ground.

The footsteps sound like they’re running too.

With shaking hands, I frantically search around in my handbag for my keys. My hands finally touch something cold and metallic. I pull my keys out of my bag as I’m approaching my front yard.

I run up the steps, unlock my front door, and fall inside.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I sit with my back against the door. My handbag and the book are on the floor next to me. My head feels so woozy. Was someone really following me?

I lurch down my hallway to my room and collapse into bed.

I’m worried I won’t be able to sleep, but once my head hits the pillow, I can barely keep my eyes open.

My last thought as I drift off is:

You just drank too much. That didn’t really happen.

I’m woken suddenly a few hours later to a loud crashing sound.

Sunlight peeks through the curtains and hits my face. There’s a dull throb between my eyes. My mouth feels dry and tastes like stale onion.

My memory brings back tiny snatches of the night before.

Walking home.

A kebab.

Footsteps.

There was a book!

My head pounds as I move to look around. Sitting up in bed, I feel queasy… I guess that kebab didn’t help after all.

Then I see it.

On my bedside table, the book rests comfortably next to my reading glasses and moisturiser. It looks like an old friend waiting to be picked up and read. I grab the book and turn it over in my hands to look at the front cover.

I don’t remember seeing this before.

Across the cover, someone has written in red marker:

You forgot to lock the front door.