I’ve been getting emails from a dead friend. At first I thought it was a mistake. Maybe someone had hacked it and was playing a mean joke. Maybe it was a weird scam attempt.
Or maybe it really was Kirmit.
That was their name—we used to joke about how they shared their name with Kermit the Frog, even though it was spelled differently. I even drew them a picture, which wasn’t very good, considering I was about eleven at the time, about that joke. I remember they messaged me the next day, telling me how much they loved it.
Kirmit and I never spoke in real life, or even on the phone or over Skype. We met on deviantART, back when that site was still kind of “cool”, and we talked exclusively through there and on email. They were a few years older than me, though I’m sure they didn’t know it. I never shared my age, and I always tried my best to seem like one of the cooler, older kids online. We kept in contact for about two, maybe three, years—until I was fourteen and they were around seventeen. Until they died.
I still remember the week they left. It was a Tuesday night when I first realized something was off. When I came home from school that evening and checked my tablet, I had a message. I’ll admit, it kind of scared me.
Both of us were pretty paranoid at the time, looking back. Not really of each other, or necessarily other people, just…of something. Anything. It was like we were waiting for things to go wrong.
Like we were holding our breath.
That message was different from the others. They weren’t telling me about how they couldn’t fall asleep because they’d read too many scary stories, or about a kind-of-funny, kind-of-sad reason why they’d been too scared to do something. It was a single sentence, short, and to the point. Nothing like the excited, rambling messages I knew to expect.
-I think someone is following me.
The sentence made my stomach drop. I could tell something was different, and my mind started racing, coming up with awful scenarios a mile a minute.
-are u ok? what’s up? that’s creepy!
-r u sure?
-i don’t think ur lying of course!!! just hoping for the best ❤️
I’m sure now, as I was sure then, that we both knew that last comment was a lie. I just didn’t know what else to say. They didn’t respond, even though their profile showed they were active. I guess I assumed they had the browser open while their computer was idly running, and told myself they’d respond when they were ready. And then I said
-good night
And then I went to bed.
The next morning, I had an email instead of a reply. That wasn’t so strange, by itself. We switched back and forth on the two all the time. What was strange was that Kirmit had started a new email chain, rather than simply replying to our steadily growing correspondence chain.
There was no subject. It just read
I think someone is following me.
I got that same email every morning for the next week.
I tried to respond, of course, but if they ever received them, they ignored me. It always came as a new email, never a reply. On the third day, I’d decided it must be some prank, a hacker, something, and responded saying I wasn’t going to play along anymore, that I wasn’t going to talk to them until they knocked it off. And then, I tried to ignore it.
On the following Tuesday, I checked deviantART and realized that it was Kirmit’s birthday. They were just turning 18. I was sitting there, fighting with myself, unsure if I wanted to wish them well, or continue the cold shoulder routine, when I got the final email.
Someone was following me.
When I reopened their deviantART account, it was gone. I never heard from them again. They’d just disappeared.
Until last Friday.
I guess I wasn’t sure that they were dead–people deactivate accounts all the time. But I knew it. My arms had been heavy and my stomach roiling with the fear, the regret, of a loss that I could feel in my veins. It sounds silly, putting into words, but if you’ve lost someone before, you know. There’s a certainty before you’re even told, a charge in the air, a static. You’re just waiting to hear what you already know.
You’re holding your breath.
Nothing about the email told me it was from Kirmit. There was no subject, and for all intents and purposes, it appeared to have been sent from my own account. It was a single sentence.
I think someone is following you.
This one, though, keeps changing each day. The subject stays blank, they’re all from my email, but the sentence keeps changing.
You think someone is following me. On Wednesday, I kept catching my reflection’s eyes.
We think someone is following us. On Thursday, I tried my best to ignore the pricking of eyes on the back of my neck.
Do you really think someone is following you? On Friday, echoing footsteps followed me home.
I think I really am. On Saturday, I never left the house.
Would anyone believe you if you told? On Sunday, I hid in my room so I wouldn’t have to look at the dent being rhythmically knocked into the door from the outside.
You know I can see you.
It’s been six days. I didn’t sleep last night, and if the tapping at my window continues, I will not sleep again. I’m still in my room, and I can’t even hide or close the blinds. Everywhere I turn, there is my window. It doesn’t look like the blinds were ever even there. The glass is empty, but that is no comfort. The tapping of that hand still rattles the pane.
There’s nothing for me to do but pass the time, and I suppose that’s why I started writing. I could celebrate early, alone (but never alone) here in my room. Someone At The Window can watch (but I will never see them) while I do. It’s only been six days.
Tomorrow is my birthday.