The Shape in My Rearview Mirror

By David Miller

I didn’t sleep last night. Not after what I saw under the streetlight. Not after the note.

My name’s David Miller, and until last Tuesday, the word "stalker" was something I only heard on true-crime podcasts.

⏱️ Day 1: 11:47 PM

The AC in my Honda rattled like a dying robot as I turned onto Elm Street. That’s when I felt it—that crawling sensation between my shoulder blades. Like ice spiders dancing on my spine.

Someone’s watching.

I checked the rearview mirror.

Just empty asphalt… until the flickering streetlight near Mrs. Henderson’s hydrangeas.

Him.

Black baseball cap pulled low. Denim jacket too heavy for June. A nose like a shard of broken glass. He stood statue-still, cigarette ember glowing in the dark.

"Get a life, buddy," I muttered, flooring the gas.

📝 Day 2: 8:15 AM

The lipstick was cheap. Candy-apple red, smeared across my windshield like a wound.

"Your AC’s too loud."

My coffee cup slipped from my hand, scalding my thigh.

How?

Yesterday, I’d complained to Tim from accounting: "Sounds like a skeleton tap-dancing in my dashboard!"

I scrubbed the note off with shaking hands.

🛒 Day 3: 6:30 PM

Grocery Mart smelled of bleach and rotting lettuce. I grabbed my usual—Starkist tuna, whole grain bread, the sad single-guy dinner.

Aisle 4.

He was there.

Black cap. Razor nose. Fingernails black with grease as he picked through tuna cans.

My cart slammed into a pyramid of soup cans. Crash.

He turned. Slow. Deliberate.

That smile.

Not cruel. Not angry. Empty. Like a doll’s face stretched over bone.

I ran. Left my groceries. Left my dignity.

⏰ Day 4: 7:00 AM

The living room clock had stopped.

3:17 AM.

The exact minute I’d parked last Tuesday.

I pulled it off the wall. Not dead batteries.

The wires were severed. Clean diagonal cuts. Surgical.

🌙 Day 5: 2:45 AM

Scritch-scratch.

I shot upright in bed.

Was that—?

Silence.

Then it came again. Skrrrrtch. Like a dog’s claw on hardwood. But slower. Human.

I crept to the window.

Empty street.

White pickup idling down the block? Gone.

The scratching stopped.

Breathe, David.

I peered through the peephole.

Nothing.

Opened the door a crack—

—and saw it.

On my "Home Sweet Home" doormat:

A can of Starkist tuna.

My brand.

And balanced on top like a sick trophy:

My spare car key.

The one I hide inside the fake rock by the azaleas.

🧠 The Realization

He wasn’t following me.

He was always ahead.

Knew my route home. Knew my grocery habits. Knew where I buried secrets in my own yard.

How many nights had he watched me from the hydrangeas?

How many times had he stood right here… breathing against this door?

🧳 Now: 3:16 AM

I’m writing this crouched in my bedroom closet. Pen trembling. Journal propped on stacked shoeboxes.

Screeeeeak.

The front door’s opening.

He’s inside.

Footsteps. Heavy. Methodical.

Living room… kitchen… hallway…

My bedroom door creaks open.

I see shadowed boots through the closet slats.

He stops.

Silence.

Does he hear my heart trying to explode through my ribs?

Does he smell my sweat-soaked t-shirt?

The boots pivot.

Face the closet.

This isn’t a ghost story.

This is a man who knows:

My work badge photo

My PIN number (it’s my mom’s birthday)

The way I jump at slamming doors

Where I hide when the world feels too loud

And he knows…

…I’m in here.

"David?"

His voice is coarse. Like gravel in a tin can.

"You forgot your tuna."

A metallic clink as something drops outside the closet.

The boots don’t move.

"Open the door."

Oh god.

"Or I’ll use the key."

#PsychologicalHorror #Stalking #FirstPersonHorror #RealisticHorror #VocalMustRead