22 Most Disturbing TRUE Horror Stories: Food Delivery, Instagram & Craigslist | Doors, DMs, and Deals Gone Wrong

Hello everyone and welcome back to horror stories. I know many of you use these episodes to fall asleep so before you drift off, I'd love it if you could leave a comment letting me know where you're listening from around the world. Also don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes. Story 1 I had never been afraid of staying home alone. My parents used to come home late because of their long work days and I was already used to looking after my younger brother. We would play video games, order pizza and watch movies until we fell asleep. Everything was routine, normal, until the night when it stopped being that way. The night that changed everything. It was a Friday evening just after sunset and my parents had gone out on a rare date. They would not be back until midnight so it was up to me to keep my 8-year-old brother Jamie entertained. We had our usual plan, order pizza, play a few games, and then watch whatever new animated movie Jamie was obsessed with that week. The house was quiet except for the soft home of the heating system kicking on and the occasional creek of the wind against the windows. We lived in one of those suburban neighborhoods with nearly identical houses and perfectly trimmed lawns where nothing exciting ever happened. The street lights cast a gentle glow over the road and the distant sound of cars on the highway was a constant backdrop. I ordered the pizza around 7 from our usual place. By then they knew us by name and I knew delivery would take about 30 minutes. We killed time playing Mario Kart, Jamie's favorite game. His laughter filled the living room as he beat me race after race. His little fingers hammering the buttons with that fearless joy only a child can have. The pizzas here, I announced when the doorbell rang. I paused the game and went to the door. The delivery guy was the usual one, a teenager not much older than me, maybe 18 or 19, with a tired expression and earbuds hanging around his neck. He handed me the box, I gave him the cash and that was it. I set the pizza down on the coffee table and Jamie was already grabbing a slice before I even sat down. We ate incomparable silence with the movie playing in the background, but I could not shake the strange feeling that it settled in my stomach. It was like an itch I could not scratch, a faint sense that something was off. I brushed it aside telling myself it was just nerves from being the one in charge of that night, but the uneasiness would not go away. After dinner we cleaned up and went back to the couch, Jamie was nodding off beside me while the movie kept playing. I was half watching the screen and half scrolling on my phone when I heard it. A soft tapping sound like someone gently knocking on the glass. I froze and turned the TV volume down. The sound came again, this time a little louder, a little more insistent. I felt my heart start to race and I looked toward the window, but I did not see anything unusual outside. Just the dark yard, the outline of trees shifting in the wind. It's probably a branch, I muttered trying to shake off the uneas. But then I heard it again, this time coming from the back of the house. Jamie did you hear that, I asked, nudging him awake. He rubbed his eyes, sleepy. Hear what? Someone's tapping on the window or something. Stay here okay, I'm going to check. He nodded already half asleep again and I reluctantly got up from the couch. The hallway was dark. The only light came from the living room casting long shadows across the walls. The tapping continued steady and rhythmic, guiding me like a beacon toward the back door. I walked slowly my heart pounding against my chest and when I reached the kitchen where the door to the yard was, I hesitated. I could not explain it, but an overwhelming sense of dread came over me. Like something bad was about to happen. I took a breath and turned on the kitchen light. The sudden brightness made me squint. The tapping stopped immediately, plunging the house into an eerie silence. I stood there for a moment listening, but I heard nothing. No movement, just the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock. I shook my head feeling stupid. Yet together, I told myself forcing a laugh, you're just scaring yourself. But just as I turned to go back to the living room, the sound came again, a hard, insistent knock on the back door, loud enough to make me jump. I spun around, my heart pounding wildly in there, standing on the other side of the glass door, was a man, tall with his hood pulled so low that it hit his features. He was just standing there staring at me through the glass, not moving, not saying a word. I froze, the air caught in my throat. For a moment we stared at each other, a silence stand off in the middle of my kitchen. My mind was racing. Who was this guy? What did he want? Why was he not saying anything? Then calmly he reached out and tried the door knob. It rattled as he turned it, but the door was locked, thank god. He tried again, harder this time, but it did not budge. That was when the fear truly sank into me. He was not some stranger who had gotten lost in needed directions. That man was trying to get into my house. "Jami," I shouted, my voice shaking. Go upstairs right now. Me appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide with confusion and panic. What's happening? Go upstairs and lock yourself in the bathroom. Don't come out until I tell you to. He did not argue or ask questions. He ran. His footsteps thundered up the stairs until I heard the bathroom door slam shut and the click of the locks lighting into place. I felt a small wave of relief. At least he was safe. I was not. The man was still there, still testing the door knob with slow deliberate movements. As if he had all the time in the world. I weighed my options, but only one made sense. Call the police. I backed away, reaching for the phone without taking my eyes off him. And just as I was about to dial 911, he stopped. He stopped trying to open the door. He stopped moving. He just stood there, tilted his head slightly as if you were listening to something. And then in one smooth motion turned around and walked away, disappearing into the darkness of the yard. I waited holding my breath, expecting him to come back to try another way in, but he did not. The backyard fell silent as if he had never been there at all. I ran to the front of the house to make sure everything was locked up tight. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn the locks, but eventually I secured everything, every door, every window. I dialed 911 with trembling fingers, and with a voice that was barely steady, told the operator what had happened. She assured me officers were on the way, but it felt like forever before I saw the red and blue lights flashing in front of the house. When the police arrived, I felt such intense relief that I almost burst into tears. Two officers came in. One stayed with me in the living room while the other went outside to check the perimeter. Jamie came down the stairs with a pale face and I could see the fear beginning to leave him now that help had arrived. Did you see which way he went? The officer asked her voice calm and professional. I shook my head. No, he just disappeared. One minute he was there and the next he was gone, she nodded writing something in her notebook. We'll check the area but it looks like he's already gone. You did the right thing by calling us. While they inspected the property, I tried to calm Jamie down, assuring him that everything was okay, that we were safe now, but deep down I did not feel safe at all. The house felt different. The shadows darker, the silence heavier. Every creek, every brush of wind outside made me flinch. My nerves were completely shot from the adrenaline. After what felt like another eternity the officers came back looking serious. We didn't find anyone, one of them said, but we did find something strange. I frowned. What do you mean? He hesitated for a second before answering. There are footprints in the backyard from the woods to the door, but there's no sign that he left. The footprints stop right in front of the door. My blood ran cold. That doesn't make any sense. he walked away. I saw him. "We know," he said. "But there's no indication of an exit. It's as if he vanished. The rest of the night was a blur, answering the officer's questions, trying to comfort Jamie, getting him to fall asleep after hours of reassuring him. I did not sleep at all. I kept replaying what had happened over and over, trying to understand it. Who was that man? What did he want? How could he disappear without a trace? The police said they would keep an eye on the neighborhood and increase patrols in the area. But that did little to ease the fear. Every night after that, I checked every lock and every window twice, even though I knew it would not make a difference. Because whoever, or whatever it was, it was not just some guy trying to break into a house. It was something else. Something beyond explanation. And deep down I knew it would come back. We moved out of that house a few months later. My parents said it was because of a new job opportunity, but I knew the truth. They did not want to admit it, but they were just as scared as I was. Sometimes late at night I still think about him. I wonder if he is still out there watching. And every time someone knocks on the door, every time a shadow moves in the corner of my eye, I remember that night. The night that changed everything, because some fears never fully go away. They linger like a dark cloud on the horizon, always there, even when you think you are safe. Story 2. Working as a pizza delivery driver is not exactly the most glamorous job, but it is simple, and most nights go by without much happening. You drive, deliver, collect tips, and go home. Still every now and then something happens that makes you wonder whether the risk is worth it. This is the story of one of those nights, one that started like any other, and ended in a way that still haunts me. It was a cold windy night in late November, one of those nights when the wind cuts right through you no matter how many layers you were wearing. The air had a sharp icy edge to it, and the sky was a deep and penetrable black, with thick clouds covering the moon. I was working the night shift, fewer deliveries but better tips. People tend to be more generous when they realize you are out there dealing with the weather while they are warm and comfortable at home. I was just about to finish my shift when the last order came in. It was from an area of town I did not go too often, an old neighborhood on the outskirts, with large sprawling houses set far back from the road. The kind of place where after 9 pm, the streets go dark and empty, and you hardly see anyone walking around. The address was on the last street before the woods began, a cul-de-sac with only a few homes. All spaced far apart. There did not seem to be many lights on, but I did not think much of it. It was laid and people were probably winding down for bed. When I arrived at the house, I noticed it was completely dark, except for a dim light on the front porch. It was a large old house with a wrap around porch and peeling paint, a sign that it had gone years without proper maintenance. There were no cars in the driveway and no signs of life inside. I parked in front and grabbed the pizza from the passenger seat. I checked the address twice. It matched, but something about the place gave me a bad feeling. I hesitated for a moment before getting out of the car. The freezing air hit me full force the second I stepped onto the gravel. As I approached the front door, I saw a small hand-painted sign hanging from the porch railing. Use back door. I frowned. It was not unusual for people to leave specific instructions, but no one had ever asked me to go around to the back, especially that late at night. I went around the side of the house, my footsteps crunching on the gravel and my breath visible in the cold. The backyard was even darker than the front. There was no light to guide me. The wind made the trees whisper, and in the distance I could hear the hum of traffic from the highway. Otherwise, there was a heavy silence. When I reached the back door, I found it slightly ajar. I hesitated again. Every instinct in me was screaming at me to leave, but I pushed that feeling aside. Maybe they had left it that way because they knew I was coming. Maybe they did not want me ringing the bell. I knocked softly then a little louder when I got no response. Pizza delivery, I called out. My voice sounding strangely loud in the stillness. Nothing. Just the wind and the creeks of the old house. I was about to turn around when I heard a sound. A faint rustling as if someone were moving inside. Relief washed over me. Maybe they just had not heard me at first. I called out again this time more confidently. Hello? Is anyone there? The rustling stopped. There was a long pause, and then I heard footsteps coming closer. They were slow and deliberate, the kind that sounded too heavy for a normal person. My heart started hammering, and my mind immediately conjured up all kinds of disturbing possibilities. At last, the door creaked open just a crack, and the face of a man appeared. Or rather, what I could see of it. He was wearing a black ski mask. The kind that leaves only the eyes and mouth exposed. His eyes were dark, almost shadowed. I could not tell whether he was looking at me or staring right through me. Hello, my stammered, trying to keep my voice steady. I have your pizza. For a moment, he just stood there and watching me through the narrow opening. Then he opened the door a little wider, just enough for me to see that he was dressed completely in black. Black jacket, black pants, black boots. Everything about him screamed danger. A cold sweat ran down the back of my neck. "Did you place the order?" I asked. He did not answer, did not move. He just kept staring at me. The silence was unbearable, the air thick with tension. My instincts were begging me to get out of there to drop the box and run. But I could not move. It was as if my feet were glued to the ground. After what felt like forever, he nodded once with a slow, measured motion. There was something strange about that movement, something that made my skin crawl. "All right, I forced out a nervous laugh. That'll be $15.87." He made no move to pull out a wallet and did not say a word. He just kept staring at me with those unreadable eyes behind the ski mask. "Cash your card," I asked, my voice shaking now. He reached into his pocket, and for a second I thought he was pulling out a weapon. My heart pounded in my ears. My mind raced through escape routes, wondering what I would do if he tried to attack me. Instead, he pulled out a crumpled $20 bill and held it out to me without saying anything. I took it with trembling hands and pulled change from the small waist pouch I wore on my jacket. "Here's your change," I said, holding out the bills and coins. He did not take it. He just stood there staring at me. I could feel my pulse and my throat, my breathing shallow and tight. "Keep it," he finally said in a low-raspy voice. Without another word, he reached out and took the pizza box. His glove-tan brushed my fingers, and that touch shot through me like a jolt of fear. I yanked my hand back so fast I almost dropped the change in the process. Then he turned around and disappeared back into the house, leaving the back door wide open. I stood there for a moment, my mind spinning, trying to understand what had just happened. The house went silent again. The open doorway revealed nothing but darkness. Suddenly I felt a strong urge to follow him, to look inside, to make sure everything was okay. But the fear was stronger, more insistent. I turned around and walked quickly back to the car, fighting the urge to break into a run. My hands were still shaking when I finally got the keys in and started the engine. As I pulled out of the gravel driveway, I glanced back at the house one last time. The door was still open, and the dim porch light stretched long shadows across the yard. And then, just as I was about to turn onto the road, I saw him again. He was standing in the doorway watching me leave. My heart stopped. I looked away immediately and focused on the road, but the image of that dark, threatening figure was burned into my memory. I drove back to the pizza place as fast as I could, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. The whole way back, I felt like I was being watched. Every moment I expected to see him show up in my rearview mirror. At last I got there, parked and sat in the car for a minute, trying to calm my racing heart. The fear, however, would not go away. It would not let me relax. I kept thinking about that dark empty house, the man in the ski mask, and the way he had looked at me when I left. As if he knew something I did not. It took me a while to finish closing up. I was the last one to leave. The streets were empty. The town's silent. I locked up and walked to my car. The wind had picked up, hauling through the trees, and the temperature had dropped even more. As I got into the car, the feeling of being watched came back stronger than ever. I scanned the parking lot, the shadows between the buildings. There was no one there. It's just my imagination, I told myself. Nerves after a long night. But as I drove home, the feeling only intensified. The streets were deserted, the houses dark, and every time I stopped at a red light, I checked the rear view mirror. Half expecting to see that masked man standing behind me. I pulled into my driveway, relieved to have made it home. I got out and headed toward the front door, and froze. There was a pizza box sitting on my porch. I had not ordered anything, and I had not brought one home. The box was identical to the ones we used at the pizza place, but it had no label, no receipt, nothing to show where it had come from. My heart pounded in my chest as I climbed the steps. My breath fogging in the cold air. I reached out with a trembling hand and lifted the lid. The box was empty, but on the inside of the lid, written in black marker were three words. I see you. I stumbled backward, my mind racing, trying to process what I was seeing. Just then my phone vibrated in my pocket and nearly maybe jump out of my skin. I fumbled it out with shaking fingers and looked at the message. It was from a co-worker at the pizza place. "Hey, did you leave a pizza box on the porch when you left? If not, we might have a problem." My blood ran cold. I had not told anyone about the delivery or the man in the ski mask, but somehow he had figured out where I lived and was sending me a message. That night I did not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Those dark shadowed eyes staring at me from behind the fabric. I heard his voice low and raspy, telling me to keep the change. I never went back to that house. I never found out who that man was or what he wanted, but one thing I am sure of. He is still out there, watching, waiting, and every time I see a pizza box, every time I have to make a delivery to a dark empty house, I feel that same chill creeping down my spine. Sometimes the scariest stories are the ones that could happen to anyone, even you. Story 3. I have always been one of those people who try to see the best in others. You know, give them the benefit of the doubt and believe that most people are just doing their best to get by. Maybe that is why when the delivery guy asked if he could use my bathroom, I did not hesitate for even a second to say yes. What began as a simple act of kindness, however, turned into one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. It was a Friday night. I had just gotten home from work, exhausted and with no energy to cook, so I did what I always do when laziness wins. I ordered a pizza. I was planning a quiet evening of binge-watching Netflix, maybe opening one or two beers. Nothing special, just a relaxing night at home. I lived in one of those old downtown apartment buildings with creaky wooden floors and windows that let the cold seep in. It was not the nicest place, but it had character and was close to work, so I could not complain. The only downside was how isolated the top floor felt. I hardly had any neighbors, and the few I did have kept to themselves. Even so, on a night like that, the lack of activities seemed more like a blessing. The delivery guy arrived right on time, much to my relief because I was starving. He looked like a typical delivery driver. In his twenties messy hair, a baseball cap, and the pizza place polo shirt with a logo on it. Nothing unusual, at least at first. I gave him the money and he handed me the pizza. That should have been the end of it. But just as I was about to close the door, he hesitated. "Hey, do you mind if I use your bathroom for a second?" he asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I've been driving all night and I really have to go. I blinked caught off guard. No delivery driver had ever asked me that before. My first instinct was to say no. It felt like crossing a line to let a stranger into my apartment like that. But then I looked at his face and felt a stab of sympathy. The guy was just doing his job. If he had been out on the road all night, I understood the urgency. Sure, it's at the end of the hall, I said, stepping aside. First door on the left. Thanks seriously, he replied with a quick nod before disappearing down the hallway. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, a wave of unease ran through me. It was nothing concrete, just that dull sense that something was not right. I brushed it off with a "you're being paranoid." I set the pizza box on the counter and grabbed a plate trying to focus on the feast of hot cheesy food waiting for me. But the feeling would not go away. The minutes passed and I realized the guy had been in there longer than normal. I looked down the hallway. The door was still closed and my discomfort was growing. I distracted myself by turning on the TV and flipping through channels. But the worry stayed with me. Maybe he was taking a while because of a stomach issue I thought. Still with every passing minute, my anxiety climbed another notch. Everything okay in there? I called out, trying to make my voice sound casual. Nothing. Just the sound of running water. My heart started beating faster as my mind imagined all kinds of possibilities. Maybe he was sick, or maybe snooping around, or maybe just taking way too long. I tried to stay calm but my imagination was running wild. Eventually I could not take it anymore. I walked down the hallway. My footsteps sounded far too loud in the silence of the apartment. I knocked on the door trying not to let my panic slip into my voice. Hey, are you okay? You've been in there a while. There was a long pause and the water stopped. My heart pounded against my chest as I waited for an answer. Instead of replying the door slowly creaked open, the delivery guy was standing there staring at me with a blank expression. His face was pale almost sickly and his eyes were glassy as if he was not really seeing me at all. I took a step back. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Are you okay? I asked with a nervous laugh that tried to cover the growing fear. He did not answer. He did not even blink. He just stood there watching me. His arms hanging at his sides. That was when I noticed his knuckles. White, clenched like he was holding something back. Look, if you're not feeling well, maybe you should. I did not finish the sentence. He took a step forward and his body language shifted from passive to something far more threatening. My instinct screamed at me to get away, to put distance between us however I could. "I think it's time for you to leave," I said, trying to sound firm, though my voice shook. At last his gaze focused on me. He narrowed his eyes until to his head. "I'm not going anywhere." The coldness in the way he said it froze my blood. This was no longer a simple bathroom break. I understood that I had made a mistake, letting that stranger into my apartment had been a terrible mistake. I backed away my mind racing. The air felt heavy as if the walls were closing in. He took another step and I saw his hand move toward his pocket. That was enough. I ran for the front door. My heart was pounding wildly, trying to outrun him. I heard his footsteps behind me, slow but deliberate as if he knew I had nowhere to go. "Get out of my house," I shouted, fumbling with the deadbolt with shaking hands. He did not stop. He did not react at all. At last the door gave way. I stumbled outside and slammed it shut. I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers and dialed 911 as I backed away. The operator answered immediately. I explained what was happening, my voice breaking with panic. "There's a man in my apartment. He's the delivery guy, but he won't leave. Please, I need help. Stay on the line," she said, a firm in calm. "Police are on the way. Are you in a safe place?" "I'm outside, but he's still in there," I answered, staring at the door, expecting him to burst through it at any second. Stay outside and do not go back in until officers arrive. Help is on the way. The minutes stretched into hours. I could not take my eyes off the entrance. The door never opened, but I could hear muffled sounds from inside, footsteps the creaking of the floorboards. At last I saw the flashing lights of the patrol cars. I felt a wave of relief so strong it almost made my knees buckle. Two officers approached, one stayed with me and the other went up to my apartment. I watched him move cautiously, one hand on his holstered weapon. My heart pounded as I waited for him to come back, praying for it all to be over. When the officer returned her expression was unreadable. "He's gone," she said simply. "He's gone," I repeated, unable to process it. "What do you mean he's gone? He was right there," she shook her head. "We searched the entire apartment. There's no sign of him." I stared at her in disbelief, but I saw him. He was here. "We believe you," she said in a sympathetic tone. "But he's not there now. Do you have any idea where he could have gone?" I shook my head. The fear was turning into confusion. "No," he just disappeared. The officers took my statement and checked the surrounding area. Nothing. No sign of the delivery guy and no clue where he might have gone. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. That night I stayed at a friend's house. I did not have the strength to go back to the apartment alone. The next day I called the pizza place to report the incident. I wandered to answers. I described the delivery guy and the manager sounded just as confused as I was. "No one with that description works here," he said, sounding concerned. "Are you sure the pizza was from us?" "Yes, absolutely," I answered stunned. He was wearing your uniform. He brought the pizza. How could he not work for you? "I don't know what to tell you," he replied, "but I'm going to look into it." I never heard anything else from them, and I never saw the delivery guy again. Even so it left a mark on me, a lingering fear that followed me long after that night. I moved out of that apartment a few months later. I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched, that at any moment that man might come back. Even now years later I still think about him. Those glassy eyes that blank expression, the way he said he was not leaving. And every time I ordered delivery, every time I see someone in a uniform, that same chill crawls up my spine. Because there are some doors that once opened, never fully close. And there are some people who once they enter your life, never completely leave, even when they are gone. Story 4. I have been working as a pizza delivery driver for a couple of years now. It pays the bills, and I also enjoy the solitude of driving at night, playing music and making my rounds. Most shifts are nothing special. The occasional weird encounter sure, but nothing that ever really got to me, until that night. That night still haunts me, and I cannot shake the feeling that what happened was not simply a product of my imagination. It was a cold foggy evening in late November. One of those nights when the fog hangs low and thick, muffling sounds and distorting shapes. The streets were disturbingly quiet. The city's usual noise seemed smothered by the mist. I had just finished a delivery in a quiet residential neighborhood and was heading back to the pizza place when the phone rang. "Hey, a last minute order just came in," my manager said. "Can you make one more delivery before clocking out?" I let out a sigh. I was already tired after a long shift, but I agreed. It was hard to say no to extra hours, and besides, I figured it would be a quick delivery. The address was out on the outskirts, and an area I was not very familiar with. It turned into a long winding drive down a narrow, poorly lit road that seemed like it would never end. The houses were few and far between, separated by long stretches of dense woods rising on both sides of the road. As I drove the fog grew thicker, and the trees seemed to close in around me. Their branches stretching out like bony fingers. My headlights barely scratched through the dimness, and I had to strain my eyes just to keep the road inside. At last I spotted the house, a rundown shack at the end of a gravel driveway. It looked like it had been abandoned for years, with peeling paint, weeds swallowing the yard, and a crooked fence barely holding together. There were no lights on inside, and the whole place gave off a feeling that made my skin crawl. But the address matched, so I pulled into the driveway and parked. The gravel crunched under my feet as I walked up to the front door with the box in my hand. I knocked a couple of times, but there was no answer. I waited listening as the silence seemed to close in from all sides. I knocked again, louder this time, and after a few seconds I heard shuffling footsteps approaching. The sound was faint, almost as if it were coming from far away, but it grew louder as it got closer. I could not see anything through the frosty glass of the door, only vague shadows moving in the dim light. Finally, the door creaked open, just a crack, and I caught sight of the person on the other side. A tall gaunt man with pale skin, almost glowing in the darkness. His eyes were sunken, and his clothes hung off him as if they were two sizes too big. He did not say anything. He just stared at me with an expression I could not read. "I've got your pizza," I said, lifting the box. My voice sounded far too loud in the stillness. The man nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off me. He opened the door a little wider, but instead of stepping aside so I could hand him the pizza, he stayed planted there, blocking the entrance. "Thank you," he said at last, in a low raspy voice, like someone who had not spoken in a very long time. You can leave it on the table. He pointed to a small table just behind the door. I hesitated. I did not want to go any farther into the house. There was something about the whole situation, something that made my skin prickle, but I did not want to seem rude, so I stepped just far enough inside to set the box on the table. The inside was just as rundown as the outside, wallpaper peeling off the walls, dusty furniture, and a stale smell of old dampness that reminded me of a basement. "Here you go," I said, trying not to let my voice shake. I held out the receipt for him to sign, but instead of taking it, he only stared at me with those hollow eyes. "Do you ever wonder," he said, slowly almost in a whisper, "what happens to people who disappear?" The question caught me completely off-guard. "Not really," I answered, backing toward the door. I guess they just vanish. He tilted his head as if weighing my answer. "Yes," they vanish, and sometimes they never come back. My heart started pounding in my chest, and I felt panic rising in waves. "Look, I need to get going," I said quickly, turning around. "Enjoy the pizza," but just as I touched the door knob, he spoke again. "Wait," I froze my hands still on the handle. I did not want to turn around. I did not want to see what expression he had now. "You forgot something," he added. "Against my better judgment," I turned. He was still standing in the doorway, but now he was holding something in his hand. My phone. I had not even noticed that I had left it on the table beside the pizza box, but there it was, between his pale bony fingers. "Thanks," I managed to say, trying to hide the tremor in my voice as I took it. His hand brushed mine, and I felt a cold. "Old, damn. Almost slimy chill that turned my stomach. Be careful out there," he said quietly, locking his eyes onto mine. "It's easy to get lost in the dark. I did not reply. I just nodded and hurried outside, closing the door behind me. Out there I let out a breath I had not realized I had been holding. The air felt thick and oppressive, and the fog seemed even denser than before. I practically ran to the car, my heart hammering and jumped inside, locking the doors. I sat there for a few seconds trying to calm down, but the uneasiness would not fade. I glanced back at the house, have expecting to see him standing in the doorway watching me. The porch was empty and the house was dark. I started the car and backed out, desperate to put as much distance as possible between myself and that place. The fog swall of the road, and for a long while I felt like the only person left in the world. The radio was playing, but it did little to ease the tension. As I pulled onto the main road I checked the rear-view mirror out of habit. What I saw froze my blood. There, standing by the side of the road was the man. The same man from the house. He was watching me. His hollow eyes followed the car as I sped up. A chill ran down my spine and I slammed my foot on the gas, desperate to get as far away as possible. But the road seemed endless. The fog thicker than ever. I looked in the mirror again, afraid I would see him there once more, but he had disappeared. I got back to the pizza place completely shaken. I parked and took several deep breaths trying to steady myself. It was just a weird customer I kept telling myself. That's all. But deep down I knew it was not that simple. I went inside to finish closing up, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. My manager noticed and asked if I was okay. I brushed it off with some excuse because I did not want to sound paranoid. As I was about to leave, the man's words came back to me. Do you ever wonder what happens to people who disappear? The calm way he had said it, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, sent a shiver down my spine. I decided to look up the address in the delivery log, just in case there was something strange about it. When I found the order, my blood ran cold. That address did not exist. There was no record of that house, no customer with that name. Nothing. It was as if the delivery had never happened. I checked the receipt a second time, but it was blank, just like the order sheet. I even called the number listed on it. It had been disconnected. Panic washed over me as I realized I had no way to prove that I had ever been there. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was some elaborate prank. Maybe someone had staged the whole thing, but deep down I knew that was not it. There was something about that house, about that man that did not fit anything normal. That night I drove home like I was in a trance, checking my mirrors constantly, half expecting to see him again, standing at the edge of the road. He never appeared. It was as if he had never existed. I lay there thinking about what he had said, about people who disappear, about how easy it is to get lost in the dark. And as the night went on, I realized I would never be able to forget that man, or that house or the cold damp touch of his hand. The next morning I called in sick. I could not handle the thought of going back to work. My manager was understanding, but I could hear the doubt in his voice when I told him what had happened. He did not say it, but I knew he thought I had imagined it, that maybe I was stressed or too tired. But I know what I saw. I know what I felt. I still cannot shake the certainty that he is out there somewhere, watching me, waiting for the right moment to appear again. Story 5 Delivering food at night is usually peaceful. The streets are empty. There is no rush. And you move from one house to another, dropping off burgers and pizzas while listening to music or podcasts. I have always liked it. In fact, there is something almost meditative about it. Just me, the dark streets and my thoughts, but that night felt different and not in a good way. It was late, maybe around 11 p.m., and I had already been driving for a couple of hours. I had one last order left before calling it at night. It was not a long trip, just another address in a remote area on the outskirts of town. You know how it is. Endless roads with no one around, houses spread far apart, and not a single streetlight inside. It was a pizza and a soda. Easy. I picked up the food at the restaurant, set it on the passenger seat, and entered the address into the GPS. It was about 15 minutes away. I thought I will drop this off, maybe get a decent tip, and head straight home. I pulled out. The streets grew quieter as I left the busier areas behind. It was one of those clear nights. A pitch black sky dotted with just a few stars. The only things I could hear with a hum of the engine and the whisper of the trees whenever the wind picked up. The farther I drove, the emptier the roads became. The houses thinned out until they practically disappeared. Normally that does not bother me. I like the solitude of the night. But something about that particular drive gave me a bad feeling. I had been on the road maybe five minutes when I noticed a car behind me. It was not tailgating me or anything. It kept some distance, but I could see its headlights fixed in my rear-view mirror and for some reason that unsettled me. I looked at the empty road ahead, then back at the car. It felt strange to run into another vehicle out here at that hour. I tried not to make too much of it. Plenty of people drive at night. Maybe we were heading in the same direction. It should not be a problem, right? I kept driving with the car behind me, always at the same distance. Not close enough to make it obvious that it was following me, but not far enough to seem random either. I figured it would pass me sooner or later, but it did not. It stayed there like a shadow, always a few car lengths back. I glanced at the GPS, 10 minutes left. I could handle 10 more minutes of this. Still as time passed, the tension started creeping up my spine. The car stayed behind me, matching my speed whether I sped up or slowed down. I kept trying to explain her to way in my head. Maybe they lived out here too. Maybe they were just heading home same as me. But something about it still did not add up. I turned onto a side road, one of those roads with a single lane in each direction, and barely enough shoulder to pull over. The road twisted and curved, dipping into shallow hollows and climbing back up again, with thick woods on both sides. It was the kind of road that makes you feel like you are the only person for miles, except I was not alone. The headlights were still there, steady and fixed. That sharp instinct hit me, the one that screams something is wrong even when you cannot explain why. I checked the GPS again, five minutes, just five more. I took another turn, this time onto a stretch with almost no lighting at all. The trees closing in on both sides like a tunnel. The car behind me took the same turn. At that point I could not fool myself anymore. There was no way we just happened to be taking the same route. I was not even sure that road led anywhere else. I sped up trying to pull away. And the car sped up too. That was the end of the rationalizing. I was being followed. My heart started pounding. What the hell did they want? Were they trying to rob me? Some lunatic messing with me. I had to do something. I could not just keep driving and hope they lost interest. And I was definitely not going to lead them to the customer's house. No way. I made a split second decision. Up ahead I saw a dirt road branching off from the main road. I had no idea where it went, but I did not care. I yanked the wheel and swerved hard onto it. The tires skittered on the gravel, kicking up dust as I shot down the narrow path. For a second as I took the turn, the pursuers headlights disappeared. I checked the mirror. Nothing. For the briefest moment I thought I had lost them. But just as quickly as they and finished the game. came back. The headlights bouncing over the rough ground as the car turned onto the same dirt road. I muttered a curse under my breath. This was not going to be easy. The road twisted tighter and tighter carrying me deeper into the woods. I had no idea where I was going but slowing down was not an option. The other car was getting closer. The headlights grew larger in my rear view mirror. They were gaining on me. I tried to stay calm and focus on the road ahead but fear was clawing at me from the inside and clouding my judgment. I could hear the tires grinding over the gravel, branches scraping along the sides of my car as I flew down the trail. Up ahead the road split. Two paths and I had no idea where either one led. There was no time to think. I took the left one and praying it would lead somewhere anywhere that could get me out of this mess. The car behind me took the right one. For a second I did not understand what had just happened. Why did they not follow me? Why did they go the other way? Then it hit me. They did not need to stay behind me. They knew those roads better than I did. They were cutting me off. The moment I realized what was happening, my heart was hammering in my chest. They were going to circle around and block me. I slammed my foot down on the gas, pushing the car as hard as I could while tearing down the winding trail. The trees blurring past me. I had to get out of there. I had to make it back to the main road before they could block me. But the terrain kept getting worse. Ruts and rocks made it harder and harder to stay in control. I could feel the car taking a beating, the wheels slipping on the loose dirt. In the distance I saw the trees starting to thin and the roads straightened out. I was almost there, almost back to somewhere safe. And then just as I thought I had made it, I saw it. The car was there, stretched across the road, blocking the path completely. Its headlights were off, but its dark shapes stood out clearly in the gloom, waiting for me. They had gotten there first. I slammed on the brakes. The tires screamed and the car slid to a stop just a few yards from the other vehicle. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel and my mind was racing, searching for some way out. I could not turn around. The road was too narrow when they would catch me before I got far. I stared at the vehicle blocking the road, but I could not make out anyone inside. The windows were tinted and the headlights were still off. It just sat there motionless, waiting. Then the driver's door opened. I threw the car into reverse and hit the gas, backing up as fast as I dared without losing control. The car in front did not move, but the tension in the air felt like a wire about to snap. At that point I did not care where I was going. The only thing that mattered was getting away. The dirt road was a nightmare. The car jolted over every bump, but I kept going. Too afraid to look back. I could hear the other vehicle's engine roaring behind me, but I did not let up. Finally, after what felt like forever, I saw the main road. The trees opened up and the dirt gave way to pavement. I shot onto the road without thinking twice. The tires squealing as I swerved back onto the highway. I did not stop until I was miles away, with the darkness of the woods far behind me. I never found out who was in that car or why they were following me. Maybe they just wanted to mess with me, to scare me. Or maybe it was something worse. All I know is that I did not want to find out. I kept driving until I got back into town, where the city lights made me feel a little safer. Even now, every time I take those empty, unlit roads in the middle of the night, I cannot help checking my rear view mirror, expecting to see those damned headlights appear again. Because out there, in the darkness, you never know who is following you or why. Story 6. I have been doing food delivery for a while, and for the most part, nothing unusual ever happens. It is the kind of job where you get into a rhythm in the hours pass without much going on. But there was one time, and man that delivery still messes with my head. That really stayed with me. The night was slow, and I was already thinking about ending my shift when a new order came in. The address was out in the middle of the countryside. One of those places that does not even feel like part of town because it is so far from everything. Normally, I would have declined something like that at the end of a shift. But the pay was good, and I thought it would be quick. That was my first mistake. I picked up the order from a fast food place I had been to more times than I can count. Same routine as always. Grab the bag and pull up the GPS. The address did not ring a bell, but I assumed it was just another forgotten spot tucked away in some random corner. The first part of the drive was standard. Main roads, street lights, a few cars here and there. But the farther I went, the more I felt the shift. It was like I had left the city behind completely. Before long I was driving down a narrow road that felt like a tunnel, with trees on both sides swallowing up the path. My headlights were the only thing cutting through the darkness, lighting up nothing but woods as far as I could see. No houses, no traffic. I tried to shake off that growing feeling that I was heading deep into nowhere. The GPS said I was close, so I figured it could not be that bad. After about 15 minutes of endless twists and turns, I finally reached the house. It stood alone at the end of a long gravel driveway surrounded by trees. The house itself was small, two stories but narrow, with peeling paint and a single yellow porch light that barely lit the steps. There were no cars in the driveway, no lights visible inside, and the whole place had that abandoned look, like no one had lived there in a long time. I parked, left the engine running and grabbed the food. As I walked up to the door, everything was silent except for the crunch of gravel under my shoes. There was not even a breeze to break the stillness. I stepped onto the porch and knocked, nothing. I knocked again, a little louder, still nothing. I checked the address on my phone and knocked at third time, waiting for any sign of life. That was when I noticed something strange. The door was not fully shot. It was slightly a jar like someone had left it that way on purpose. It was not open wide enough to see inside, just enough to make my nerve spike. I stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. Leave the food on the porch and get out of there. I did not want to stay any longer than necessary, but there was something about that half open door that stopped me. It felt wrong, like I was being watched even though I had not seen or heard anyone. I called out again, just to make sure, your food is here. My voice sounded way too loud in that silence. No movement, no footsteps inside, just silence. I crouched down, set the bag on the door mat and turned to leave. But something made me look back at the house one last time. That was when I saw it. The door had opened a little wider, just enough for me to see inside. I could not make out much, just a dim hallway with an old faded wall paper. But what caught my attention was a coat hanging from a hook on the wall. It looked too clean, too neatly placed for a house that run down. My instincts kicked in, telling me to step back, to leave. And as I did, I could have sworn something moved in the shadows of the hallway, just outside my direct line of sight. I froze, staring at the spot where I was sure I had seen something. It was probably just my imagination. I tried to shake the thought. That house was getting inside my head, but the feeling that something was off would not go away. I walked back to my car quickly, but as I opened the door I heard a faint creak behind me. I turned around and the front door was now fully open, standing wide. The food was still sitting untouched on the door mat. But the house, it was like it was inviting me inside. The hallway barely lit by the yellow porch light looked even more unsettling with the entrance wide open. I was not about to cross that threshold. That much was out of the question. I have seen too many horror movies not to know how those decisions end, but at the same time I could not just leave without understanding what was going on. I needed to know. Was someone actually in there? Was someone messing with me? I took a few steps back toward the porch, purring. into the hallway for any sign of life. The coat was still hanging on the wall, like it belonged to a completely different house. Then I heard it, a low creek from deeper inside, like someone stepping across old floorboards. I backed away slowly, trying not to make any noise. I was not about to stick around to find out what was in that house. Whatever it was, I wanted no part of it. I turned and headed straight from my car, no longer carrying how loud my footsteps were. As I reached for the handle I heard something else. Footsteps that were not mine. They were coming from the porch, steady, like someone was stepping out onto the stairs. There was no way I was going to look back. I jumped into the seat, slammed the door shut and locked it. I threw the car into reverse and sped down the gravel driveway as fast as I could. When I reached the main road, I checked the rear view mirror. The house was barely visible through the trees, but what I could make out sent ice through my veins. The door was still open, and now someone was standing in the doorway, motionless, watching me leave. I drove as fast as I dared without looking back again. The narrow roads felt longer on the way out, like they were stretching just to keep me there. The darkness was so thick my headlights barely made a difference, and every shadow at the edge of the road seemed to close in around me. It felt like forever, but eventually I made it back to the highway. The moment I pulled onto it, a wave of relief hit me, like whatever had been in that house was finally far behind me. It was not until I pulled into a gas station to catch my breath that I realized my phone had been vibrating the whole time. I pulled it out and saw a notification from the delivery app. Order cancelled. I just stared at the screen, confused. Canceled after I had already gone all the way out there, I checked the ordered details, but there was nothing there. No address, no customer name, no record of the delivery at all. It was like the whole thing had vanished. I thought about going back, about trying to figure out what had actually happened, but the more I remembered the house, the open door, the footsteps, and the figure in the doorway. The more certain I became that I could not do it. I drove home that night with my mind racing, trying to make sense of it. But no matter how much I thought about it, nothing added up. Who had ordered the food? Why was the door like that? And who or what? Was the one standing there watching me? I never found out. I never went back, and to this day I still feel like whatever was in that house was just waiting for me to step inside. Whatever it was, I am grateful I never did. Every seven. Delivering food has always been pretty simple for me. Pick up the order, drop it off, give a quick smile, maybe get a tip, and move on to the next stop. It is usually the same thing over and over again, without much complication. But there is one delivery that still does not make sense to me. It is not that the person was especially rude or aggressive or anything like that. If anything, it was how little happened that threw me off. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. Maybe you will understand what I mean. It was around 9pm when the order came in. It looked like a simple delivery. A burger combo with fries from a local diner to an apartment complex on the other side of town. Nothing special, just the usual order from someone too tired to cook. I went to the diner, picked up the order, and headed out. It was one of those cold autumn nights when the air feels heavy, and the streets are still damp from a light drizzle that had stopped about an hour earlier. The city was winding down, lights were turning on in windows, but traffic was still active enough that the place did not feel creepy. I typed the address into the GPS and drove to the complex. It was in the farthest part of the city, an older area, but nothing that would make you think twice about going there. I had delivered there before, a row of three story brick buildings, all identical, with small balconies and windows that practically looked straight into the living rooms across from them. You get the picture. The complex did not really have a parking lot, just a long alley behind the buildings where people left their cars. It was not the safest place in the world, but it worked for a quick delivery. As I pulled into the alley I noticed it was darker than usual. Only one of the building lights was working, casting a weak orange glow that barely lit the ground beneath it. Everything else was swallowed in shadow. I parked as close to the entrance as I could and checked the order instructions. Unit 304, contactless. Leave it door. I did not think much of it, contactless deliveries had become the norm in recent years. People preferred to avoid interaction, which honestly usually made the job easier for me. I grabbed the bag, got out of the car and walked up to the building door. It was old, with one of those intercom systems where you have to scroll through a list of names until you find the apartment number. I found 304 and pressed the button. Nothing. I waded a moment and pressed it again. Still nothing. It was not unusual for the intercom in these old buildings to be half broken, so I figured I would just leave the food in the entryway and be done with it. The door itself was slightly ajar, probably because some tenant had not shuttered all the way after taking out the trash or something. I pushed it open and stepped inside. The building interior was dim, a single bare bulb hung from a wire, casting long shadows across the cracked paint on the walls. The air smelled faintly of mildew and something else, something stale, the kind of smell that clings to old furniture and lingers in places that barely get any fresh air. I walked up the stairs, which groaned under every step. I am used to old buildings making noise, but the way those boards complained under my weight made me hurry. I finally reached the third floor and as soon as I stepped into the hallway the silence hit me. Normally in places like that, you hear blaring TVs, conversations, music leaking through the walls. Not there. Just the dull buzz of a fluorescent light over my head. Unit 304 was at the very end. The door stood out because it was slightly open. Not enough to see inside, but enough to leave a crack, like someone had not shut it properly on the way out. I hesitated. That is not normal, right? Most people locked their doors, especially in a place like that. Still, I told myself maybe someone had just stepped out for a second. I was not planning to stay any longer than necessary. I walked over, set the food on the door mat, pulled up my phone to take the photo as proof, and turned to leave. Then I heard a faint creek, like someone shifting their weight just on the other side. I froze waiting for the door to swing open and for the customer to peek out with them. Oh, hey, thanks for the food. But it never happened. The door stayed cracked open, perfectly still. I took a step back looking down the empty hallway and suddenly feeling exposed. There was no one there, no footsteps, no voices, no sounds from the other apartments. Just silence. I cleared my throat, more out of nerves than anything else. "Ah, your food is here," I said. And my voice echoed down the hallway. Nothing. I was not going to wait around for a thank you. I turned and headed back toward the stairs, walking faster. When I reached the first step I heard it again, that creek. I looked back, my heart pounding in my chest. The door to 304 was now completely open. Gently swaying as if someone had just stepped out. But the hallway was still empty. No one there. Creepy as hell, I muttered, and hurried down the stairs two at a time until I reached the first floor. I burst out into the alley. The cold night air hitting me in the face like a bucket of water. I did not waste any time. I got into the car, slammed the door, locked it, and started the engine. The headlights lit up the alley in front of me. The building entrance had opened, too, just like the door to 304. But there was no one there, either. No figure, no movement. Just the door slowly swinging open with a groan. I pulled out of the alley and turned onto the avenue. The tires squealed as I took the corner. I did not. the order as delivered until I was several blocks away. My hands were still shaking as I tapped the screen. I parked and took a deep breath trying to calm down. You were just tired, I told myself. It has been a long night. I opened the app to mark the delivery as completed and something weird happened. The customer details did not load right away. The screen froze for a second as if the phone was trying to think and then it kicked me back to the main screen without confirming anything. I just stared at it, confused. I had literally just dropped off the food so why would it not let me close out the order? I swiped back to review the list of deliveries and look for the one I had just completed, but it was not there. I checked again more slowly this time, sure I had just missed it. Nothing. The order was gone. It made no sense. I had picked up the food, driven to the complex, gone up to 304 and left it there. I was absolutely sure of it. So why was there no record of it now? I decided to check the photo I had taken of the bag on the door mat just to confirm. I opened my gallery and there was no photo. It was gone. I started doubting myself. Had I forgotten to take it? No. I remembered perfectly the creek of the door right after I set the food down. I had heard it. I had seen it. But there was no evidence left. No photo, no order details. Nothing. It was as if the whole delivery had never happened. I sat there for a minute trying to put the pieces together, contact support, and say what? I delivered food to an apartment and now it looks like the order vanished from the app. They would probably tell me to restart my phone or something. I decided to go back and check in person. Maybe the customer had already picked up the bag. Maybe I had missed some detail. I needed to see it with my own eyes. When I got back to the complex alley, everything was the same, just as dark, just as quiet. I parked and went back up to 304. The door mat where I had left the food was empty and the door was closed. There was no sign that anyone had been there at all. I stood in front of the door for a while, waiting for something, anything. Nothing happened. No creaking floorboards, no shadows moving. Just that heavy silence. I left after that. There was nothing else I could do and honestly, I did not want to stay. Whatever had happened in that apartment, it was not my business. Still, I cannot get it out of my head. The way both doors were slightly open, as if they had been waiting for me. The fact that the order and the photo disappeared without a trace. No matter how much I try to rationalize it, I am left with that sharp feeling that there was something inside that apartment. Sometimes I still check my gallery just in case the photo suddenly appears. It never does. Story 8 I have been delivering food for quite a while. You know how it is. Good money, easy hours, work whenever you want. Most of the time it is just in and out. You drop off the food, exchange a quick thanks or a nod and head to the next stop. It is not glamorous but it is easy. In fact, it is so routine that you start to drift into a false sense of security. After all, you are only dealing with people, so what is the worst that could happen? That is what I thought. It was a Tuesday night. I had been driving since the afternoon and had already completed about six deliveries. I was not even tired, so when a new order popped up, I decided to squeeze in one more. It was a pretty standard delivery. Ty food from a place I had been to a thousand times. The address was in a gated neighborhood about 20 minutes away. I did not think much of it. Those suburban residential areas are usually all the same. Quiet, clean, and nothing out of the ordinary. I got to the gate and entered the code the customer had left in the app. The gates opened with that slow almost theatrical creek straight out of a movie. I left to myself. I must be watching too many horror films if that is where my mind goes right away. Inside the houses were huge, you know. The kind with perfectly manicured lawns and driveways that look like they have never seen a crack in their lives. They all had those warm glowing porch lights, but even so the neighborhood was unsettlingly quiet. No dogs barking, no kids playing in the yards. Just house after house lined up perfectly, like something out of a picture book. I drove down the street until I found number 127. Big white, with those black shutters people put up to make the front look more elegant. A huge oak tree in the yard cast long shadows across the front entrance. It was the only house in the block without a car parked outside, which struck me as a little odd. But then again, not everyone leaves their car out front. I parked, grabbed the food, and walked up the path to the door. The porch light was on like at the other houses, but inside the house was completely dark, not even the flicker of a TV through the windows. I hesitated for a second, looking around and wondering why the house felt so dead. But I shrugged it off. It was not my business. Drop off the food and leave, I told myself. I rang the doorbell and stepped back, like you are supposed to. These days, people respect personal space, especially with the deliveries. After a few seconds, the door opened and a man appeared. Older, maybe in his early 50s. His hair looked like he had not washed it in days, and he was wearing a button up shirt that fit a little too tightly around his stomach. The first thing I noticed was his smile. Forced like his mouth was doing something his mind was not fully behind. "Hello," he said, "way too cheerful for that hour. Thanks for coming out this late." "No problem," I replied, holding out the bag. "Here is your order." That should have been the end of it. I expected him to take the bag, say thank you, maybe leave a tip and shut the door. But instead, he just stood there in the doorway, still holding the bag, still wearing that smile, too wide, too fixed, like some game show host. "Want to come in for a minute," he suddenly asked. "Come in." No customer had ever asked me that before, especially not someone I did not know. "Ah, no, I am good," I said quickly. "I have a couple more deliveries." The smile did not move but his eyes. They narrowed just a little. "Come on, step inside for a second. I have a tip for you, better than what I can put in the app." "Thanks, but I really have to go," I insisted, taking a step back. He let out a weird little laugh, like something amused him. Sure, sure, no problem. I did not stick around to find out what he found so funny. I nodded, turned around and walked back to my car. As I got in, I looked back at the house. He was still there, planted in the doorway, holding the bag, staring at me. Not like a normal guy, like something else. I backed out of the driveway and headed down the street, trying to shake off the weird feeling. I could not stop picturing that smile, fixed and unsettling. "People are strange," I told myself. I am overreacting. He was just overly friendly and maybe a little socially awkward. Nothing worth losing sleep over. But when I reached the gate, my phone buzzed. I looked at the screen. A new message from customer 1-2-7. "Hey, you forgot something." I frowned. That was impossible. I had checked the order before leaving, and I had not left anything behind. I thought about ignoring it and marking the delivery as completed. But something made me hesitate. Maybe he really thought something was missing. I decided to reply, clear things up, and be done with it. I pulled over just outside the gates and typed back quickly. "Everything should be there." I checked the bag before I gave it to you. A few seconds later, the reply came in. "No, you forgot something." Okay, now this was getting weird. What was he even talking about? I stared at the message, debating whether to block the number and move on with my life. I did not get much time to decide. Bam, another message popped up. You left too soon. You should come back. That was when the other. uneasiness turned into something else. This was not some normal customer asking for ketchup or napkins. Something was wrong. I looked around suddenly feeling exposed inside my car. I opened the app to mark the delivery as completed. I thought that would cut off any contact. But then another message came through. This time from a different number. Come back. I'm waiting for you. I did not stop to think. I blocked the number, put the car in gear and drove off fast. I did not care about missing another delivery. I just wanted to get away from that house and from him. But my phone kept buzzing. First one message than another. All from different numbers. All saying the same thing. Come back. You forgot something. How was he texting me from so many numbers? Why was he so insistent that I return? Was it just some sick prank? Or was there something worse behind it? I kept driving without stopping until I reached a main road with street lights and other cars around me. The messages stopped then, but the relief did not come. If anything I felt even more on edge. I pulled over and checked my phone. The last message had come in 10 minutes earlier. Don't make me come look for you. At that point I called it a night. I drove straight home without even checking whether more orders were coming in. I locked the door, turned off my phone and tried to calm down. But that little voice in my head would not shut up. I knew I had not left anything at that house. But what if he thought he was the one supposed to keep something? What if the moment I stepped inside the door had locked behind me? The next morning I checked my phone. Nothing new. No messages. No strange numbers. I reported the guy in the app and explained about the messages. They replied that they would flag his account and that was about it. I should have let it go but I could not. Every time I thought about it that same feeling came back, like I had barely avoided something dangerous. I still wonder what would have happened if I had gone back. Weeks passed without anything else happening. I thought that was it that he had found someone else to bother. But one night while I was on another delivery my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I didn't forget about you. That is what it said. One simple sentence but it was enough. Enough to remind me that some people do not just want you to bring them food. They want you and sometimes they will do whatever it takes to get you to come back. Story 9. I used to think Instagram was just harmless fun, a place to share photos of my workouts, post a few motivational quotes, and maybe inspire a couple of people to get in shape. It was never anything serious and for a long time it stayed that way until that follower showed up. My name is Rachel and I run a small fitness account on Instagram. I am not a big influencer or anything like that, but I have built a decent community. Mostly people who are passionate about exercise, nutrition, and everything related to a healthy lifestyle. It started as a hobby and over the years turned into a side job. I have even gotten a few personal training clients because of it. My account had always been a positive space for both me and my followers until it stopped being one. It all started like any other day. I had just finished filming a workout video at the gym. The usual, deadlifts, squats, some cardio. I edited the video and posted it with a caption about staying motivated even when life gets hard. The likes and comments started coming in as usual. Lots of great job and thanks for the motivation. But there was one comment that caught my attention. Good form. You always push yourself to the limit. I like that. At the time, it did not seem strange to me. Just another follower commenting on my post. I replied with a quick thanks and went on with my day. I had no idea that such a simple comment would be the beginning of something that would turn my life upside down. A few days later, I posted another workout video, same routine. While checking the list of people who had viewed my Instagram stories, I noticed that one particular account was watching all of them. Not once or twice, but every single one. The account had no profile picture, no posts, and no bio. At first, I did not think much of it. Instagram is full of random accounts. But as the days went by, I realized that account was not so random. Not only was it watching my stories, but it was always the first to view them. No matter what time I posted, morning afternoon or late at night, that account was there immediately. That was when I started to feel uncomfortable. I mentioned it to my friend Jess one night while we were at my apartment. She thought I was overreacting. People do weird things online all the time, Rachel. She told me. It is probably just some troll who like spying on fitness influencers. She had a point. I told myself it was nothing, that I was just being paranoid. But something stuck in my head. That sharp feeling in my stomach would not go away. A week later, I got my first direct message from that account. It was late around 11 pm. I had just posted a photo of my post workout shake when the notification popped up on my screen. You are really dedicated. That is what I like about you. You never give up to you. There was nothing explicitly disturbing about the message, but it made me uneasy. I hesitated before replying, wondering if I should just ignore it. Then I thought, what harm could a simple response do? So I sent back a short polite reply. Thanks I do what I can. Big mistake. After that the messages started coming more often. At first they were just comments about my workouts. You are getting stronger. I can tell. I bet you could deadlift even more if you pushed yourself a little harder. Your dedication is inspiring. But then the messages became more, more personal. I saw you wearing that black tank again today. It looks good on you. That one made me freeze. I had not posted any recent photo wearing a black tank top, but I had worn one to the gym that morning. I did not think anyone had noticed. I had not even taken a selfie that day. My mind started racing trying to understand how this person knew what I had been wearing. Was it just a lucky guess or had they actually been there watching me in person? I did not reply to that message. Over the next few days I became hyper aware. Every time I went to the gym I felt like someone was watching me. I started looking over my shoulder constantly, checking the mirrors, trying to see if anyone was paying too much attention to me. But I never saw anyone suspicious. Just the usual gym crowd focused on their own routines. I kept telling myself it was paranoia, but the uneasiness would not go away. Then one afternoon I was walking home from the gym when I got another message. You should take a different route home. That street is too deserted at night. I stopped in my tracks. I looked around scanning the dimly lit street for any sign that someone might be following me. It was deserted, but that did not make me feel any better. I picked up my pace, practically ran the rest of the way to my apartment. Once I got inside I locked the door and immediately blocked the account. I hope that would be the end of it. It was not. The next morning I woke up to a new message, this time from a different account. No picture, no bio, another random username. Blocking me will not stop me from seeing you. A wave of nausea hit me. How many accounts did this person have? How long had they been watching me? I wanted to call the police, but what was I supposed to tell them? That someone was sending me creepy Instagram messages? That is not exactly a crime. And yet the messages kept getting worse. More personal, more invasive. A few days later came the message that pushed me over the edge. Nice run this morning. You are getting faster. I like watching you push yourself on the trail by the park. That morning I had not posted anything about my run. I had not shared anything on my stories. And yet they knew exactly where I had been, what time I ran, and how long I had been out. They were following me. That night I could not sleep. I kept checking my phone, waiting for another notification to appear, but the worst part was the feeling of being watched, like there were eyes on me all the time, even in the supposed safety of my own home. Around midnight I was scrolling through Netflix trying to decide what to watch. The glow of the screen was the only light in the room. Then my phone vibrated with a new notification. I looked at the screen, it was a direct message. I know what you are watching. My breath caught in my throat. There was no way anyone could know that. I had not posted about it. I had not even mentioned it to Jess when we spoke earlier. I tried to shake off the chill running down my spine, convincing myself it was a coincidence. Another message came in right away, and it was worse. The documentary you are playing, the one about serial killers, not one of my favorites. A cold wave ran through my body. My TV screen was showing exactly that. A true crime documentary I had picked at random because I was bored. I grabbed the remote and paused it immediately. I felt exposed, vulnerable. Someone was watching me even inside my own home. I called Jess my hands shaking as I held the phone. She answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded sleepy. Rachel what is wrong? She asked immediately hearing the fear in mind. I just got these messages. They know what I am watching on TV, I whispered. I have not posted anything. I have not told anyone. Jess's voice tightened. Rachel listen to me, turn off the wifi and unplug everything. I am coming over right now. Do not stay connected. I ran to disconnect everything, my mind spinning, and yanked the router cable out of the wall. I sat there in the sudden silence, and every little noise in the apartment seemed louder. It was as if I could feel eyes on me, even though I knew I was alone. A few minutes later, Jess texted me. I am here, let me in. I unlocked the door with hands that were still trembling, and she came in. Her eyes scanning the room as if she expected to find someone hiding in the shadows. But there was no one there, just the two of us, alone in the apartment. You have to report this, she said seriously. This is not just someone messing with you for fun anymore. I nodded barely able to think clearly. She was right. This had gone far beyond a few harmless messages on social media. Now it was personal. That same night the police took my statement, but they did not seem to understand how serious it was. Without clear proof of a break in or direct threats their advice was, block the accounts, stay offline, and be careful. Strading and terrifying at the same time. I had no idea who was behind it or how much they knew about me. A few weeks later I moved to another apartment. Jess helped me find a place with better security, something safer. I got rid of my social media, wiped my devices, and tried to move on. Even now I still get messages sometimes, always from unknown numbers random things. I never respond. But I know they are still there, watching somewhere. Story 10. I never really thought much about how social media could turn your life upside down. To me, Instagram was simply another showcase for my art. Photos of my paintings, sketches, and every now and then. A little glimpse into my daily routine. Everything important, just something I did for fun. Everything changed with the first message. It was an ordinary afternoon at home. I was on the couch, Netflix playing in the background, my cat curled up beside me. And I was mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. A notification popped up. Someone had sent me a message. I assumed it was just another follower asking about a piece I had posted recently. So I opened it without thinking. I love your work. You have such a distinct style. The way you see the world is special. It sounded innocent enough. The center's name was Mike. His profile picture was a blurry landscape, and his account was private. I did not recognize the name, but I assumed he was just another art enthusiast who had come across my page. I replied with a polite thank you and almost immediately forgot about it. But the messages kept coming. At first Mike wrote kindly. He asked about my inspiration, my process, the kind of things I enjoyed discussing with other artists. Little by little the tone started to change. His questions became more personal. He started asking where I lived, whether I worked from home and whether I liked painting at night. Do you not feel lonely when you work late? Do you live alone? It must be peaceful without distractions. I would love to see your studio someday. I bet it is incredible. That was when the uneasiness started creeping in. His words felt too invasive. I started replying less with short and vague answers when I replied at all. I kept telling myself that maybe I was overreacting that sometimes people are just curious right. Even so something did not feel right. It did not seem like he was just asking questions. It felt like he was trying to piece my life together from scattered fragments. One night when I was getting ready for bed, my phone vibrated again. I really hope that someday we can meet in person. I stared at the message with my stomach and knots. We had never talked about meeting and I had given him no reason to think I wanted to. My first instinct was to block him but something held me back. What if I was being paranoid? What if it was just an awkward attempt at conversation? I ignored the message and went to bed. A few days later I posted a new painting on Instagram. It was a piece I had been working on for weeks. A dark abstract painting about isolation. I remember feeling proud, excited to see how my followers would react. The comments started coming in, most of them positive, and then Mike's appeared. This one feels personal. You can tell you are pouring your soul into it. Do you ever feel like someone is watching you while you work? That comment gave me a bad feeling. I had not mentioned anything in the caption about feeling watched. I let it go, telling myself it was a coincidence and that I was reading too much into it. But things only got worse. Mike started messaging me every day. If I did not respond, he would comment on my post asking why I was ignoring him. His messages became more desperate, more unstable. I thought we had a connection. Why are you not talking to me? I know you are reading this, do not pretend you are not. You cannot ignore me forever. I finally decided enough was enough. I blocked him, hoping that would be the end of it. A week went by without any incidents and I started to feel relieved. Maybe blocking him at work. I went on with my life, trying to forget the uncomfortable messages and refocus on my heart. Then one night while scrolling through Instagram before bed, I got another message from a new account. No picture, no posts, just a username made up of random letters and numbers. Did you really think you could block me? You will not get rid of me that easily. My heart sank. It was Mike again. This time I did not reply. I blocked the account immediately and tried to push down the fear. But as the days passed, the messages continued. Every time I blocked one profile, another one appeared. His words became more aggressive, more threatening. I am not going away. I will always be here. I have seen you. I know where you live. You think you are safe, but you are not. That last message left me frozen. I stared at my phone trying to process what I had just read. Had he really seen me, did he actually know where I lived? My mind filled with flashes of everyday moments, stepping out to run errands, walking my dog. Had he been there watching me without my knowing? Suddenly, the small safe world I had built felt fragile. I double checked that the doors were locked and pulled the blind shot. But it did not calm me down. The feeling that Mike was out there would not leave me. I tried to convince myself he was bluffing in that there was no way he had seen me in real life. Still, the messages kept escalating. [BLANK_AUDIO] began describing details I had never shared online. My favorite coffee shop. The route I took to walk my dog, the park I liked to visit on weekends. Then one afternoon, I received a message that shattered whatever illusion of safety I still had left. It was a photo. The image was blurry, taken from a distance, but there was no doubt. It was me. I was standing in front of my building entrance, looking down at my phone completely unaware that someone was watching me. The timestamp was from the day before. I felt like the ground had opened beneath me. My hands were shaking as I stared at the screen, trying to understand what it meant. Mike was no longer just some stalker on the internet. He was here in my world, watching me in real life. I called the police immediately. My voice breaking as I explained the situation. They took my reports seriously, but I could hear the uncertainty in their tone. Without knowing who Mike really was or where he lived, there was little they could do. They told me to stay alert and call again if anything else happened. What good was that? I had no idea who this person was or what he might be capable of. All I knew was that he had crossed a line there was no coming back from. After that night, I became a prisoner in my own home. I stopped going to the park, stopped visiting my usual coffee shop, and even stopped taking my dog out for walks. Every time I left the apartment, I felt a thousand eyes on me. As if Mike were hiding in the shadows waiting for me to let my guard down. I thought about moving, about disappearing completely, but where would I go? How was I supposed to escape someone who had already found me once and seemed determined to follow my every move? My friends tried to calm me down, but I could tell they did not fully understand. They told me to block him again, change my number, take a break from social media. None of that mattered. Mike had crossed the boundary between the digital world and my real life, and there was no escaping anymore. Weeks went by and the messages continued, so less often. Against my better judgment, I started to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, Mike had lost interest, that perhaps he had shifted his obsession to someone else. Until one night already in bed, I heard knocking at my door. At first, the knocks were soft, almost hesitant. I sat up, tense, then came another knock, this time louder. My apartment was dark. The only light came from the street lamp outside. I grabbed my phone and checked the time, 317 AM. No one should have been knocking on my door at that hour. With trembling hands, I moved closer and looked through the people. The hallway was empty. My breath caught as I stood there, waiting for something to happen, anything at all. I stepped back, my thoughts racing wildly. Was it Mike? Had he finally decided to show up in person? I thought about calling the police, but what would I even say? That someone was knocking at my door and I could not see anyone. Then my phone vibrated. A message from yet another new account. I am closer than you think. I did not sleep at all that night. The next morning, the police came, but they found no signs of forced entry, or any evidence that someone had been outside my door. They took the case seriously, but without a clear suspect there was little they could do. I moved a few weeks later to another city, under a new name. I deleted all my social media accounts, trying to erase every trace of my online presence. Even so, I still live with the feeling that he is out there, waiting for the right moment to come back. Every time I phone vibrates, every time I hear nox at the door in the middle of the night, the same question hits me. Has he found me again? I will never know for sure. But one thing I do know, the fear never completely goes away. Story 11. It started the way so many things begin these days with a random follow on Instagram. His profile caught my attention right away. His name was Jake, and his page was filled with beautiful, almost unreal landscapes, endless fields at sunset, mountains covered in mist, abandoned places that nature had reclaimed. His bio was simple, chasing beauty wherever I find it. I was hooked. Photography had always been a hobby for me, but I never had that eye some people seemed to have. Jake, on the other hand, seemed gifted. His photos were hauntingly beautiful, and his captions were short and mysterious, as if he revealed just enough to pull you in, but never too much. After following him for a few days, I decided to leave a comment on one of his photos, an abandoned house, half covered in vines taken at dusk. It had something both eerie and peaceful about it. This is incredible. Where did you take this photo, I asked? To my surprise, he replied within minutes. I found it while exploring a few miles outside the city. I am always on the lookout for places like that. That simple interaction turned into a conversation through direct messages. We talked about photography, our favorite places to shoot, and the thrill of finding hidden gems in the middle of nowhere. He was easy to talk to, laid back, but with a passion for adventure that maybe feel like I had known him forever. Before long, we were talking almost every day. It did not take long for him to suggest that we meet in person. He was planning to return to an old mill outside the city, a place he had been watching for a while, and had already explored before. I hesitated, meeting someone from the internet. I am not naive, I know the risks, but Jake made me feel safe. He was not pushy or weird, and we had so many shared interests. I rationalized it to myself. It is just a photo session. I will be in control, and it will be a chance to improve my skills. Besides, I could always back out if something felt off. I know a great spot, a little outside the city. He wrote to me one day. It is an old textile mill abandoned for years. I think it would be perfect for moody shots. I have already explored it. It is completely isolated, no one goes there. What do you say? The location-sounded ideal for photography, and the idea of exploring an abandoned place had its own strange kind of thrill. So despite the warning flutter in my stomach I agreed. I told myself it was just nerves. I had been feeling stuck for a long time, and this seemed like the perfect way to break the routine. On the day we were supposed to meet, I packed my bag with my camera, made sure my phone was fully charged, and left. Jake had sent me the coordinates, and it was not that far from where I lived. Only about an hour by car. I told a friend where I was going, and even shared my location with her just in case. Safety first, right? The drive was calm, but the farther I went, the more isolated the surroundings became. The busy city streets gave way to narrow country roads, and soon I was driving past nothing but fields and patches of forest. There were no cars, no people. Just me and the winding road ahead. I checked my phone, no service. The towers probably did not reach that far I told myself. It was fine, I would get a signal again once I got closer to the meeting point. Even so the uneasiness in my stomach kept growing. I finally arrived at the place Jake had described. It was eerie to say the least. The mill, a crumbling remnant of the past, stood at the edge of a small forest. Most of the windows were broken, and the walls were covered in graffiti and ivy. It looked completely abandoned by the world. I parked and waited for Jake. He still had not arrived, which gave me time to take in the surroundings. The silence was oppressive. No birds, no wind. Just the soft ticking of my engine as it cooled. I felt exposed standing there alone, but I told myself I was overreacting. Jake would be there any minute. Ten minutes passed, then 15. I was starting to get nervous when I finally saw a car approaching in the distance. An old beat-up sedan, the kind that had clearly seen better days, but still ran. Jake got out, waving as he walked toward me. Sorry I am late. He called out as he jogged closer. He looked like his photos, a little messy, tall, with a friendly smile. But something did not add up. In person, his energy felt different from the image I had formed in my head. He was too relaxed, almost arrogant, as if he knew something I did not. We made small talk for a few minutes. He asked about the drive, my camera, the kind of shots I wanted to get. Still something about his tone bothered me. It was too familiar, too confident. Like he was sizing me up in a way I could not quite define. Take lead the way inside the mill, and it was even creepier than I had imagined. The floor creaked under our feet, and the air was thick with mold and rust. Broken machinery was scattered everywhere, and beams of light came through the shattered windows. We started taking pictures and for a while everything seemed normal. But the deeper we went into the building, the stronger the sense of isolation became. There were no houses nearby, no sign of life. Just Jake and me, alone in that decaying shell. That was when the first major red flag appeared. We were setting up a shot when I noticed something strange. Jake was not taking any photos. He had his camera out, yes, but he was not using it. Instead he kept staring at me, tracking my every movement. The way he was looking at me made my skin crawl. Everything okay? I asked forcing a laugh to lighten the mood. "Yeah, just thinking about the next shot," he replied. But his tone sounded empty, hollow. Something shifted in the air. My instincts were screaming that something was wrong and that I needed to get out of there. I tried to stay calm to keep talking as if nothing were happening, but inside my mind was racing. I became fully aware of how vulnerable I was. No phone service, no way to call for help if something went wrong. And Jake, he was no longer the easy-going guy from our chats. He was a stranger and potentially a dangerous one. Maybe we should wrap up, I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I do not want to lose daylight for the drive-back. Jake smiled but the smile did not reach his eyes. What is the rush? We have all the time in the world. That was when I knew I had to leave. Now, I made up an excuse about checking on my car and started walking toward the exit. I had to fight the urge to run. Jake followed close behind me. When I reached the doorway I looked back. Jake was standing there and watching me with that disturbing smile. You are not leaving yet. He sat in a low-cold voice. Panic shot through me. I ran. I did not care how obvious it looked. I just needed to get to my car. I heard him yell behind me. My car was inside. I fumbled from my keys with clumsy hands, praying I could get inside before he reached me. I could feel him getting closer. I threw myself into the driver's seat and locked the doors just as Jake reached the window. He slammed his hands against the glass. His face twisted with anger. You are making a mistake, he hissed. I did not care. I put the car in gear and sped away. I drove without stopping until I was miles away, back in an area with cell service. I called my friend, my hands shaking as I tried to explain what had just happened. She told me to go straight to the police and that is exactly what I did. They took my statement but there was not much they could do. Jake had used a fake name and by the time they tried to track him down his profile was already gone. To this day I do not know who he really was or what he was planning but I do know one thing. I was lucky to get out of there. I cannot shake the thought that he is still out there waiting for his next victim. Now every time I open Instagram I wonder who is really on the other side of the screen. Story 12. It is hard to admit but I have always been one of those people who gets emotionally attached to easily, especially online. Social media makes connecting absurdly easy and sometimes those connections feel more real than anything happening outside the screen. That is how it all started with this girl. I will call her Lily to protect her privacy. Her profile showed up on my Instagram one night while I was mindlessly scrolling through reels. She was not following me but we had a couple of mutual followers. So out of curiosity I clicked on her page. Her photos were gorgeous, pure Instagram influencer energy. She had that effortless kind of style, the kind of person who looks just as natural wearing hiking boots on her trail as she does at an elegant brunch in the city. But what really pulled me in was her smile. Genuine, unfiltered, the kind of smile that makes you feel like she could be sitting right next to you, sharing a joke that only the two of you would understand. I thought about following her right away but something stopped me. I did not want to seem like just another random guy sliding into her messages. So I waited. I just looked at her posts, admiring her quietly from a distance. Then out of nowhere one day she started following me. It felt surreal. It was not that I was a nobody but I was definitely not popular. My Instagram was mostly photos of my dog, the occasional landscape, and a few pictures with friends. I did not understand why someone like Lily would follow me but I was not about to question it. The day she did, I felt this strange excitement. Like maybe there was something special about me that she had noticed. A few days after she followed me I got a message, "Hey Alex, I love your dog. What is his name?" I remember feeling like I had just won the lottery. I replied right away telling her his name was Rocky and that he was the best hiking buddy I could ask for. She responded immediately, asking about our favorite trails. How often we went out. And before I knew it we were chatting every day. Lily was not just easy to talk to. She was perfect. We had so much in common. It felt like I was talking to someone who had been in my life for years. We bonded over our love of nature, our fascination with classic movies, and even the shared guilty pleasure of enjoying cheesy reality shows. There was something about her that just fit. I started looking forward to her messages. They made the monotony of my day's bearable, like they were the only bright spot in another wise grey routine. The more we talked, the more I started imagining what it would be like to meet her in person. I had not even seen her outside of her Instagram stories, but I felt like I already knew her. It took me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to ask if she wanted to meet. We were talking about our favorite coffee shops, and I casually suggested that we could grab coffee some time. The second I sent the message, I regretted it for a moment. But if she thought I was moving too fast. To my relief she replied with a heart emoji, and then I would love to. I was floating for days. I could not think about anything else. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop downtown, and I even bought a new shirt for the occasion. But as the date got closer, Lily texted me apologizing. I am so sorry, something came up at work. Can we reschedule? I was disappointed, though I tried not to overthink it. We rescheduled for the following weekend, and again she canceled at the last minute, this time because of a family emergency. She always apologized right away, promising that she really did want to meet me, but that it just was not the right time. By the third cancellation that nagging voice in the back of my mind started getting louder. Something was off. Still I ignored it, convincing myself that I was overreacting. People get busy. Things happen. Even so, part of me wondered why she never posted anything to her stories during those supposed emergencies. I checked her account after she canceled, and there was no mention of work, family, or anything unusual. Just her usual photos, hiking, brunch, living life as if nothing had happened. I do not know why I did it. Maybe out of curiosity. Maybe because of that uneasy feeling that had been growing in my stomach for days. But one night while lying in bed, I took a screenshot of one of her photos and ran a reverse image search. What I found made my blood run cold. The image was not hers. It was a stock photo, a professional model smiling in a field of wild flowers. That same photo appeared on several websites that had nothing to do with Lilly. As I looked through the results, with that nauseous spreading through my body. I did not want to believe it. I did not want to accept that the girl I had been talking to for weeks, the one I thought I had connected with, did not exist. I tried to convince myself it was a mistake that maybe she had used it as some kind of temporary placeholder, but deep down I knew the truth. Lily was not who she said she was. I did not confront her right away. I spent the next few days obsessively going through her profile, looking for more inconsistencies. I ran reverse image searches on her other photos and sure enough, every single one led back to stock image sites or stolen photos from other accounts. Everything I thought I knew about her was a lie. When I finally confronted her I did not hold back. "Who are you?" I typed angrily. I know those photos are not yours. Why did you lie to me? The message sat on red for hours and I thought maybe she had blocked me. I kept staring at the screen waiting for a response any sign at all. Just when I was about to give up a new message came through. I did not lie to you, Alex, not about what matters. I froze my hands shaking. What did that even mean? She wrote again before I could respond. I am sorry about the photos but everything else is real. What we have is real. Please do not shut me out now. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to hold on to the idea that despite everything there had been something genuine between us. But how could I trust anything she said? My thoughts were racing, replaying every time she canceled. Every excuse she gave. If she lied about who she was, what else was she hiding? I did not respond. Instead I blocked her. Over the next few days I tried to forget about her and move on with my life. But something told me she was not really gone. It was like she had gotten into my head and no matter how hard I tried, I could not shake her. A week later I got a message from an unknown number. You should not have blocked me. My heart dropped. I stared at the text, my mind spinning. How had she gotten my number? I had never given it to her. And as far as I knew she had no way to contact me outside of Instagram. Who is this? I replied, even though I already knew the answer. She replied instantly. You know who I am. How did this happen? How did I let someone like this into my life? I had no idea who she was, where she lived or what she was capable of. The messages would not stop. Day after day she texted me, switching between apologies and anger. One minute she was begging for another chance. The next she was threatening to show up at my apartment. It was Saturday night. I had gone out with friends trying to distract myself from the nightmare my life had become. I had not told anyone about Lily or whoever she really was, because I did not want them to see me as an idiot for falling for her lies. When I got home my phone vibrated again. Look outside, a chill ran through me. I walked slowly to the window and pulled back the curtain. I live on the second floor and from there I can see the street. Under the street lamp there was a figure. I could not make out any details. But it was staring directly at my window perfectly still. My hand started shaking. I let the curtain fall and stumbled backward. My heart pounding. Another message came in. Let me in Alex, I just want to talk. I did not respond, I could not. I grabbed my phone and called the police. I explained the situation. They arrived within minutes, but by the time they got there the figure was gone. They searched the area and found nothing. I changed my number and deleted all my social media accounts. The messages stopped after that. And yet I still feel sometimes like someone is watching me. To this day I do not know who was behind Lily's profile or what they wanted from me. Maybe it was a cruel joke or maybe it was something darker. All I know is that I will never look at social media the same way again. Story 13. Selling things online always comes with a small risk. You never really know who is on the other side of the transaction or what their true intentions are. Even so I had used Craigslist many times before and had never had any serious problems. So when I decided to sell my old bicycle, Craigslist seemed like the obvious choice. I had outgrown it in more ways than one. It was still in good condition, but it was no longer practical for the kind of cycling I did now. I uploaded a few photos, wrote a description, and set a reasonable price. In less than a day someone named Jeffrey messaged me saying he was interested and wanted to come take a look. Simple right? I did not think twice before inviting him over. I had done this before. People came by, checked out the item, and either bought it or did not. Easy. But this time, yes this time was different. Jeffrey seemed eager, sending me messages throughout the day with questions about the bike, how it felt to ride, whether it had any problems, and what time would work best for him to stop by. I answered everything, and we agreed that he would come around 7 pm. It was autumn so by then the sun was already going down, but it was not that late. I did not mind the timing. In fact I thought an evening sale would be more convenient, fewer people, less noise, less hassle. My neighborhood was safe, or at least it had always seemed that way to me. I felt calm. I got the bicycle ready, cleaned it up a little and brought it out to the front yard. It was one of those cool evenings with a light breeze and that crisp autumn smell in the air. I checked my phone. Jeffrey was on his way. A little after 7 pm, a car pulled up in front of my house. It was not just Jeffrey, three men got out. The moment I saw them, I felt a stab of unease. Jeffrey had never mentioned that he would be bringing anyone with him, and none of them looked like they were interested in a bicycle. They were big, broad-shouldered, dressed casually. I tried not to judge too quickly. The Jeffrey had just brought some friends along for company, but deep down I knew something was off. One of them waved at me as they approached smiling. He introduced himself as Jeffrey but his voice did not match the relaxed tone of the messages. The smile seemed forced. The other two hung back a little, saying nothing. Is this it? Jeffrey asked looking the bike over. I nodded trying to keep the mood light. Yeah, that is the one. I tuned it up yesterday. Want to take it for a ride? One of the guys stepped forward and looked at the bicycle like he could not care less. He seemed more interested in the house, glancing at the front door and then back at me. Then the second one spoke. Mind if I use your bathroom for a minute? It caught me off guard. I was not expecting someone to ask to come inside, although it was not the first time during a sale that someone had needed to use the bathroom. It did not seem that unusual. "Sure," I said pointing to the door, straight down the hall. I kept my eyes on the two who stayed outside while the third went in. They acted like they were relaxed, but it felt forced, like they were waiting for something. Jeffrey kept talking about the bike, asking whether it had ever been in any accidents. But it was obvious he did not care about my answers. His eyes kept darting from me to the house, as if he were waiting for a signal. That was when it hit me. The guy who had gone inside had been gone too long. I excused myself until Jeffrey I needed to check on something inside. As soon as I stepped in, I noticed a strange silence. There were no footsteps, no running water, no toilet flushing, nothing. I walked down the hall, passed the bathroom, and saw the door slightly open, empty. Panic hit me. Where was he? I turned toward the living room, my heart racing as I scanned the space. The guy was not in the bathroom, and he definitely was not in the hallway. Then I saw a movement. The back door was slightly open, as if someone had slipped through there. I felt my pulse spike. I moved toward that door without knowing what I was about to find, when I heard a faint creek from upstairs. He was on the second floor and he had absolutely no reason to be up there. I did not think. I acted. I ran for the front door, adrenaline surging. As soon as I reached the doorway, one of the men stepped in front of me, blocking the exit. He just stood there with a blank expression, hands at his sides, ready to stop me if I tried to get past. Everything okay, man? Jeffrey said behind me. His voice calmed but with an edge that sent a chill through me. I think you should leave, I said, trying to sound firm, though my voice shook. Jeffrey stepped closer. We are not done looking at the bike yet, are we? My instincts were screaming at me to do something, but I was trapped. One inside the house, one blocking the door, and Jeffrey closing in. I looked toward the staircase, hoping to catch sight of the third man, but I saw nothing. Only the growing certainty that I had let strangers into my home and was now paying the price. Suddenly, a loud thud echoed from upstairs, followed by footsteps fast and heavy. Jeffrey was up there, was not hiding anymore. Without thinking, I lunged toward the side door leading to the garage. The man blocking the entrance tried to grab me, but I slipped past him. I ran through the garage in a panic, fumbling for the garage door opener. While the motor slowly lifted the door, I heard footsteps getting closer. The door was not even halfway up when I ducked and rolled underneath it, scraping my arms against the concrete. The second I got to my feet, I heard the garage door slam shut behind me. Just as I made it out to the driveway and ran toward my neighbor's house. I pounded on his door, shouting for help, and praying someone was home. After what felt like forever the door opened in my neighbor, an older man named Jack appeared. There in my house, I shouted. Call the police. The patrol car arrived within minutes, but by then all three of them were gone. They took a few things, some cash, my wallet, and an old iPad I barely used. But the real loss was the sense of safety I had always felt in my own home. The officers told me I had been lucky. It could have been much worse. They had seen scams like this before. People pretending to be buyers in order to inspect homes and wait for the right moment to steal. Or worse. Coming out when I did probably saved me from greater danger, I spent the next few days on edge jumping at every sound. I could not stop thinking about what might have happened if I had not run for the garage. I never sold anything on Craig's list again. That bicycle, I ended up giving it away, for free. For a 14, I had just moved into my new apartment in Julian, California. And like anyone trying to save a few dollars, I was deep into Craig's list searching for cheaper free furniture. You would be surprised at what people are willing to give away. After only a few days of searching, I came across a listing for a Maplewood TV stand. The photos made it look sturdy, well built, almost new, and best of all, it was free. The seller Anna did not provide much information beyond. Pick up only must be taken today. It seemed worth checking out, after all it was free. I sent a quick message to the number in the listing asking if the TV stand was still available. The reply came almost instantly. "Yes, it is still here. Can you come pick it up today?" I answered with a "yes" that works for me, and asked for the address. She sent it along with an oddly specific instruction. I will not be home, but the door will be unlocked. Come in and take the stand. That gave me chills. I do not know about you, but the idea of walking into a stranger's house while they were not there did not sit right with me at all. I also did not want to seem paranoid, and it was not like I had not seen stranger things on Craigslist. Maybe she was working and did not have time to be there during the pick up. Against my better judgment I agreed. The address was a bit out of the way, an area with more spread out houses and lots of open land. It was not the most populated place, but it was not completely isolated either. One of those areas where you feel safe during the day, but not so much at night. At first the drive was uneventful, familiar roads, my music playing, me trying to relax. But the closer I got the feeling started to change. The sun was beginning to set when I pulled into the driveway of what looked like a typical suburban house, although it had clearly seen better days. The front yard was overgrown with weeds pushing through the cracks in the broken concrete walkway. There was no car in the driveway, just the house, still in silent. I turned off the engine and sat there looking at the place for a moment. The porch light flickered weakly as if it were about to burn out, and the whole property gave off a strange vibe. You know that feeling when you cross some invisible line and suddenly feel like something is watching you, even though no one is there. That is what hit me the second I parked. And so I was not going to back out. It was just a TV stand. I figured I would go in and out. I texted Anna to let her know I had arrived, but she did not respond. Nothing unusual. She had said she would not be home. I got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and just as she had said, it was unlocked. The moment I entered a heavy-stale smell wrapped around me. It was not exactly foul, but it did not smell like a place that had been lived in recently other. The air was stuffy, as if no one had aired the house out in quite a while. I stood in the entryway for a few seconds, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. The house was disturbingly quiet, except for a faint creek that I assumed was just the old floorboard settling. I did my best to shake off the bad feeling crawling up my spine. It was an old house. Old houses make noise, right? I took a breath and moved forward. There was not much furniture in the living room. Just an old couch and a coffee table that had long since passed its prime. The TV stand, the reason I was there, was against the back wall. It was bigger than I expected. Solid wood just like the ad had said, although it did not look like something a person would simply give away without a second thought. I looked around feeling more and more out of place. The house did not seem lived in. There were no photos on the walls, no decorations. Nothing to suggest that it had recently been a home. Just as I was about to head toward the stand, I heard it. A faint sound, almost a whisper, but unmistakable, a voice, a woman's voice coming from upstairs. I froze. At first I thought maybe I was hearing things, maybe the wind, or my imagination feeding off the atmosphere of the place. But then it came again, a little clearer. Hello, is someone there? It was definitely a female voice, but there was something about it that did not sound right. Too soft, too distant. As if it were not coming from someone in a room but from farther away, filtered somehow. My swallowed heart and called out, Anna, nothing. My pulse started to race and I did not know what to do. Anna had said she would not be there, so who was upstairs? Part of me wanted to leave immediately, but the other part, the one that did not want to feel like a coward, kept me rooted in place. Maybe she had come back home, maybe it was nothing. But then why was she not answering my messages? I looked up toward the staircase, and that was when I saw it. The shadow of a pair of feet barely visible from the landing. Someone was standing there just outside my line of sight. My heart jumped into my throat. Those feet were not moving an inch. They were not shifting, not stepping. They were just planted there as if that person was waiting for me to come upstairs. The voice echoed in my head again, but now it sounded wrong. Hollow. Suddenly I realized what had been bothering me. At first it had sounded like a woman, but thinking about it now, there was something off in the tone. Too low as if someone were trying to imitate a woman's voice. My stomach turned. I knew, without the slightest doubt, that whoever was upstairs was not Anna. Before I could even react, the feet moved. Heavy deliberate footsteps started coming down the stairs toward me. The door at the top of the staircase slammed open, hitting the wall, and I did not stay to find out what was coming down. I slipped on the dusty floor and nearly fell while fumbling with the handle until I finally got it open. Behind me a voice exploded, this time deep, angry. Nothing like the soft, and a voice from before. Where do you think you are going? I did not answer. I bolted out of the house, practically jumped the porch steps and threw myself into the car. My hands were shaking as I shoved the key into the ignition, but I finally got it started. and tore out of the driveway at full speed. I did not slow down until I was several miles away, back among traffic lights and cars. I pulled into a gas station parking lot and sat there for a while, trying to catch my breath. I pulled out my phone and checked the conversation with Anna. No new messages, no explanation for what I had just gone through. I blocked the number immediately. I thought about calling the police, but what was I supposed to say? That I heard a strange voice and saw a pair of feet. That I had almost walked into. What exactly? A trap? A setup? I had no answers. And honestly, I was not sure I wanted them. And even though I got out unharmed, I still cannot stop thinking about what might have happened if I had been just a little slower. If I had not listened to my instincts when I realized that voice was not what it seemed. Story 15. I had been trying for a while to break into modeling. Nothing serious, just small jobs. Instagram collaborations, things like that. But I needed professional headshots, something more polished to send to agencies. So like any aspiring model on a tight budget, I started looking for photographers on Craigslist. I know it is not the safest option, but when money is tight, you do not have many alternatives. That is how I came across Leo. His ad was simple. Professional photographer looking to expand Portfolio, offering discounted rates for headshots. He had a couple of sample photos in the listing and they looked legitimate. Nothing flashy, just clean, well lit portraits of people who did not look overly posed. It seemed worth it. I emailed him and he replied saying he had an opening later that week. We arranged to meet at his studio, which according to him, was an area of the city I did not know very well. Although it was not too far from downtown. Everything seemed fine, and honestly, I was excited to get professional photos without spending a fortune. But looking back on it, there were a few signs that should have made me suspicious. On the day of the session, I drove to the address Leo had given me. The neighborhood was not what I expected. It was not exactly run down, but it had that abandoned warehouse feel, like a place where businesses had once thrived and had not been touched in years. Many of the buildings were old and crumbling. There were hardly any people on the street. Most of the storefronts were closed with faded for lease signs taped to the windows. Leo's studio was in one of those buildings. A narrow two-story office that screamed 1980s vibes as if it had not been updated in decades. The paint was peeling and the windows were covered and grime. There was not even a sign outside. Just the building number faded and nearly illegible. I checked the address again, tried to ignore the not weighing in my stomach, and almost turned around. But I had already come all this way, and I needed those headshots. I parked and went in. The front door creaked when I pushed it open, and I found myself in what, being generous, could be called a lobby. Small with a desk and a couple of old chairs. There was no receptionist, no signs, no art on the walls. Just an empty space with a faint, musty smell. I was about to text Leo to let him know I had arrived when a door at the back opened and he came out. He was tall, maybe in his mid-40s with short, herring glasses. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt in jeans. His demeanor was casual, even friendly. "Softy, right," he said, walking over and extending his hand. "Glad you made it. Come on in, the studio is in the back. I shook his hand, my stomach still tied in knots. But I smiled and followed him down a narrow hallway. The lighting was dim and the floor creaked with every step. I looked around trying to get my bearings, but there was not much to see. Warn out walls and several closed doors. At the end of the hall, he opened another door and led me into a small room with a backdrop set up against one wall. There was a single overhead light and a camera on a tripod. Basic, but I thought it would do. "Have a seat," he said, pointing to a stool in the middle of the room. We will start with some simple head shots, and if you feel comfortable, we can do a few more creative poses later. I sat down trying to shake off the uneasiness that had been with me since I arrived. He fiddled with the camera, adjusted the lens, checked the lighting. I watched him for a moment and then I noticed something strange. There were no other photos in the room. No examples of his work. No pictures of previous clients. Nothing. Just bare walls and that one camera. He must have noticed me looking because he gave me a strange smile. "I usually like to keep things very minimalist," he said, as if reading my mind. It helps people focus. I nodded not really sure what to say. Everything still felt a little off, but I was already there, and I did not want to seem nervous. I stayed still and waited while he started taking a few test shots. At first everything was normal. Leo snapped pictures and gave me directions like chin up a little or look off to the side. After about ten minutes, things started to get weird. Try loosening up a little, he said after a few shots. He took off your jacket. It was not a strange request considering we were doing headshots, but the way he said it made me hesitate. His tone had changed. It sounded more insistent, like he was pushing me out of my comfort zone without saying it directly. I took off my jacket trying to make it seem natural, but I could feel his eyes on me in a way that made my skin crawl. He kept shooting, only now his directions were getting strange. Turn a little more to the side, now tilt your head down. Look at me over your shoulder, but keep your body angled the other way. I followed along, although something about those poses did not add up. These were not headshots anymore. They felt more like a glamour shoot, and I was not prepared for that. I had not dressed for that, and we had definitely not agreed to it. You have a great figure, he said suddenly, his voice low. Have you ever done anything more creative? Something a little bolder? This was not just a portrait session. Leo had something else in mind, something he had never mentioned in his emails. The atmosphere in the room shifted, and my discomfort grew. I looked at the door and realized it was closed, and that the hallway outside felt deserted. I tried to stay calm. I think we have enough for today, I said, forcing a smile. I am not comfortable going any further. His expression did not change, but his posture did. He straightened slightly and tightened his grip on the camera. Are you sure? We are just getting started. You would be surprised how freeing it is to step out of your comfort zone. Very sure I replied, this time with a firmer voice. I stood up, grabbed my jacket from the stool, and walked toward the door. But Leo moved ahead of me and stood in front of it, blocking the way. Just a few more shots, he said, his tone darker now. You came all the way out here, do you not want it to be worth it? A hollow feeling hit my stomach. I was not going to let this guy trap me alone in a room. I took a deep breath and stood my ground. I said I am done. There was a tenth second where another of us moved. Then without saying another word, he stepped aside. The smile never left his face, but I saw something else in his eyes. Something that made my blood run cold. I left the room quickly without looking back. As I made my way down the narrow hallway, the only thing on my mind was getting out of that building. When I reached the front door, I practically shoved it open and stepped outside, breathing in the cool afternoon air as if I had been holding my breath the entire time. I hurried to my car and locked the doors the second I got inside. I sat there for a moment trying to process what had happened. Leo had not touched me or done anything openly dangerous, but everything had felt wrong. The way he looked at me, the way he pushed me towards something I had not agreed to. A chill ran through me. When I got home, I blocked his number and deleted his emails. I did not want to think about what might have happened if I had not stood firm. If I had let him push things further. I spent the next few days with a lingering sense of unease, as if someone were watching me. Even though I knew it was just my nerves. Even so, I could not shake the feeling that Leo was not just some guy who wanted to take pictures. Leo was something else in his eyes, something dark. I reported the ad on Craig's list, but I never got a response. And at this day, I still wonder how many other girls went to Leo's studio, thinking they you are only getting him. headshots. Luckily, I never found out what he really wanted. Story 16. Looking for a cheap use laptop should not be that complicated, but after an entire week of scrolling through Craigslist, dealing with sketchy listings and people who left me on red halfway through the conversation, I finally found what seemed like a decent deal. A slightly used Dell laptop, supposedly in good condition according to the photos for $200. The seller Dave had uploaded several clear pictures of the computer, and honestly, it looked legitimate. No weird screen reflections are stolen product website photos, just a simple listing. "Pick up preferred, but I can meet halfway," the ad said. "That worked perfectly for me. I did not mind meeting in person as long as I did not have to go too far out of my way. I messaged Dave and he replied right away, which I took as a good sign. Hi, I am interested in the laptop. Is it still available?" "Yes," he replied immediately. "We can meet tonight if that works for you. Tell me where you are coming from and we will find a halfway point." The quick response reassured me, although maybe he seemed a little too eager. Maybe he just wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible. I did not want to overthink it. After all, it seemed like a great deal. We agreed to meet at a 7/11 just off the highway, halfway between where I lived and where Dave was coming from. It was a place I had been to before. I'll live in with plenty of people coming and going, so I was not too worried. We planned to meet around 9pm, which was not ideal, but I already wanted to close the deal. I got dressed, grabbed my wallet, and counted the cash. Two crisp $100 bills. Then I headed out. As I drove, I could not get one annoying thought out of my head. Why did I need this laptop so badly? Maybe it was the price. Maybe it was that feeling that I had finally found something that would not destroy my budget and would still do what I needed. Either way, I was already committed. The night was quiet with only a few cars on the road and I kept the radio low so I could focus. Halfway there, my phone rang. It was Dave. "Hey, just wanted to let you know." He said in a rough voice like someone who had just woken up or smoked too much. I am having a little car trouble. I had to get off the highway but it is nothing serious. I am on a side road about two miles from the 7-11. I eased off the gas processing what he had said. My first thought was, "Great, this is going to be a hassle, but car problems happen." I asked him for directions and he explained how to get to a gravel side road running past some fields. "I will park near the entrance. You cannot miss it. Check out the laptop and if it looks good, leave the cache and that is it," he added. Something about that sounded strange. Why not just meet at the 7-11 like we had planned? But I did not want to ruin the deal over something small. I agreed to make the detour. The farther I drove, the more isolated everything felt. The side road Dave mentioned was one of those narrow gravel roads, lined on both sides by tall crops. It was already late enough that there were no other cars or lights anywhere, other than my headlights. I had driven through plenty of farming areas before, but this place felt forgotten. No houses, no barns, nothing. Just endless rows of cornfield stretching as far as I could see. The corn stalks weighed in the breeze as my car rolled over the gravel. I slowed down as I approached what I assumed was Dave's follicle. A beat-up truck parked just off the side of the road, angled slightly. The headlights were off and it looked like it had been sitting there for a while. There was no visible movement. I parked a short distance behind it, left my car running, just in case, and looked around, trying to make sense of the situation. There was no laptop in sight. I waited for a minute, thinking maybe Dave was running late or had stepped away for a second. But with every passing moment, the whole thing felt stranger. I was about to call him when my phone buzzed in my hand. Sorry, I had to step into the cornfield for a minute. The text read, "Nature called. The laptop is in the truck. Leave the money and take it. It should be fine." The idea of someone wandering around inside a cornfield deeply unsettled me. My instincts were screaming at me to leave, but I was not ready to throw away the whole trip. Maybe it was pride not wanting to feel like I had driven all that way for nothing. Or maybe I just did not want to admit that the entire thing had been a bad idea from the start. Either way, I pushed that instinct down and stayed. Then I got out of the car. The air was thick and still. The only sound was the rustling of the corn leaves. I approached Dave's truck carefully, glancing toward the field every few seconds, trying to spot any movement. Nothing. Just rows of tall stalk swaying gently. I reached for the passenger door handle, hesitating. There was no reason to trust this. None. Just before I opened it, I heard it. A soft rustling from inside the cornfield. At first I assumed it was the wind, but the sound grew louder, more distinct, like someone moving slowly through the stalks. I stepped back, keeping my eyes on the rows, searching for any sign of Dave. The rustling stopped and for a moment everything went completely silent. I froze my whole body tense. Then I saw it. A figure emerged from the cornfield just behind me. The way it moved was strange, almost too fluid like it was gliding between the stalks. My stomach dropped. This was not some guy who had just needed a quick bathroom break. Something else was going on here. I did not wait to find out what. I turned and ran from my car. The rustling in the corn started again, faster this time, as if whoever was in the field was now coming after me. I threw myself into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. My headlight swept across the edge of the cornfield just in time for me to see two figures standing there, staring at me. Neither of them moved. I did not hesitate. I hit the gas and got out of there. As I sped away I kept checking the rear-view mirror, convinced I would see those figures chasing after me. I never did, but I felt like I had barely escaped something much more dangerous than a shady Craigslist deal. The road seemed to stretch on forever, but eventually I saw the highway lights ahead. A huge wave of relief washed over me when I merged back onto the main road, leaving the isolation of the fields behind. I pulled into the parking lot of a diner a few miles away and shut off the engine with my hands still shaking. I sat there for a while, trying to process what had happened. The figures, the laptop I had never actually seen, had it been a setup to rob me or something worse? I blocked Dave's number as soon as I got home. There was no way I was ever going to message him again. The next day I found a laptop at a pawn shop. Yes, it cost me a little more, but at least I did not have to meet anyone in the middle of nowhere at night. I still think about that night, about those silhouettes in the cornfield standing still, watching me. I am grateful I did not stay long enough for things to escalate. Story 17. This happened quite a few years ago when I was still in college. I must have been around 19 or 20, and it was during finals week and December. One of those strange nights when everything feels a little out of place because the campus is starting to empty out. I remember it was a Friday night, not super late, probably just before 10 pm, and the study building I was in was still open 24/7 because of exams, but most of the students had already left. The outdoor parking lot had that eerie silence you almost never feel unless it is the height of summer or winter break. There were hardly any cars, barely any movement. That parking lot was huge, divided into three sections because of the odd shape of the land. The lower part was closer to the campus buildings. Then there was the middle section, a little higher up, and finally the upper level, which ran parallel to the road, somewhat narrow, with only a couple of rows of spaces. That night I had left my car at the very top. Later rival, finals week, you know how it is. And that meant I had to walk the whole way from the study building, crossing all three terraces of the parking lot by myself. When I left the building and started crossing the lower section, a black car, it looked like a civic, pulled in and slowly drove up to the section where I was. My first thought was that maybe it was my friend, the one who lived nearby. Because he had the same model and sometimes studied late too. The driver pulled into a space ride in front of me and turned off the engine. I assumed he would glance over to say hi when he got out. Except when I looked it was not my friend. The person who got out was tall and thin, dressed completely in black, and I could not really make out his face in the dark. At first I did not think too much of it. I figured it was someone with some business on campus. Even though at that hour it did not seem very likely. I kept walking but not even a minute later I looked back and saw the same person following me in the same direction. Toward the middle and upper levels where there were no university buildings. That gave me a really bad feeling because nobody walks up there unless their car is parked at the top. And with how empty everything was, it made no sense. I picked up my pace and tried to stay calm but my phone had died earlier in the building. And I was basically on my own. When I got to the second level of the parking lot I noticed a blue beetle parked on one side. And a little farther ahead my car finally came into view. But then something else may be stopped for a second, right in front of my car. Under one of those blinding white street lights, there was another guy. He was walking slowly in circles, almost as if he were waiting for someone. He stood out immediately because he was dressed in white from head to toe and had dreadlocks. The way he was positioned right in front of the hood made it impossible to get to my car without passing by him. By this point I was already panicking inside. One man was following me and now another was standing exactly where I needed to go. It felt like a trap, like I had walked into something planned. But what choice did I have? I kept walking, half praying that the man in white would not say or do anything, hoping to reach my car and lock the doors before either of the two men moved. Then something happened that completely threw me off. As I passed the blue beetle and got closer to my car, I glanced over and noticed that the man in black had stopped walking. He was just standing there awkwardly near the beetle, pretending to look at it, as if he were trying to come up with an excuse to be in that spot. And without any warning, he turned around and started walking back the way he had come. That change in behavior was so strange and so sudden that it did not even fully register with me until I was already unlocking my door and sliding into the seat. The man in white did not say anything, did not come closer. He kept pacing around, smoking a cigarette under that street light while I started the engine and turned on the windshield wipers to clear off the frost. But since I was parked all the way at the top, I had a clear view of the whole parking lot below. And that was when I saw the black Civic again. Its headlights came back on. The engine started, and I realized that the other man had gotten back inside. Now he was leaving. It is hard to describe the mix of dread and relief I felt at the same time. This guy shows up on campus at night, for no apparent reason. Does not even go into a building. Follows me across half an empty parking lot, and then backs off as soon as another man appears near my car. That was not a coincidence. The only reason he turned around was that he did not want to deal with the man in white. Because I left the parking lot, the Civic stayed behind me for a while. It kept close during the dark road leading out of campus and for part of the drive through town, until I finally lost it in traffic. I kept checking my mirrors the entire way home, afraid that it would show up again. But it never did. Once I got home when I was finally able to process it, the whole thing hit me with how strange it had all been. The man in black lurking behind me, the man in white standing alone under the light completely silent. But somehow, whether he meant to or not, keeping me safe. The contrast between them, the black clothing and the white clothing, stayed in my head much longer than the episode itself. It almost felt symbolic, and that is the kind of thing I would normally roll my eyes at. But in this case, I do not know. It is hard to explain. I have told the story to people close to me, and most of them shrug and say it probably was not that serious. That maybe the guy just needed directions or something like that. But deep down, I knew that if that man and white had not been there, something horrible might have happened. Whether he was smoking there by pure chance or for some other reason, I owe him a lot. In 2018, sometime around 2020 or 2021, honestly I cannot remember which, with how strange the lockdown years were, I had a shift that has stayed with me ever since. I worked at a burger place inside a huge mall in Sydney, and I used to finish pretty late. It was just part of the job, and most nights I was the last one out, locking up after everyone else had already left. I did not mind it too much, until that particular night. Because of the areas where staff were allowed to park, I always had to go up several levels to get to my car. Eight floors exactly, because the employee parking was on the rooftop. To get there, I had to go through a maze of escalators arranged in a zigzag, one going up, a short landing, then another one, repeating all the way to the top. You went up one, turned, went up another, and kept doing that over and over. Each landing had doors that opened onto different levels of the mall or customer parking areas, but the top level was for employees only, and was gated off. It only opened if your license plate was registered. That night I finished later than usual, close to midnight I think, and the place was completely dead. The restrictions were still in place, so most of the mall was shut down. No customers, no cleaning staff, nobody, except for a couple of security guards who stayed on the ground floor. I was used to walking through the place alone, and it had never been a problem until that night. As I headed toward the escalators, I heard footsteps behind me. At first I did not pay much attention, but then I realized it was two men walking behind me. They were right up against me, but close enough for me to notice. They looked around my age, maybe a little older, somewhere in their 20s. They were speaking quietly to each other, and that made me uneasy. I could not make out what they were saying and their presence felt out of place, like they were not there by chance. I have always been small, barely five feet tall, and I have developed the habit of being hyper aware in situations like that. At night I took out my phone and started typing, pretending I was in the middle of a text conversation. Even though I knew nobody I knew would be awake at that hour. It was more for appearances than anything else, in case they were watching me. When I reached the escalators, I stepped onto the first one and looked back. One of the guys kept walking like he had somewhere else to go, but the other stepped onto the escalator right behind me. That made me nervous immediately. I thought maybe he would get off at the next landing. There were plenty of places he could have been going, but he did not. Every time I stepped off one escalator and moved onto the next, I could hear him behind me. He was not speeding up or slowing down. He was just following me. That was when I started walking faster. Not fully running, but I was no longer just riding the escalator. I wanted to put distance between us. I did not stop on the landings. I just kept going up, step after step, like my legs were working on autopilot. I was so focused on getting to the top that I almost missed the moment when he stopped. Right as I reached the final level, or maybe the one before it, I paused and looked back. He had not followed me onto the next escalator. Instead he was standing on the landing looking around as if he were trying to figure out where I had gone. He did not look confused like someone who had forgotten where he parked. He looked like someone searching for another person. I saw him through the reflection in one of the glass doors leading to the parking area. After a few seconds of scanning the place, he turned around and started heading back down. I kept going up to my level and got to my car, still looking over my shoulder the whole time. I sat there for a minute with the doors locked, trying to make sense of what had just happened. None of it felt random to me. The way they split up, the way one of them followed me like he was waiting for something. It did not sit right. There was nothing about his behavior that felt innocent. And on top of that, the mall was not in the safest part of the city. It was known for having its share of creeps. One of the managers I worked with had even been followed to a car not long before this happened to me. After that, we started leaving together at night, waiting for each other before going up to the parking lot. I think silently all of us understood that something was wrong after that shift. To this day. I cannot tell you what that man's plan was. Maybe he did not expect me to keep going all the way to the rooftop. Maybe he assumed I would stop on a lower level, and he would have the chance to. I do not know. And honestly, I do not want to know. The only thing that was clear is that I listened to that pressure curling in my chest, that instinct, and got out of there as fast as I could. Story 19. I never really understood what it meant to be comforted when I was a child. The house I grew up in operated like a rule book, strict expectations, zero room for softness. My parents were not cruel in the traditional sense, but warmth was not something they gave out. There were no hugs after a hard day and no praise when you came home with a school certificate. You were expected to keep your head down and not need anything. I learned early on to keep my emotions buried deep inside. I spent time alone in my room, pretending my stuffed animals could hug me back, or wrapping myself in old jackets just to feel something close to affection. At school I was quiet, being tall made me stand out, but I did everything I could to blend in. I did not talk much, not because I had no ideas, but because I had been taught not to cause problems. Even when other kids picked on me, I kept my mouth shut. One year, a new student arrived. He was older than the rest of us and had supposedly been homeschooled before that. Everyone liked him right away. He was confident, smooth, talking, and always surrounded by classmates. I kept my distance, but over time he started talking to me, too. At first I felt like something good was finally happening to me. He gave me compliments in a strangely specific way. He would say that the color of my shirt reminded him of flowers, or that I had a kind face. And because I barely received kindness from anyone, I soaked it up like a sponge. He asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said yes, without really understanding what that meant at the time. To me, it just meant holding hands at recess and maybe sitting together at lunch. But very soon I noticed that he wanted more than that. Not in an obvious or dramatic way, but in the way he spoke to me, or the way he touched my arm and then acted like nothing had happened when I flinched. When I said I did not like something, he acted hurt. He would say that I did not care about him, or threatened to tell the teachers that I had done something that was not true. That part scared me a lot. I knew that if anything ever reached my parents, I would be the one in trouble, not him. So I stayed quiet and let things happen. And every time I did, a part of me shrank a little more. There was one day that stayed with me more than all the others. We were in class and sat near each other at one of those group tables. During a test, he dropped his pencil and bent down under the desk to pick it up. But he stayed there longer than he should have. I went rigid, not knowing what was happening, just wishing it would end. When he sat back up, he acted like nothing had happened. I did not say a word. I just stared at the clock until the school day was over. After that, I almost stopped talking altogether. My friends noticed but no one asked too many questions. At school, we had a big cultural project where each class was assigned a country to represent. Ours got Russia. Parents helped decorate the classroom and my mom even volunteered. So I went with her, happy to get out of the house for a while. In the hallway, they had set up small tents almost like a fair. I slipped inside one for a few minutes to be alone. It was quiet and strangely peaceful until I saw a shadow on the other side of the fabric. He followed me in, zipped it shut from the inside and tried to talk as if everything was fine. He said he missed me and wanted us to be close again. I did not know what to do. Part of me wanted to believe him, and another part of me wanted to disappear. When I did not respond the way he expected, he became pushy. He did not become physically violent, but he cornered me, pressuring me emotionally. I panicked. I told him no and tried to leave, but he grabbed my wrist hard. I can still remember how my skin burned afterward. Somehow I managed to pull free. I ran straight to the bathroom and locked the door. My hands were shaking and I sat there trying to breathe until I felt safe enough to come out. After that day, I could barely look him in the eye. A few weeks later, he was transferred to another school. I thought I had finally escaped that whole mess. Years later, I heard that he might be moving to the same high school I was attending. The old fear came back all at once, but it was not the same as before. I was older by then, more aware, and after everything that had happened, I was not going to let someone like that hurt me again. I had started therapy. I opened up about things I never thought I would say out loud. It helped. I was not completely healed, but I was learning how to carry my past without letting it crush me. Story 20. I grew up in a quiet town by a lake where most of the houses were only used during the summer. Ours was one of maybe four that had people living in it year-round. So when schools started and the leaves began to change, the neighborhood became half deserted. You got used to knowing exactly who lived in each house, what car they drove, and what times they were usually around. By the time I was eight years old, I knew that place like the back of my hand. In the fall, there was not much to do, so I would usually come home from school, drop my backpack in the yard, and start shooting hoops in the street until the sun went down behind the hills. That afternoon, I was outside by myself. My siblings were off with their friends, and my mother was in her usual spot at the kitchen table with her laptop in front of her. She saw me get off the bus, waved at me, and disappeared back into the house. Everything seemed normal. The echo of the basketball bounced along the road with every dribble, and I remembered the air smelling like dry leaves and lake water. Then a car turned onto our street that did not belong there. I did not recognize it. More importantly, I did not recognize the driver either. Nobody came through there just because. Most of the houses were empty that time of year, and the ones that were not. You knew every face by name. Still I thought maybe he was lost or wanted to turn around after taking a look at the water. Our house was the first one after the curve, so sometimes people used our driveway to turn around. He pulled up, slowed down, and rolled down the window. I was still holding the basketball, standing a little off to the side of the road. He looked to be in his early thirties, dressed like he had just come from a backyard cookout. Short sleeves, sunglasses on top of his head, skin tan like he had spent all summer outside. He smiled and said something like, "Let me take one shot." I tossed him the ball without thinking. He missed, laughed, and asked me to grab it so we could try again. I ran after it. As I stood back up, I heard a soft click. It was subtle, but unmistakable. He had taken a picture of me. I froze for a second, not knowing what to think, but I brushed it off because he acted completely casual. When I came back with the ball, his whole demeanor changed. He grabbed my wrist firmly, not in a playful way. The ball hit the asphalt and rolled away. At first he did not say anything. He just looked at me like he was deciding something. Then he leaned forward and in a low, serious voice told me not to scream. That no one would hear me. For a moment I just froze. I knew my mother was inside only a few steps away, but I could not move. He started creeping the car forward while still holding onto my arm, like he was trying to make me walk alongside the window. That snapped me out of it. I screamed loud, louder than I ever had before. We let go of me immediately, muttered a curse under his breath and sped off. The tires squealed and I watched him clip the edge of the neighbor's yard as he tore out of the street like he could not get away fast enough. My mother came running outside and just barely saw him disappear around the corner. But it was too late to get the license plate. Inside I told her everything, and when my father got home, we went over it all again, point by point. He knew the local police through his volunteer work as an emergency medical technician, so he made the call. Nothing ever came of it. No similar reports, no vehicle descriptions matching in nearby towns. But my mother mentioned that she had seen a strange car on our street a couple of times that week, driving slowly without stopping. We concluded that he had been watching, waiting for the right moment. Our house clearly looked occupied, but with everyone gone during the day in the neighborhood nearly empty, he had probably seen it as an easy target. That night I was supposed to share my room with my siblings. But they were staying over at friends' houses. My parents thought that way it would be safer, fewer kids under the same roof. My father brought the living room television into my bedroom to keep me distracted, and they closed the curtains, even though in the fall we almost never bothered to. Around 1am I heard a tapping sound on the window behind me. I was halfway through an episode watching adult swim, and I went rigid when I heard it. My first thought was that maybe one of my siblings had come back late and needed me to let them in, but I was not going to take that risk. Not after what had happened just hours earlier. I turned on all the hallway lights as I went to my parents' room and woke my mother up. She was groggy, squinting into the brightness, so I turned the light back off. That was when we saw someone standing outside her window looking in. My mother screamed and that finally woke my father. The guy outside, the same man from earlier, just stood there muttering. I just wanted to hold her hand. My father grabbed a baseball bat and ran outside and nothing but his boxers, but by then the man had already run off into the woods. We called the police again. Once again nothing came of it. After that we installed a basic home security system, and my parents made sure someone was always with me after school. The neighbors stayed on high alert too. I do not know what happened to that man, whether he left town, got scared off, or simply moved on, but he never came back. Story 21. I was 18 years old and working at a gas station on the outskirts of town in a quiet sleepy southern neighborhood where nothing exciting ever happened. Most nights were completely silent, and my boss usually only scheduled the guys for the late shifts, but one night I asked to take a late one to earn some extra money. The store was only a few blocks from my house, and I figured it would not be any different from the earlier shifts I was used to. That time of year it got dark quickly, and the streets around the station had almost no lighting. So by the time I was halfway through my shift, all you could see through the windows was pure darkness. The beginning was the same as always. I wiped down the counters, swept the floor more times than necessary, restocked candy and cigarettes, and then leaned against the counter scrolling on my phone while I waited for the occasional customer. Everything was quiet, even boring. It did not last. A man came in, tall, probably in his thirties, looking disheveled, like he had not shaved or slept properly in quite a while. I gave him the usual "how's it going?" and he just looked at me for a second before asking where the bathroom was. I pointed him toward the hallway behind the counter, and he disappeared back there. I assumed he would be in and out like everyone else. Within a few minutes I had already forgotten he was there. Then one of my regular customers came in, a big guy who had been a Marine. We talked for a while to pass the time, but during the conversation we heard something crash in the back, like a broom had fallen over, or something heavy had slid off a shelf. My regular stopped and asked if I was working alone. I said yes, and he offered to go check it out. I appreciated it, but I did not want to get in trouble for letting someone into the employee area, so I politely declined. Before long he left, and I was left with that conversation lingering in the back of my mind while I kept doing my job. Maybe half an hour later, I needed to use the bathroom myself. As I walked toward the hallway I noticed that the office door was cracked open much wider than I remembered leaving it. Something about that gave me a strange feeling, like I was not alone back there. I pushed the door with my foot so the motion sensor light would come on. At first nothing, but when the light flickered and turned on I saw him. That same man completely still behind the open door, as if he had been waiting there motionless, long enough for the sensor to shut off on its own. We locked eyes and I stepped back immediately. My heart was pounding, and I knew I did not want to stay there to find out what he was planning. A moment later he came out, as calm as ever, and walked out the front door without saying a word, without looking away until he was out of my line of sight. I called my manager right away. She called the police, and it turned out that the same man had been banned from several nearby stores for sneaking into back areas. But because he technically was not doing anything illegal, he always got away with it. After that night he started showing up more often. He would come in, wander around, stand silently near the back of the store, and watch me from behind the aisles. He never bought anything, never spoke, he was just there. I never found out what his intentions were, and honestly I would rather not know. But the idea that he stood still for that long in that dark room, long enough for the motion sensor to shut off. Stayed with me more than anything else, as if he had been waiting for the perfect moment to do something. Story 22 When I was 25, I worked the early morning shift at a small desert shop tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. Hardly anyone came in during the mornings, so most days I opened up and handled the counter by myself until things got a little busier later in the afternoon. Luckily it was peaceful, which honestly did not bother me at all. It gave me time to drink coffee and let the day start slowly. But one morning something happened that stayed with me far more than I expected. A man came in shortly after I opened. I recognized him immediately. The night before he had come in with who looked like his wife and his adult children. He had barely said anything to me then, just the usual polite remarks while they picked up a few things to go. So when he came back alone and started talking, I thought at first that he was just being friendly. He started asking me questions, how old I was, whether I was in school, whether I liked my job, and along the way he kept repeating that I looked much younger than 25, 19 at most. It was strange, but I let it slide. And he brought up a job opportunity. He said he could connect me with a place that paid $7 more per hour than what I was making. That it was an easy job and that I would definitely get hired right away. Naturally, I was curious. I was not tied to the shop and I raised like that sounded life-changing. I asked for the name of the company, but instead of answering, he started rambling about how great the job was and how many people he knew there. He kept dodging the name over and over and went off on tangents, talking about how he had had multiple affairs. That his wife supposedly knew and did not care, and that he had once helped a 19-year-old girl get on her feet. He said she still thanked him for it, whatever that was supposed to mean. At that point my stomach turned. The conversation shifted from friendly to something much more uncomfortable, and I started noticing little details that made the whole thing feel charged with pressure. He kept insisting that I go check out the job right after my shift. He would not take no thanks for an answer, and vaguely mentioned that it was on the outskirts of the city, again without ever actually naming the company. I told him I did not have a car that day, which was true, and that my sister was going to pick me up. I thought that would be enough to end the conversation, but instead he doubled down. He told me to go with him, that it would look better if I showed up by his side, that they would hire me on the spot just because he vouched for me. In the middle of that strange speech, he pulled out a folded piece of paper and said it was proof that he was licensed to carry a gun. He showed it as if it was supposed to impress me or make me feel safer, but all it did was make my skin crawl. Finally, after all that circling around, he gave me the name of the company. I said okay and told him to come back near closing time to pick me up, just to get him to leave. The second he walked out the door, I ran to the back and started googling the name he had given me. Nothing came up. I searched the area he had mentioned, thinking maybe I would spot a warehouse or some kind of industrial building there, but there was nothing except empty fields and random roads. No business, no job, nothing. When it was time for me to clock out, my sister pulled up on the side just like we had planned. And of course that man was parked a short distance away, waiting. He did not come up to us and he did not follow us. He just stayed in his car while we drove off. That was the last time I ever saw him. Looking back, I regret not reporting him. At the time, I had a hard time processing situations like that. I tended to freeze or go along with things out of fear. And I was not as aware as I am now of how serious it could have been. Sometimes I think about what might have happened if I had gone with him. I just hope no one else ever did. [BLANK_AUDIO]