THE STALKER

Years Active: 2018 - 2019

Genre: Thriller

Published: No
Available on: N/A
Pages: 157 (A4)

 

Written by: Jordan Tury

Edited by: TBA

Cover Design by: Jordan Tury
 

01.

‚Äč

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

I’d look out the window each morning and think to myself how I was going to be able to get around him that day.
New routes opened up to me all the time, and whilst I tried so desperately hard to shave off just a few more minutes of travel time; 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 wondering eye. But the kids knew, alright. And more importantly, I knew. I knew exactly where he was, even when I couldn’t see him.
Picking the leather off of the steering wheel with determined hands and biting his lips with dark and tormented teeth – he knew exactly what he was doing.

I recall very little detail of the man back then, as finding out any more than necessary only terrified me that little bit more.
In my eyes he was the bogeyman; only he did not hide under my bed or beneath the streetlight beyond my driveway, but in the shadows instead. Through my peripherals he lingered like a bad smell; always loitering, always watching, and always waiting.
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. On a bronze plate crafted from his tiny crooked hands he served the biggest spoon of shit one can serve. A vile, indecent waste of space that only makes my stomach churn.
Other than that I remember very little, because he knew to keep a low profile behind his oh so familiar blackened dashboard.
The windows of his dirty white van were tinted black, making it almost impossible to see what was hiding on the other side. But I knew, alright. I knew exactly what kind of monstrosity peered behind that tainted glass with fickle hands.
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.

I’d tell my parents about him, but they would just came back to me with some 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 each and 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 waffle on about strange men following you, you kind of get shrugged off like a bad joke.

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.
No - 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 sour he soon became stale 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 plea for help, nothing ever changed. He was always there.

Months would pass, and although I found new routes to follow home, I sometimes couldn’t help but accidentally cross paths with him.
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; through murky glass and specks of cigarette ash smeared across his windscreen. He’d grin and he’d whistle such twisted lullabies, all completely out of tune and in a broken style and corrupted high pitched voice. Almost like he hadn’t spoken in decades and struggled to push out a note that made any form of sense.
He came across as childish, but that was a part of his infamous persona. He mocked you until you wept with paranoia and persistently glared back over your shoulder every few seconds.
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.

He was destroying my childhood life, and with every little thing that was supposed to resemble something good, 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 man.

I would scratch away on my desk with a pencil and grit my teeth, shaking to the core and petrified of my own silhouette. I became paranoid of so many things, all because of this man.
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 ten 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.
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.

My name is Harriet Miles, and I have a stalker.

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