I Found a Letter From My Stalker
I found the letter on a Tuesday morning.
It was tucked underneath the windshield wiper of my car.
At first, I thought it was a parking ticket.
Then I saw my name written across the envelope.
Not my nickname.
Not the shortened version my friends used.
My full name.
I stood in the driveway staring at it.
There was no stamp. No address. No return name.
Just four words written in black ink:
I KNOW WHERE YOU SLEEP.
I should have thrown it away.
Instead, I opened it.
The First Letter
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
The handwriting was neat and strangely careful.
You don’t know me yet.
But I know you.
I know what time you leave for work.
I know which coffee shop you visit on Fridays.
I know you always check the back door twice before going upstairs.
You probably think I’m watching you because I want something from you.
I’m not.
I’m watching because someone else is watching you too.
I read the message three times.
Then I laughed.
It was probably some stupid prank.
Someone had seen me locking my door.
Maybe a neighbour.
Maybe one of my coworkers.
I crumpled the letter and dropped it into the kitchen bin.
By lunchtime, I had almost forgotten about it.
Almost.
Someone Was Following Me
That afternoon, I noticed a grey car behind me.
It stayed two cars away for nearly ten minutes.
When I turned left, it turned left.
When I stopped at a petrol station, it continued straight.
I told myself it was nothing.
People followed the same roads every day.
There was no reason to panic.
But when I reached home, I checked the street before getting out of my car.
The grey car was gone.
That night, I checked every window.
Everything was locked.
I went upstairs and tried to sleep.
At 2:13 a.m., my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
You shouldn’t have thrown my letter away.
My stomach dropped.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
You should read the next one carefully.
I didn’t sleep that night.
The Second Letter
The following morning, there was another envelope.
This time it was inside my mailbox.
My hands were shaking when I opened it.
The message was shorter.
The person you’re afraid of isn’t me.
Look at the house across the street.
Don’t look from the window.
Use your bedroom mirror.
I slowly walked upstairs.
My bedroom window faced the street.
The curtains were closed.
I stood in front of the mirror beside my wardrobe.
From there, I could see a small section of the road reflected in the glass.
At first, there was nothing unusual.
Then I noticed a man standing beneath a streetlamp.
He was wearing a dark coat.
He wasn’t moving.
He was staring directly at my house.
I stepped away from the mirror.
When I looked again, he was gone.
I Called the Police
I finally called the police.
Two officers came to my house.
I showed them the letters.
They checked the mailbox, the driveway and the surrounding area.
Nothing.
One officer told me that there wasn’t enough evidence to prove someone was stalking me.
He advised me to keep the letters and report anything else suspicious.
After they left, I felt slightly safer.
That feeling lasted less than an hour.
At 6:40 p.m., someone knocked on my front door.
I froze.
Another knock.
Then silence.
I looked through the peephole.
Nobody was there.
I waited several minutes before opening the door.
There was another envelope on the doorstep.
This time, there was only one sentence inside.
They know you called the police.
The Photograph
There was something else inside the envelope.
A photograph.
It showed me sleeping.
I recognized my bedroom immediately.
The picture had clearly been taken through my bedroom window.
My face was visible.
My eyes were closed.
I looked at the photograph for several seconds before realizing something terrifying.
The picture had been taken that night.
Not recently.
Not weeks ago.
That night.
Someone had been outside my bedroom while I was sleeping.
I locked every door and window.
Then I moved a heavy chair against my bedroom door.
I sat on the bed with my phone in my hand.
At midnight, another message appeared.
Now you understand.
I typed:
Who are you?
The reply came immediately.
Someone trying to keep you alive.
The Secret
I asked what they meant.
For several minutes, nothing happened.
Then my phone received a photograph.
It showed the front of my house.
A figure stood near the garden gate.
The same dark coat.
The same person I’d seen reflected in my mirror.
Under the photograph was a message:
He isn’t your stalker.
I stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
He’s waiting for you to remember him.
I didn’t understand.
Then the final message arrived.
Look inside your father’s old box.
My father had died five years earlier.
His belongings were stored in the attic.
I hadn’t opened the boxes since the funeral.
I climbed upstairs.
The attic was dark and dusty.
After several minutes of searching, I found an old wooden box with my father’s handwriting on it.
Inside were photographs, letters and documents.
And underneath everything was a newspaper clipping.
The headline made my blood run cold.
LOCAL MAN DISAPPEARS WITHOUT A TRACE
The photograph beneath the headline showed a young man.
I recognized him immediately.
He was the person standing across the street.
But the article was twenty-two years old.
And according to the newspaper, the man had disappeared before I was even born.
The Final Letter
There was one final envelope inside my father’s box.
My name was written on it.
I opened it with trembling hands.
If you’re reading this, then he has found you again.
I spent years believing I was protecting you.
I was wrong.
Your mother and I were not the first people he followed.
We were simply the first people who noticed.
He doesn’t want to hurt you.
He wants you to remember what happened.
The night he disappeared, you were there.
You were only a child.
You survived.
But your mind buried the memory.
He never forgot.
I dropped the letter.
My hands were shaking.
Then I heard something downstairs.
A floorboard creaked.
Someone was inside my house.
I grabbed my phone and quietly locked the attic door.
For several seconds, everything was silent.
Then someone whispered my name.
Not from downstairs.
From directly behind me.
I slowly turned around.
The attic was empty.
Except for the old mirror leaning against the wall.
And in its reflection stood the man from the photograph.
He looked exactly the same as he had twenty-two years ago.
He raised one hand.
There was a letter between his fingers.
Then he smiled.
My phone vibrated.
A new message appeared.
You finally remembered me.
I looked back at the mirror.
He was gone.
The attic door was still locked.
But the letter he had been holding was now lying on the floor beside my feet.
I opened it.
There were only three words inside.
It wasn’t me.
Below them was a photograph.
A photograph of my bedroom.
Taken from inside the room.
And standing behind my sleeping body was someone I had never seen before.