Familiar Stranger

It was a cold October morning when I stumbled into Bill's Diner, just like every other day. I ordered my usual: black coffee with a side of eggs and bacon. The chill in the air was typical for late October, so I’d wrapped my green scarf tightly around my neck to fend off the bitter breeze.

“Mornin’, hon,” Clara greeted me as I slid into my usual table by the window. She was Bill’s wife and had been welcoming me this way every morning since I’d met her. My mom and I were always on the move, never staying long enough to call a place home. I worked hard, earned scholarships, went to school and finally settled in New Haven after college. Thirteen years later, this town is the closest thing to home I’d ever had and the people that live here are my family.

The diner was filled with familiar faces that morning—the town gossips were huddled over pancakes and crossword puzzles, the professional “entrepreneur” popped in for a quick bite between Uber driving and his various odd jobs and there were a group of highschoolers yapping loudly at their usual tables. 

As I pulled out my laptop, a tall stranger walked in. I tightened my scarf against an unexpected chill. He had thick black curly hair, a strong jawline, and a peppered beard. When he smiled, his teeth glistened like pearls in the sunlight. Dressed in a black trench coat and a freshly pressed white shirt, his dark eyes seemed like bottomless pits, devoid of light or emotion, hinting at deep sadness. I’d never seen him before, yet an uncanny feeling of familiarity washed over me.

He took a seat in a nearby booth. Tina, a local college student who worked there, sauntered over to his table with a notepad. Despite the chilly weather, she wore a short black pleated skirt with no tights, combat boots, and a snug black turtleneck that accentuated her figure. I noticed the stranger's gaze follow her as she walked away. “Figures,” I muttered. I’m sure he was a classic Dorian Gray by night. 

Soon after, Tina emerged from the kitchen with my food. I always requested cinnamon and vanilla, a habit I picked up during my travels. She often forgot the cinnamon. As soon as I got up to get it myself, I found myself on the floor, looking up at the man.

“I’m so sorry,” he said in a voice that was stern yet soft. His dark gaze softened for a brief moment as he gathered me up. He was much taller up close. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I stammered, ignoring the throbbing bump on the back of my head. 

“Oh my heavens! Are you alright? Looks like you took a hard fall. That fellow needs to watch where he’s going!” Clara exclaimed, rushing over to fix my clothes and hair. I turned to look for the stranger, my head spinning as I turned, but he had vanished as quickly as he appeared.

Escaping Clara’s grasp, I approached Tina, who wore an amused expression. I grabbed her notepad and saw the words she had scrawled: “Sultry Shadow, black coffee, cinnamon, and vanilla.” She snatched it back, tore the page, and tossed it in the trash. “Must have scared him away,” she teased.

Rolling my eyes, I hurried out the door. I was shaken from both the impact of the fall and the coffee order, but I had to get to work.

 I was a journalist at a news station a few blocks away, and a series of strange occurrences had been reported in the past weeks: break-ins with nothing stolen, disrupted mailboxes, invaded trash cans, and mysterious calls with no one on the other end. I had been working on this story for weeks to no avail. 

“Heard you took a fall this morning!” yelled Curt as I walked in. Though he was obnoxious and Tina’s boyfriend, he was one of the best reporters at the paper. “You okay?”

“Yes…. thanks for your concern. Have you heard anything about a dark stranger passing through?”

“Other than the fact that he knocked you down? Not really. But he sounds like he has a story. You think he’s connected to the strange activity lately?”

“I don’t know… that’s been happening for weeks, and I only saw him today,” I replied. 

“I guess you’re right, besides, it’s probably just a bunch of kids messing around, I mean we are so close to Halloween, weird things happen around this time” he stated. 

“Kids would leave some sort of trail, I’m not so sure..”

“Well, have fun with that, I’m going to get a real story.” With that he was out the door. 

I settled into my desk, burying myself in my work despite the fact that I could be slightly concussed. The day dragged on as usual. When I looked up it was 7:30p. Besides Eddie, the custodian, I was the only one left in the building that night. Most everyone else had gone to some Halloween event, but I wasn’t in the mood to party. I slipped out and began the walk home. Usually, I’d call an Uber this late, but despite the morning’s harsh weather, it felt nice to walk and think.

After a couple of blocks, an unsettling feeling crept over me—I felt like I was being followed. The streets were nearly empty, and I hadn’t noticed, lost in my thoughts. I veered through the park in front of my house. Orange and brown leaves whirled around the empty swings, swaying back and forth.

I hated this park, especially those creaky old swings that always seemed to groan this time of year. Even in summer, when they were occupied by squealing children, they only reminded me of a painful childhood memory. That day I tried to join some classmates at the park. I had only been going to this particular school a few weeks so I didn’t have friends of my own. 

I approached a group of eight-year-olds from my class and nervously asked if I could swing with them. They exchanged hesitant glances but eventually agreed. “You go first,” one of them said, and I climbed onto the swing.

I remember being pushed by Tommy Filmore, his pushes growing harder and higher. I shouted, “Slow down!” but all I heard was laughter and footsteps fading away. As the swing soared higher, fear set in, and I clung to the chains, tears welling in my eyes. 

By the time the swing finally stopped, the park was empty. I walked home alone, struggling to hold back tears. My mom never noticed, and that night, I cried myself to sleep, never to swing again. 

Recollecting my thoughts, I finally reached my small townhouse. As I fumbled with my keys, I heard footsteps behind me and held my breath.

“Hey! I got your pizza!” It was the pizza guy. I had forgotten I ordered it on my way out of work. I paid him and watched him drive away on his scooter. 

Inside, the townhouse was pitch black and quiet, save for the dripping faucet. Clara kept insisting I needed a dog or a man for company. While I always claimed I didn’t have time for either, the thought sounded more enticing on nights like this.

I settled at the kitchen island with my laptop and pizza. Not one for TV, I logged into CNN to catch up on the news. I was interrupted by a sound from the living room. As I got up, I heard something else—footsteps.

My breath quickened. I called out, but no one responded. I felt a lurking presence. Grabbing a steel bat from the umbrella holder, I peered into the living room. There, I saw a shadow with one leg hanging out the window. I swung the bat with all my strength.

The figure grunted and fell backward. I swung again, then dropped the bat. Fumbling for my phone, I heard cries of agony. When I dialed 911, words eluded me. In the moonlight, I recognized him—it was the man from the diner.

Despite the pool of blood forming around the collar of his neatly pressed shirt, I could now make out his face. His dark eyes mirrored my own. He had his hand in the pocket of his jacket. I opened it and found an envelope. Inside was a photo of the same man, perhaps thirty years younger, cradling a baby with wispy black hair and bright brown eyes. There were also articles I had written and a letter scribbled in handwriting I had seen so many times on my kitchen table growing up, on notes to my teachers on every birthday and Christmas card my mother would write. 

I sank to my knees, tears flooding my eyes. All I remember are sirens and voices, and the face of the man I had seen only in my dreams, now hauntingly real.