Trigger warning: this story contains mild graphic violence.
Sunday, June 25th. I couldn’t even enjoy my day off today. I’ve been so hyper-vigilant since the discovery of the last package my stalker left. My old drinking habit has picked up again, right where I left off. I didn’t even care about going to the meetings anymore; I just wanted to drown out my fear. I know that Nick will be disappointed in me; I can’t prevent that. I haven’t even been able to consider the consequences of my relapse, if I’m honest.
I thought that if I checked the doorbell camera, I would’ve been able to see who left the postcard at my door. Of course, when I checked the footage from yesterday, it wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
It may be because I’ve been so wasted lately, but things around the apartment look to be out of place constantly. Various items around the house will go missing or be left in unusual areas, resulting in some pretty broad inconsistencies. It started out with little things like my phone or tooth brush being in a different room that I remembered being in. For example, early this morning I was taking Riley out for a walk around the apartment complex, and when I came back, I noticed something alarming. Every single door in my apartment was shut, along with my curtains and blinds.
I keep thinking of that name. Whoever he was, he was exceptional at leaving no tracks behind after breaking in. But hell, I’m not sure if this person is a man or a woman. All I know is that this individual is incredibly clever to not leave any evidence behind.
My first thought was to set up a hidden camera and see what happened. It seems like I’m gaslighting myself to believe that I’m just making some of these things up or reading too much into things. Though, in reality, what can you do when it feels like your whole world is being taken over?
I can’t explain in words how deeply unsettled I’ve been in my own home. I swear to God, there are times now when I go out at night that I can feel someone’s presence behind me as I walk. You know the phrase “eyes burning in the back of your head”? That’s exactly what the feeling is, accompanied by a mixture of paranoia and delusion.
I’ll feel a breath coming down my neck when I’m alone, unlocking a primal fear deep inside my brain. Every creak and whisper in the apartment has become enough to send me over the edge. The once-peaceful haven I called home had transformed into a prison built out of my own fear.
Monday, June 26th. I was desperate for answers, so I decided to delve deeper into the name written on the deliveries I received. I scoured through old social media accounts, searching for any potential connection or clue to an Alex that I may have known in the past. I’ve been doing this for the past couple of days, which have slowly turned into sleepless nights as the line between reality and paranoia has become blurry. Is there someone from high school I know named Alex? I’m lost as all hell, and I’m resorting to desperate methods to get some form of answer as to who this person stalking me might be.
The search has gone as far as me, calling some of the old jobs I used to work at and asking for the names of some of the employees who worked at the same time that I did. Now, even though there’s not really a way to do this without sounding like you’re nuts, I couldn’t give less of a shit.
My head is spinning from the fistfuls of whiskey I’ve been slamming all day. I think I should stop for the night; people are starting to hear how drunk I sound over the phone.
Tuesday, June 27th. Nick was finally allowed to give me a call today, nearly a month after his deployment. Nick started the conversation by telling me about a few unusual voicemails he’s been getting from an unknown number. According to him, the voice on the other line sounded slightly androgynous and seemed to know a lot more about my life than Nick was comfortable with. He was so unnerved that he even repeated some of the things the person said on the voicemails. He said that the messages sounded too, well, perverse in nature. I could hear it in his voice that whatever was said in those messages had him disturbed. Even though I knew Nick was worried about me, I couldn’t bear telling him about what had been happening. I had to play dumb for his sake. Frankly, I’ve always been the type of person who prefers to suffer alone rather than drag other people along with me. I didn’t want to add more stress and worry to the long list of military-related things that my fiancé must think about on a daily basis. I love him too much to do that to him.
I reassured Nick that I would try to trace who the number belonged to and promised that I would be fine. Nick wasn’t exactly convinced. He ended the call by asking how often I had been going to my Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.
“Every week.” I lied.
Just yesterday, I planned to go to a meeting with one of my client’s publishers. It was when I went to open the driver’s side door that I saw what lay before me. A printed headshot of Nick was taped to the window. It was a picture I didn’t recognize. Various doodles were manically drawn around his face. A perturbed sensation was brewing in my stomach. The car door, with its distorted frame and cracked paint, displayed the undeniable marks of a forceful intrusion. I ripped off the picture on the window and sat in the front seat. I didn’t know what to do.
There was also this overwhelmingly rancid smell that crawled up my nose after I shut the car door. I thought it may be groceries or food I’d left in the car, so I popped open the trunk to see what it was. The only thing in the trunk was a spare tire; the horrible stench was gone. Feeling lost, I panned my eyes over to check the back seat.
My eyes widened as I covered my mouth. Two dead crows lay motionlessly in the back of my car. I felt sour bile rising in my throat. The two birds’ jet-black plumage contrasted starkly against the bright red stains of blood on the leather seats. Their small bodies festered in the summer heat. I was now dissociating; my eyes refused to believe what I was looking at.
The photo album was hard enough for me to fathom, but what I saw before me was on an entirely different level of depravity.
I knew in my bones that the man who’s been stalking me had done this. I’m finished. I can’t keep pretending that if I ignore it, it will go away. I’ll talk to you soon.
Wednesday, July 19th.
Hello, again. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written here. My life has gotten a bit complicated since my last entry, and I wanted to update you on what’s happened so far. As per the recommendation of the officer on my case, I had to spend nearly three weeks in a hotel while the police kept a close eye on my apartment. With the physical evidence I acquired, I was, at least, able to prove that someone had broken into my car and placed two dead animals inside the vehicle. It wasn’t much to go off of, but in combination with the other reports I made, it painted enough of a clear picture to cause the police department to take my stalker claim seriously.
Nick knows about everything now, including my relapse into drinking. It doesn’t matter—he is finally coming back home tomorrow, and I couldn’t be more ecstatic to see his beautiful face. It was incredibly difficult for me to admit to him what had been going on with me lately. Nick almost immediately felt protective over me, and I subsequently felt guilty for lying to him for so long.
The police haven’t caught anyone trying to drop another package at my apartment yet. They haven’t found a single person even loitering around my home since the car and the birds. The only unusual thing the police found, really, was that shortly after they began keeping watch on my apartment, they realized the photo album and the necklace had disappeared. It was halfway through the first week of the investigation.
My apartment had been spotlessly cleaned and organized when the officers arrived. Even though I hadn’t really thought about cleaning since before Nick left, I was far too anxious to even take care of myself, let alone the place I lived. I was unsure about coming back to the apartment. Still, I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my days petrified to go anywhere besides this hotel. I want to think of my wedding plans, and I want to finish my editing. If that guy comes back, my fiancé and I will deal with it somehow. I know we will; we have to.
Thursday, July 20th. I’m going to be honest; I feel a lot better coming back home. Late last night, I called for confirmation from one of the officers working on my case to see if it was okay to return to my apartment. For the first time in what felt like an endless month and a half, I had one of the best nights of sleep in my adult life.
This morning, I thought to myself that I should probably do my usual routine of skin care and coffee. I also can’t forget to pick up my mail before I get ready to pick up Nick at the airport.
I went to the mailbox station to check my box, which was packed with white envelopes.
I dumped the mail on my dining table. I was just about to leave for the airport when I realized that one of the letters in the stack actually turned out to be a padded envelope that was about as big as my hand. I was expecting something small to come in the mail, but I didn’t really expect it to come this soon. I pulled off the tab at the opening and stuck my hand inside. “What?” I whispered. The item inside was a long object with a plastic handle. In one swift movement, I withdrew the object from inside.
It was a slightly unsheathed utility knife with a plastic, green handle. Dried blood stained the sharp blade, which reflected against the light. I stood there in disbelief, suddenly feeling lightheaded. I felt something wet and warm on my right leg through my sweat pants. I dropped the blade at my feet, then pulled up my pant leg to find the source of the wet sensation.
Ingrained on my right thigh was a jagged, open slit carved into my skin.
The wound revealed dark blood seeping out of the partially scabbed entryway. I stared at the laceration. I was frozen in place; it was like my mind was running on gasoline.
I could now remember what had been missing from my kitchen drawer this morning.