The moon hid behind a cloud that night, and I could barely make out one foot in front of the other. I had to weave around the headstones in the dimly lit graveyard. The wind started whistling in my ear as I walked the short cut to my sister’s house. I was already late for a dinner party, and I knew she was going to kill me. I had promised her I would come on time and help her entertain my parent’s anniversary party she was hosting. As I hustled through the desolate cemetery, I heard a faint sound following, but I assumed it was just the twigs snapping beneath my feet, I did not have time to look back or investigate my surroundings. And to be honest, I was afraid of what else could be out there.
I finally slipped into the house through the backdoor and put myself straight to work; I figured I would hide in the kitchen and let my sisters make idle conversation with our parents’ friends. As I checked on the appetizers in the oven, I had the strangest feeling there was another set of eyes in the room. My sister flew in like a whirlwind and escorted me into the living room, so I could tell everyone about my trip to London. As usual, she was flustered and doing a million things at once, but it was fine – better her than me. I had traveled to London to tour with a guitar ensemble through all the major music pubs. Each night the crowds seemed to get bigger and louder, until the last night where it was just an intimate group of strangers listening to our music. I enjoyed playing for other people. I didn’t think I would, but I knew I would never see them again so it didn’t make me nervous. Or at least I thought I would never see them again.
“So Hannah what was your favorite part of London?” my mother’s best friend inquired, snapping me out of the day dream I had been in all evening.
“I think just sitting in street cafes taking in the beauty of Great Britain,” I fabricated this response because I truly loved everything, but wasn’t ready to tell my parents I wanted to move there.
The evening ended late, as it usually does, but thankfully my sister offered to drive me home so I didn’t have to trek back through the cemetery where god only knows what was waiting for me. Although, when I closed the door behind me, my house did not have the same secure feeling it usually did. It seemed oddly cold and far away, I ran up stairs and jumped under the covers like I used to do when I was young and afraid of the shadows lurking in the hallway. Why was my head playing tricks on me? I had never felt so distanced from my house, but since being home from London, something was not right. I started drifting into sleep when my front door slammed shut.
It was one of those nights I really wish I had a roommate. This house was too big for just one person. And yet creepily enough, I felt as if I wasn’t the only breath in the room. Everything was too open, especially tonight. I sat in my bed and I thought of every possibility that could happen to me. First I thought of the good things. Maybe it was my family coming to check up on me. Maybe it was one of my friends stopping by for a visit. Maybe it was the wind, or I was just hearing things.
I tried to keep my mind away from the unknown as much as I could. I thought back to my trip to London. I thought of the comfort I felt from the low, silvered clouds, the excitement of the energetic air whipping my face, the enchantment of the red pants and tweed coats. I had never felt more alive, more at home. London is a city with subtle grandeur: it is quieter than New York, but not in an insecure way.
A few times, however, I felt anxious. I knew the struggles of being an up and coming artist. And I knew I wouldn’t always be taken seriously, wouldn’t always be admired. But sometimes I felt something much worse. As if someone was burning through my soul as I played. Competition in this industry was always tight, but had it really reached this point? I had assembled a few dedicated fans, which was more than I could have ever hoped for. At least that’s what I thought. One morning, I held the door open for someone I had seen in the café before, at first I didn’t think it was strange, but upon further reflection something was off. The shadows silhouetted her perfectly round face. Even in the light, she had a sense of darkness. A sense of evil I could not grasp. I have always been told I wear my emotions on my sleeve but not like this. Something about the way her eyes were so dark and deadened. And yet glazed over so I couldn’t quite read them. This person had thanked me by name as I slowly let the door follow the footsteps out. Who was this person? Had they seen one of my shows? It could have been that her dark, long curls, weak posture, and pale face didn’t stick in my brain. Maybe we had met.
An awkward creak brought me back to the United States, back to my room, and back to my fears. Each noise I heard my thoughts got worse and worse: each blow of the wind, each creak in the heater. I sat in my bed, staying as still as possible. I had a constant thought that this would be my last night alive. I listened closely. The creaking on the steps was getting louder. I reached for my phone but it was dead, with no charger in sight. I had to get out of my house, and quick. I spotted the window and the bungee cord in my suitcase. Even in a rush I managed to find a sufficient way of climbing down my house safely.
As I climbed out, I heard my door slowly open. I could just see a glimpse of the face. It looked so familiar. I quickly jumped down and ran as fast as I could back to my parent’s house. Running in, I slammed the door shut, waking up a whole household of people. I tried to explain how there was a man, or was it a woman, in my house, but no one believed me.
“Hannah it was probably just the wind, or you were just dreaming. That type of situation does not happen here.” My mother said in disbelief. “You can stay the night, but tomorrow you have to get your life back together, you are not in London anymore, you need a reality check.”
Was she kidding? I come running into her house frantic, about to get killed and this is what I get? It is definitely time to move to London. I stayed the night and walked back home in the morning. On the way back home, I yet again felt someone following me. I started walking with a fast pace, soon turning into a full on sprint. Got home locked every door, and went up to my attic to hide. I figured no one could ever find me there. The attic was old, full of dust, and had a horribly musty smell to it. Suddenly, the man was in my house again. I sat there letting the dust collect on me trying not to make a move. I knew if I moved the wooden boards that made up the floor would creak and he would find me – I would be finished. Why was I being stalked? What’s so special about me that makes someone want to hunt me down? I could not put into place what was happening to me.
I heard banging on the attic door. He was coming in. With each footstep, a bead of sweat formulated along my brow. I can’t believe this is happening. The door swung open and there she was, standing right in front of me. Wait she? She grabbed my arm pulling me to stand up. I resisted. But she was surprisingly strong. I saw the gun attached to her waist, so I had no choice but to obey. She tied me up, and made me get into the trunk of her car. Screaming and kicking did nothing. I was blindfolded and trying desperately to remember her face; I had no idea who she was or where we were going or what was going to happen. The only thought running through my head was I am going to die tonight.
We finally arrived at the destination, I had never been there before, and yet it looked oddly familiar. She started to tell me about the day we met. Her voice sounded strangely familiar. It was her accent. I had heard it so many times before. Then it hit me. She was a fan from London, but I didn’t think I could solve this with an autograph.
“I know everything about your life: your music, your habits, where you live, what you love, what you hate,” she hissed, I was so confused should I be flattered or terrified.
“I, uh, I’m not sure what to say,” I tried to be as diplomatic as possible; she was nuts that was all I was certain about.
“I want to be you, but I can’t with you standing in my way…our way,” she began to explain. At this point my head was spinning, this girl came from nowhere and is attempting to take over my life – literally.
“How can you be me, if I am not here to guide you through it, who can help you be a better me than me?” I figured the best thing I could do was rationalize my existence to her, unfortunately logic and psycho do not always see eye to eye.
“No! Stop! It is time for your life to end and mine to begin,” she said eerily as she pulled the gun from her waist, staring me down the barrel. The next few seconds were a complete blur. I had acted quickly, and honestly I had gotten very lucky. As my stalker began to pull the trigger, my body lunged forward acting on its own. It felt like I was watching from a safe distance, as my hand forced the gun down and inward. All the parts fit together beautifully, creepily. The angle of the shot left me heaving with adrenaline on the ground and a dark, pool of blood next to me. It was over. It was not until many weeks later that I found out this person suffered from Schizophrenia, and actually believed she was so obsessed with me that she was actually meant to be me.
That bullet killed two things. A disturbed woman who decided she ran out of options and a dreamland I had created in my mind. I snapped back to reality.