“Content Warning: >!Mentions of miscarriage.!<”
The first time, I reacted as any normal person would. In the early morning hours of a mild winter night in the north county of San Diego, I awoke to screaming. It took a few moments to rid myself of the hazy shroud that sleep cast over my faculties, but even in my semi-conscious state, the noise felt like lightning through my spine. It was close. A terrifying primal fear enveloped me as I took stock of my pitch-black surroundings. At last, my brain identified the auditory data it was being flooded with. Someone was screaming right outside my apartment window.
“Please no! Please stop!” The disembodied voice pleaded in desperate repetition. “You’re killing me, you’re killing me! Please stop! Please stop! Please…please stop…please.”
And then there was silence. I sat on the side of my bed, holding my breath, listening with intensity. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that my wife was also awake.
“I’m going to call 911,” I whispered. Grabbing my phone, I dialed the numbers as I crept to the nightstand drawer where I kept my 9mm.
“911 what is your emergency?” the dispatcher said.
“Hi, someone was just attacked outside my apartment. Please send someone quickly, It sounded like they were being stabbed to death.”
And it had sounded like that, like someone begging for mercy with each knife plunge. I handed the phone to my wife.
“Here, give them the address.”
I kept a loaded magazine on the closet shelf inside a pair of pristine boxing gloves I never used. I knew the spot by touch and had freed it in no time. Loading the gun, I made my way to the door. We lived on the bottom floor of a dilapidated apartment building from the 80s. Our bedroom window and door faced the back parking lot where the screams had been emanating from. Every fiber of me wanted to slink back and hole up with my wife until the cops arrived, but I knew they would be too late.
I opened the door and stepped out into the night. My bare feet traveled up the cold concrete steps and onto the uneven crumbling asphalt of the lot. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows that leaped across the ground. The parking lot was empty. Nothing, not soul, not a pool of blood or an article of clothing. I scanned the outskirts, looking up and down the ice-plant-covered hills. Still nothing.
“I should have brought a flashlight.” I thought.
I turned around and started to head back to the safety of the apartment, and then I saw him. Down the hill on the adjoining road, a tall man in a rust-colored hoodie shut the trunk of his car. He wiped the sweat from his bald head with his sleeve. Let me be clear, I never saw what was in the trunk. But some part of me knew, without a doubt, there was a body in that car. I watched him walk around to the driver’s side, and then to my horror he looked up, right at me. He seemed as panicked by my presence as I was of his. He glanced left and right, then waved at me and began to walk in my direction. Adrenaline coursed through my body as my grip tightened around my CZ 75. I was about to draw my weapon out from behind my leg when I heard the police sirens. The tall man heard them too. After one last glance at me, he reversed course and leaped into his car. He started the engine and sped away, disappearing into the night, away from the sirens. I didn’t feel keen on explaining to the cops that I was a “good guy with a gun”, so I raced back into my apartment. My wife was waiting for me on the bed.
“They said they would call back if they find anything,” she said, handing my phone back. “Did you see anything outside?” She asked, her eyes wide with fear.
“No, no I didn’t see anything” I lied.
I couldn’t be sure about the tall man, it was a gut feeling and I saw no point in worrying her over nothing. The red and blue lights from the patrol car coated our bedroom for the next 30 minutes. Then they pulled away. They did eventually call back. They explained that the officers were not able to find anything and there was no sign of any struggle.
“Unfortunately this type of thing happens all the time. We don’t have the resources to chase down every report that we get.”
It was pretty much what I expected them to say.
Exhausted, I laid down alongside my wife and tried to drift back to sleep, but sleep would not come.
***
A few weeks later I was again awoken by the sound of a blood-curdling scream, and this time it was from my wife. She was sitting upright in bed, letting out a continuous shriek.
“What? What is it?” I shouted as I reached out and grabbed her arm. She didn’t respond, she kept screaming. “What’s wrong?” I began to shake her and at last, she woke up. Confused, panting, and covered with sweat, she felt around the bed to ground herself.
“I’m…I’m ok,” she said between deep breaths. “It was a nightmare.”
“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me. Oh my god.” I sighed as I grabbed at my heart and felt it racing.
“It’s ok, I’m fine, go back to sleep,” she said.
“Somebody probably called the cops. You were screaming like you were being murdered.”
“I thought I was…”
“What happened?” I asked.
“A man cornered me against my car, he started stabbing me over and over in the belly. There was nothing I could do, so I started screaming.” She buried her face in her hands.
“Hey no no no, I’m here, you’re ok. Nothing is going to hurt you.” I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her tight like she often asked me to. We sat like that for a while, and after a while, she drifted back to sleep.
The cops never showed up, which if anything made me lose faith in humanity a bit. How could someone hear screams like that and do nothing? The apartment walls were thin, you could hear everything. There was no chance people slept through all that, none at all. The sheer indifference made me feel sick inside. Then again, maybe someone did call? Maybe it was the cops who saw another call from the same address and decided it wasn’t worth their time. I pondered the questions as I tried to fall back asleep, but my nerves were shot. I lay there staring at the ceiling until morning’s light peaked through the window.
***
We moved into our house during the pandemic. It was a modest home, but still expensive due to the area. For us, it was perfect. Situated at the top of a small hill, you could even see the ocean in the distance on a clear day. Things were going well. We both were making advancements in our respective careers, and there was talk of trying for a baby.
The night terrors, unfortunately, continued. Every few weeks she would wake up screaming, and it was always the same recurring nightmare. A man was stabbing her against a car. I wish it was something you could get used to, but it’s not. It feels just as terrifying every time. I think that’s what started the wedge between us. As bad as it sounds, I began to resent her for something outside of her control. The loss of sleep and strain on my nerves made me agitated during the day, and apprehensive at night.
One day she told me her parents were taking a trip in their RV, and she was going to take some time off work to go with them. We both thought it would do her some good to get some fresh air. Unfortunately, I was too busy at work and couldn’t join them.
On one of the nights she was gone, it happened again. At 3:08 am I opened my eyes to the sound of an angle grinder. I remember the time exactly because my phone was resting on my nightstand.
“Sounds like someone is getting their catalytic converter stolen.” I thought as I looked out my window towards the sound. There had been a spree of these types of thefts in the area, and my uncle was always warning us about it. But it wasn’t that. Down the hill and across the street a man in a rust-colored hoodie was hunched over, cutting into a garage door lock. Sparks were flying everywhere around him, illuminating the driveway. Finally, he cut through, removed the broken lock, and threw the door open.
It wasn’t until he stood up that I recognized him. He was bald. He was so tall he had to duck to enter the garage. It was unmistakably him. I stayed there motionless, transfixed by the open garage door. A few minutes later I heard shouting. He emerged dragging someone behind him with ease. He pushed them up against the car in their driveway and dropped the angle grinder.
“Wait, what are you doing? Get off of me!” He struggled against the behemoth grip of the tall man.
The tall man pulled a knife from his hoodie pocket and began to stab the belly of his victim.
“No! Stop!” He screamed in pain. “Please help! Somebody!” More screams echoed through the night. Unaffected, the tall man kept stabbing. I watched in abject horror as the victim’s screams became softer and softer, until all he could muster was a calm plea. “Please stop, please stop…”
As soon as he stopped making noise, the tall man picked up his angle grinder and dragged the body across the street. After opening the trunk, he paused and looked up at my window. He gave me a quick wave, then dumped the body into his car. I ran to my gun safe, unlocking it as fast as possible. I retrieved my weapon and returned to the window in time to catch his tail lights disappearing into the distance.
Questions flooded my mind once again. How did he know I was watching him? Why didn’t he seem to care? Why did he bring his victim outside before stabbing him? Why an angle grinder and not bolt cutters? And finally, the hardest question to answer, why didn’t I call 911?
***
It was the second miscarriage that broke us. It happened later in the pregnancy than most, and much later than the first. She had surgery to remove it. I don’t know why I say “it”, his name was Wesley. It’s strange losing a child before birth. A funeral feels wrong, but there’s a lingering lack of closure from not having one. Things were worse for her. Not only was she dealing with the loss of two pregnancies back to back, but the night terrors increased in frequency.
One day while sitting at the breakfast table she said it.
“I think I need a break.”
That was how the conversation started. We filed for divorce in late 2023. The house sold quickly. She went to stay with her parents and I moved into a shitty apartment again. I had been a casualty of the tech layoffs, so it was all I could afford. I kept busy doing freelance work and gig economy bullshit on the side while I applied for jobs. I had always drunk alcohol, but it became more of a problem recently. It’s kind of shocking how fast the bottles pile up around you. There are days where I’ve done nothing but lay in bed, drink Pacífico, and order on Doordash.
Two weeks ago it happened again for a third time. I wasn’t even asleep. My sleep schedule had become so irregular I was wide awake at two in the morning when I heard it outside.
“Hey man, get the fuck off me.”
I knew what was about to happen the second I heard those words.
“Hey! Get the fuck off me! Stop! Help somebody help! Call 911!” The man screamed just outside my apartment. The light from outside cast their shadows on my bedroom wall. One of the figures towered over the other. It was him. I could see the outline of his bald head.
At that moment I realized something, he wanted me to hear it.
“Please stop! Please stop! Please stop!” went the familiar refrain.
You know it’s funny, before all this I had no idea people begged like that while being killed. When it’s clear that nobody is coming to your rescue, you have no choice but to play to your assailant’s humanity. Unfortunately, I knew the tall man had none.
I watched the tall shadow stab the smaller shadow over and over until the screaming and the pleading stopped. I sat there, feeling nothing. The shadows disappeared and I went back to browsing the web.
Moments later the shadow reappeared, large and hulking. I looked at the curtains and saw the defined shadow of shoulders and torso that stretched above the window. I grabbed the pocket knife beside my bed and moved to the window, throwing open the curtains. All I could see was an orange hoodie. I stood there, knife pointed at the window frozen in fear. Ever so slowly, the tall man bent down until his face came into view. He looked me dead in the eyes and pressed his nose against the glass. Raising his hand, he gave me a small wave.
“What do you want?” I shouted.
He flashed a toothy grin, then turned and walked back down the steps towards the street. I know the answer, he wants an audience. I am his plaything as much as his victims are. I have no idea how he has been following me, or how he knows where I’ve been living. I don’t know how he knows where I’ll be able to see him as he kills. I don’t have a rational explanation, and to be honest it doesn’t matter. I don’t have the strength left in me to care, and I think he knows that too.
***
The reason I’m writing all this is because yesterday I saw him on the train. I had been drinking at a bar in Oceanside and was taking “The Sprinter” back to the motel I’ve been staying at. I don’t feel safe in my apartment anymore. I was three stops away from home when I saw him standing on the platform. He entered the sprinter and spotted me right away. Ignoring the empty seats he sat himself across from me, his massive legs blocking me in the row.
“How’s it going?” he said in a deep booming voice.
“Good,” I replied. He set his backpack on the seat next to him.
“You headed to work?” He asked.
“No, I’m headed home.”
“Aw lucky for you.” He gave a small chuckle. “I’m on my way to work.” He pointed at the name tag on his jumpsuit. “Auto-mechanic, name’s Mark.” he held out a massive hand.
“Maybe he didn’t recognize me?” I thought. Not wanting to upset him, I reached out and shook his meaty hand. “Hi, Mark.” We arrived at the next stop. Some people filed in, and some people filed out, but Mark wasn’t one of them as I hoped. We sat in silence for some time, hearing only the screeching of the train tracks. I was one stop away, and I was praying that wasn’t his stop too. He broke the silence.
“Do you know who I am?” My heart sank. “I mean, do you recognize me?” He said.
“Yes,” I replied. There was no point in lying, he knew who I was.
“Oh good, that’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He gave another small chuckle. The train started to slow down, we were at my stop. Without me saying anything, he stood up and gestured towards the doors, giving me room to exit.
“I think this is your stop,” he said, clearly expecting a reaction.
“My stop…” I repeated. I looked him in the eyes. “Stop…” I said with all the defiance I could muster. “Please stop.” He didn’t reply, he just flashed his toothy grin and watched me as I exited the train.
***
Some of you may judge me for my inaction, and honestly that’s fair. I’ve come to realize that within every person is an ocean of indifference lurking beneath the surface. My life has spiraled into apathy, and I’ve been reduced to my base instincts. Somewhere deep down there’s a part of me that feels for the victims, somewhere deeper there’s a small disturbing desire to be one. A real one, not a bystander. Maybe that would make up for it. Maybe that’s what I deserve? Maybe that’s his stupid fucking point. I’m not sure how much longer he intends on playing with me, I’m not sure how much more I can take.
Alright, I’m tired, I’m drunk, I have to piss. I doubt you’ll ever read this, but if by some miracle you do, I’m begging you, Mark, please stop.