The Follower

I miss my family. It’s been three months since I started this job, one since the car broke down, and most likely another until we can afford to fix it. With how the transit system is, walking the long way there and back makes more sense. Unfortunately, this means I usually leave home just before my boys go to school and return shortly before they go to bed. By then my wife and I are so exhausted that we do the same soon after. Still, it’s more exercise and I keep telling myself it will only be another month. Two at most.

Thankfully, today hasn’t been too taxing, so I actually found myself looking forward to the journey home. I had walked out to a clouded sky, tinted navy in the late evening, and the sun only sank lower as I began my commute. I’m now walking amongst the other people with similar hours to mine, heading south through the heart of downtown. The streets are still bustling as the people going home cross paths with those going out for the night. I’m happy to be the former.

I don’t know how people do it. Going out every night to a bar or club, yelling conversations, and trying to forget how light your wallet is seems exhausting, and for what? A night of empty disappointment at worst, and one that you can barely remember at best. I suppose different people find joy in different things, but I don’t see why anyone would want to leave a comfortable place for one of anxiety. I’d much rather be warm at home than stay out for several bitter hours in the cold, although now I’m somewhere in the middle.

I’ve always been this way, throughout high school, college, and after. My friends would go to their parties and dinners; always extending an invitation which, while I appreciated, I also consistently declined. I had no problem staying in and getting work done, putting on a movie, or just getting some sleep. Every so often my friends would ask why I never joined them, calling me a “shut-in” with a tone just light enough that I could pretend it was a joke. A few times it did boil up into a confrontation, where I was accused of not wanting to spend time with them or thinking I was better than them. Neither was the case. I simply liked being at home, and eventually, my friends stopped inviting me altogether. I told myself it was because they respected the way I was, but if I’m being honest, I can’t remember the last time I saw them.

It helped once I met Amelia, as she too was a bit of a homebody. Not as prolific as me, but I always loved that. Like me, she couldn’t get behind the idea of a night on the town, but she did love being outside. She was different enough to prove to everyone else—including me—that a normal person could love me, but familiar enough to make me feel safe and validated. All in all, I suppose that’s the biggest contributor to me being a “shut-in”—familiarity. I like what I know.

Even when the twins came along, I found the adjustment extremely difficult. The comforting familiarity of my home was disrupted in a way that I couldn’t reverse. Don’t get me wrong, I loved them from the moment I saw them, at least on an intellectual level. However, being a first-time parent is unlike any change you can imagine. It makes you more vulnerable than you ever thought you could be; taking strengths and faults you never knew you had and bringing them to the surface to be seen by only those closest to you, if you’re lucky. I wasn’t remotely good at it, but Amelia helped me. Not by always being kind and comforting, as I was not the one who needed that. Instead, she was supportive, in the most honest and brutally personal way, which not only made me a better father but showed me that I could be one in the first place. 

Thankfully after many difficult days and impossible nights, home became a place of comfort again, and now I can’t imagine it without Luke and Adam there. Of course, nowadays that warmth keeps getting further away. Sure, I still go home every night—better late than never, I suppose. But it doesn’t feel like I’m really there, and certainly not for long. Maybe I’ll talk to Amelia about it tonight.

I’m now halfway into my trip and passing from the busy streets of downtown into the residential areas. It’s getting darker, but I still see a few dog walkers and joggers trying to round out their steps for the day. I can picture Amelia and the boys at home, sitting in front of the TV and eating the chocolate ice cream I had bought without telling her, and that she said we didn’t need. We started watching the old Twilight Zone episodes a week or so back. I guess “we” isn’t the right word, since I mostly just pop in for half an episode when I can. I can see Amelia fighting to keep her eyes open, while Adam sits with a pillow in front of his face to keep the monsters on the screen at bay. I can imagine Luke sitting with a bowl of cold, chocolate soup; being so entranced with the black-and-white story that he’s neglected to take one bite of his ice cream. Most clearly of all, however, I can picture the empty spot on the couch beside them, and it almost makes me want to start running, if I wouldn’t be even more tired once I reached home.

There’s an overpass up ahead, and I follow the short, spiraling ramp that leads to the pedestrian path underneath. As I come out at the opposite end, I notice that another person has joined my path, about twenty paces ahead of me. They’re wearing a long, gray coat and a dark sweater underneath with the hood pulled up. I’m now slightly more alert, as it has gotten darker and I can’t see anyone else around. Is it smart to dress so darkly that you’ll be camouflaged when night arrives? Probably not, especially with how preoccupied the drivers in this city seem to be. Still, I’ve had my moments of walking alone at night and pulling up the collar of my coat to make sure I’m left alone. Some may call it paranoid, but it’s important to know how to keep to yourself while keeping your wits about you.

There’s about half a block until my usual turn onto Kingswood Court, and I imagine that I’ll once again be alone. However, I’m soon proven wrong as the person in front of me makes the turn before I get there.

I follow suit and turn onto Kingswood. I always like walking this way during the day when I can see all the great big houses and dream about living in them. Although, even now under the tangerine sky, the patterns of expensive lawn ornaments and tree lights are a welcome sight. The person ahead of me doesn’t seem to be looking at any of them and instead appears to only be staring at the ground. I don’t blame them, of course. As much as I like to admire what could be, I can see it being easily a glowing reminder of what can’t.

We’re coming up to my next turn, Rook Avenue, and the person once again turns onto the same path as me. It makes sense, since if either of us had continued on Kingswood, a bay would have brought us right back to where we are now. I turn onto Rook as well, to find them the same distance from me. The sun is halfway below the horizon so it’s getting more difficult to see them, shrouded in their coat and hoodie. For an instant, I think I see their head turn slightly to the right. This is familiar, of course, as have I often tried to subtly scan my surroundings when I suspect someone is behind me.

I’m at once aware of how this looks, and my anxiety spikes. This person has already taken two turns, that just happen to be a similar route to mine, and now in their eyes, I’m still following them. There’s nothing I can call out to make it less unnerving for them, and I’m certainly not about to approach them and risk it looking like a chase. We’re walking the length of a small park and I consider stopping at a bench to let them go on their way for a bit. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to be in much of a hurry, so I would have to wait a while before being certain I wouldn’t catch up with them again. I weigh the idea against the image of that empty couch cushion and instead press on, trying my best to slow down enough to give them room. It’s more difficult than I thought, and my last hope is that this next turn onto Bishop Road will be where our routes separate.

Yet again, however, the person turns ahead of me, and I have no choice but to continue following them. Any other route will likely add another twenty to thirty minutes, and all I want to do is get home and rest. Who the hell planned this neighborhood? 

No matter how much I slow down, the distance between us seemingly stays the same. Of course, I may be misjudging it since it’s only growing darker, and for some reason, the street lights haven’t turned on yet. That’s how you know we’ve left the wealthy area. Bishop was my last turn, and it will eventually become my own Queenston Drive, but I’m hoping this person finds their destination before then.

Thankfully, I hear a low hum as the street lights flicker to life. I look up with a grin and hope that they stay on for the rest of my walk. Instead of fixing them, the city decided to just change the color of their bulbs to a deep blue, which is supposed to do something for depression, I think. Maybe it does, someone smarter than me must have—

I stop in my tracks, only a couple of paces after the person ahead does. They’re looking at me, but as soon as I meet their gaze, they turn back around and keep walking. After a moment I follow suit, not knowing what else to do or think about. It wasn’t the fact that they had stopped to look at me, although the anxiety of what they must be thinking still nipped at my thoughts; it was their face. The best way I can describe it is that it looked disfigured.

I don’t mean that it looked like they had been injured or were living with some condition. I mean that for the instant that I saw it, their face looked like it had been scrambled around. Their nose sat at the top left of their forehead, and a vertical mouth on their right temple. I think I spotted two eyes, but one was smack dab in the center, while the other looked like it was just under their right jaw. I try to tell myself that I only saw it for an instant, not to mention in the blue light after I had been in darkness for so long. Even if I had seen what I thought, it was most likely a mask.

Suddenly, their pace quickens. Even though I know it won’t do any good, the urge to call out and apologize is stronger, or to tell them that I didn’t mean to scare them. I still decide against it, and try to move on from the image that this person must have of me. Fortunately, now that they’re fast-walking, it shouldn’t be long until I hopefully lose sight of them. I watch them walk up the slight incline ahead and pass over the double set of train tracks. The houses end just before the crossing, and grassy ditches lie before and after.

The neighborhood continues past the tracks, which is where the last leg of my journey begins on Queenston Drive. I’m not sure why it changes, since it’s basically the same street, but it’s one of those decisions that’s beyond my control or concern. A jolt of surprise runs through my body as the crossing bells chime. I look to either side and can’t see the light or hear the engine of any train. Still, I quickly cross the tracks. I’m not about to be left standing there where any train could decide to stop right in my path. 

Admittedly, this part of the neighborhood on the other side is noticeably different. The houses are smaller, and most are either under construction or surrounded by overgrown foliage. Either way, the spaces between the houses grow farther, leaving large plots of dirt and sparse grass that seemingly don’t belong to anyone. I see the person still ahead of me, walking faster, but not farther away from me. How is that possible? It’s been enough time, and I had even stopped for a moment in front of the train tracks.

I look down and only then realize the ramping pace of my heart. I’ve been walking just as quickly, and I have no idea why. I try to slow down, telling my legs to stop, but it’s not working. It doesn’t feel like I’ve lost control of them necessarily, more like something is pulling me along and speeding up. The person once again turns their head to look behind, and before I can see any closer, they break into a sprint.

It’s an awkward run, and it almost makes me want to laugh out of sheer shock. Unfortunately, the shock of my own frantic running after them takes all the humor out of the situation, since I have no desire to do so. The two of us race down the sidewalk, with the person avoiding obstacles and crossing four-ways effortlessly, leaving me to keep a vigilant eye out for fire hydrants and cars. It’s probably better if I do run into something, as it might get me to stop. At the same time, stopping feels like a very bad idea. I can’t explain it, but more and more it feels like this person is the one chasing me. Only now do I let out a single word, although it feels pointless as it leaves my lips.

“Stop!” I yell.

Nothing happens, of course. If anything, the two of us pick up speed. I recognize the passing houses, trees, and parked cars and realize that we’re finally approaching home. If I can’t break free of whatever this is, who knows where I’ll end up? I can see my house getting closer. With all of my strength, I try to move off the path and onto the grass that will eventually be my front yard. Suddenly it works, and I leave the sidewalk, changing my trajectory toward my front door. 

I have no intention of stopping yet, and I just want to get inside where it's safe and warm. A smile leaves my face though as I feel that whether or not I want to stop, I still can’t. I then realize that the person is not only still ahead of me, but sprinting to my door. Of course, it’s only now that I can’t seem to go any faster, and the person runs up my front steps; throwing back their hood and pounding on the door. 

Before I can reach them, the door opens and I can see my wife on the other side. Her concerned expression turns to frantic, but not at the person in front of her. She looks past them to me, and I hear the fear in her voice as she brings them inside. The person ahead of me turns around for the last time, and I can hardly believe what I see through all the adrenaline pumping to my head. The face that I had thought was deformed is now my own, staring back at me.

I’m speechless. Even if I could get my thoughts together enough to shout something, I have no idea what I could say to make this make sense. The person who isn’t me matches his expression to how frightened my wife is, but somehow I can tell that beneath it, he’s smirking at me. The door slams between us.

In an instant, I feel myself free from whatever has been pulling me. I stop only for a moment before running up to the door and trying to open it. It’s locked, and I likewise pound on the wood, crying out for my wife to let me in and that whoever that person is, it’s not me. I hear the muffled slide of the door’s chain before my voice shouts from behind, telling me to go away. As the shock wears off, I feel tears start to form in my eyes and I stagger back down the steps. I don’t know what to do. I just wanted to go home.

***

“A family was terrorized as a masked individual attempted to break into their home Tuesday night. According to the husband, he was followed home from work by a stranger, who then tried to enter the house behind him. As his wife dialed 9-1-1, the family watched in terror while the stalker peered into the windows, still trying to gain entry. Their two children were terrified, later telling us that the individual’s mask appeared, in their words, ‘Like his face was all mixed up.’”