The Stalker (0/33)

I always knew to avoid the man in the white van. I guess you could say we all did.

Like a fox stalking a magpie, he sat patiently at the edge of Pinemount Road; every, single, morning.

A wild and fearsome pair of eyes crept just two inches above the driver’s side window, watching each passer-by with what I assumed were very sinister intentions.

Ten minutes to nine, four minutes past three—he was there like clockwork; targeting each person with his screwed up and demented little mind.

I’d look out the window each morning and think to myself how I was going to get around him that day.

New routes opened up to me all the time, but whilst I tried so desperately hard to shave off just a few more minutes of travel, he still found his way to me, as if he’d seen it all before. With a map engraved into his brain, he knew the streets and back alleys better than a sewer rat; always capable of rummaging between the pipes without arousing suspicion from the wandering eye. But the kids knew, alright. And more importantly, I knew better than anyone else just who it was he cast his eye on most days. That was something any fool could notice.

Picking the leather off of his steering wheel with sticky hands and biting his lips with dark and tormented teeth—he knew exactly what he was doing and who he was watching.

In my eyes he was the bogeyman. Only he did not hide under my bed or beneath the streetlight beside my driveway, but in the shadows instead. Through my peripherals, he lingered like a bad smell; always loitering, always watching, and always waiting for the ideal chance to lunge.

Murky black eyes and muddy tanned skin; that’s what I remember the most. That combined with the foulest of odours this world has to offer. Like second-hand smoke and burnt out skunk carcasses. Those all combined to make the most sinister concoction our innocent little world had ever seen. And it was those dirty waters that swilled through the mouths of every child both day and night. And whilst our parents remained quiet about the whole situation, it was us who had to tolerate the sour taste most days.

On a bronze plate crafted from his tiny ragged hands, he served the biggest spoon of shit one can serve. A vile, indecent waste of space that only made the children of the suburbs wretch in disgust and fear.

Other than that, I remember very little. Because he knew how to keep a low profile behind his oh so familiar blackened dashboard. And if, like some poor souls, you were brave enough to step within ten yards of the van, you’d likely bring your chances of seeing daylight again down to a soul crushing zero. So, like most, I learnt to keep my distance and accept him into my life as if he were a normal part of it.

And, although I try so hard to avoid it, I will always have that registration plate lodged in my brain like an unbeatable cancer. BP56 GLE; the numbers and letters that could drive any person truly insane and send them spiralling down the rabbit hole and into madness.

Stare at them long enough from the protection of a bedroom window and you’ll know what I mean. They begin to play at you like a broken cassette repeating the same line in one monotone groan. And before long, you find yourself reciting the same thing one too many times for comfort at night. That’s when you know you’ve ventured too far into his game. That’s when you know the hourglass has been flipped and your inevitable decline into insanity is well and truly under way.

I’d tell my parents about him, but they just came back at me with the same petty responses that meant very little. "Oh you are funny" or "you’re just imaging things" were pretty common lines in my household. And whilst I panicked every day about this man, I knew that I was on my own for it all.

It would have been fine, having someone around, of course. But when you’ve barely hit puberty and begin waffling on about strange men following you, you kind of get shrugged off and forced away like a laughable plot twist that’s easily debunkable.

Having my parents support me would have been great, but as I tried to spill everything out on the table, they would just grin at me and claim it to be "just another story" unravelling in my innocent little skull.

But despite my fragile imagination, I knew too well he was real, and as each day passed I knew that he was, in fact, becoming even more of a harsher burden than I had ever anticipated. Like a joke that had gone stale, he soon became tasteless and repetitive. And before long, I would find myself begging for him to leave. But regardless of the prying away at my brain and desperate pleas for help, nothing ever changed. Because my cries were never heard nor redeemed for the sake of good will. They were, in fact, discarded and ignored. And so, he just learnt to stay close and never leave my side for all the while I hoped for a better tomorrow.

Months would pass, and although I found new routes to follow home, I sometimes couldn’t help but accidentally cross paths with him; sometimes out of curiosity, just to see if he was still around at all.

I could turn a new corner, and he’d be there—waiting. Sitting creepily in his driver’s seat, cross-legged and tapping his pointer finger on the dashboard; grimacing through murky glass and specks of cigarette ash smeared across his windscreen.

He’d cackle and he’d whistle such twisted lullabies; all completely out of tune and in a broken and corrupted high pitched squeal. Almost like he hadn’t spoken in decades and struggled to push out a note that made any form of melody.

He came across as childish. But, sadly, that was a large part of his infamous persona. He mocked you until you wept with paranoia and persistently glared back over your shoulder every few seconds. Like a toddler begging at the knees for attention, he clawed away at you whilst tossing his toys out of his pram. All day, every day, he kicked and screamed for the sake of capturing your wandering eye.

He had ways of getting under your skin, there’s no denying that. And I’ll shamefully admit that after a while, it eventually got to me, too. And, regrettably, I wasn’t the first to tumble down that rabbit hole, either.

He was destroying my childhood life, and with every little thing that was supposed to resemble something blissful, he turned into something I learnt to eventually despise and even fear. Lullabies, childhood theme tunes and playground songs—all gone in a matter of months. Things that were meant to be so innocent and tame—taken by the hands of this absolute nightmare of a creature.

We all felt the same, but nobody ever believed us. Not a single soul found it in their heart to listen to us or even hear us out. Not until it was too late, that is.

I was 10 years old when I first saw this man, and to tell you the truth, it wasn’t to be the last time either.

This deranged man was to be the bane of my life for many years, and this was only the beginning.

I quiver in fear at the thought of his face. And to tell you the truth, digging up these old memories makes my skin crawl and heart bleed with disgrace. But somebody needs to hear it. Especially now, anyway. As I lay here in this broken home staring directly through the soul of the front door, I only watch and count down the hours until it swings open and an old face wonders through.

I am alone, and I am cold. Time is not on my side and I believe it is shorter than I’d hoped for. So please, allow me to tell you the truth behind my past, for I may not get another chance.

This is the story about the man who followed me to the grave I bury myself in today. A story not for the faint-hearted, but for those who’re willing to hear me out and not pass judgment until the book is long closed. So, please, hear my plea.

My name is Harriet Miles. And I have a stalker.

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- J Tury

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