He Followed Me Home — A Chilling Tale of Stalking and Fear



I live on the edge of a quiet highway town in northern Utah. There’s not much here—just a few stores, truck stops, and rundown motels clinging to the side of the highway like forgotten relics. Dirt roads branch off to lead into the outskirts, where scattered homes sit on acres of forest and overgrown fields. My home is one of them. Remote, peaceful, isolated. Most days, that’s exactly how I like it.

I work remotely, and that day was like any other. I shut my laptop around six, stretched out my back, and decided to head into town for groceries. The sun was beginning to set behind the hills, casting long shadows across the empty roads. The town itself never felt busy. Even though it sat on the edge of a highway, the traffic was light, and the few stores were rarely crowded.

I parked at the far end of the grocery store lot, like I always did, and went inside. As I pushed my cart down the first aisle, I noticed a man standing near the end cap looked over at me. I thought nothing of it. People glance at each other all the time.

A few minutes later, I saw him again, this time in another aisle. He wasn’t looking at the shelves. He was just standing there, only a few feet away from me, doing nothing. I shifted my eyes in his direction, trying not to be obvious. He was still looking at me. I gave a quick “Hi” and continued shopping.

He didn’t reply.

By the time I reached the checkout, I had mostly forgotten about him. I bagged my groceries, loaded them into my car, and started back toward home. The lot was still mostly empty, and as I looked out across it, something felt off.

He was there again.

Standing between two cars, half-hidden, just watching. He didn’t have any bags. He hadn’t bought anything. He didn’t move.

I drove away.

The road home was darker now. No streetlights. Only the headlights cutting through the thickening night. I reached my house, parked out front, and started carrying the groceries inside. While unpacking the first load, my dad called, and I got sidetracked. By the time I stepped back outside for the second trip, the air felt colder.

That’s when I saw it.

A truck. Parked far out on my property, just off the dirt road. Its lights were off. No sound. It hadn't been there earlier.

I squinted into the darkness. It looked like an old pickup, silhouetted against the night sky. It sat still, engine silent. My property covers nearly 40 acres, but that area was close enough to be unnerving. Too close. If someone had pulled over to sleep, why park with the lights off? Why on private land?

I kept an eye on the truck while grabbing the last of the bags. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe someone just pulled off the road to rest.

Back inside, I left the curtains open just a bit, just enough to keep watch. An hour passed. Then another. The truck didn’t move. My nerves settled slightly. Still strange, but maybe harmless.

Eventually, I closed the curtains and went upstairs to bed.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up needing to use the restroom. I dragged myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and walked down the hallway toward the bathroom.

The moment I opened the door, I heard it. A soft creak from downstairs. Not the kind an old house makes. It was deliberate. It was weight shifting on wood.

I stood still and listened.

I opened and closed the bathroom door again, trying to recreate the sound. Nothing.

I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down. The house was dark, save for faint moonlight spilling through the kitchen window.

Then I saw it. A shadow. It moved slightly, casting a shape against the wall. My heart pounded. I couldn’t tell if the figure was inside the hallway or just outside the back door, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out.

I backed away quietly and slipped into my room, shutting the door gently. I grabbed my phone and dialed the police. I spoke in a low voice, describing what I saw. Minutes passed. The house stayed quiet. I began to wonder if I’d imagined it.

Then the creaking started again.

Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Crossing the living room floor. I held my breath.

A moment later, I heard running. Fast, heavy footsteps scrambling across the floor below. Then silence.

The flashing red and blue lights cut through the window.

I heard shouting outside. Then the sound of someone being tackled. The officers had arrived just in time.

I went downstairs as one of them escorted a man in cuffs back toward the truck in the field. My stomach turned when I saw his face.

It was the man from the store.

He had followed me.

Worse, he was armed. He didn’t have any tools for robbery, no bag, nothing to carry stolen goods. He hadn’t taken anything. He had just waited. Watching. Waiting for me to sleep.

The police found no signs of forced entry. Which means he had likely entered while I was unloading groceries. Possibly while I was on the phone with my dad.

They said he claimed he only wanted to rob me. But nothing about it felt like robbery. He knew I was home. He hid in the dark. He didn’t go through drawers or open doors. He just stood there.

Watching.

They found something else in the truck.

A photograph.

Not of me. But of a woman. Taped to the dashboard.

She looked a lot like me. Same hair, same build. But it wasn’t me.

Her eyes were scratched out.

The officers didn’t know who she was. The man wouldn’t say.

He just smiled as they put him into the back of the cruiser.

I moved a few months later. Sold the land and left the state.

But I still have nightmares.

And in every single one, I hear footsteps on the floorboards, and the sound of a door slowly creaking open.

THE END
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