He’s there.

Always watching, always listening, always there. I see him lurking around the corner of the cafe, as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing is wrong.

He knows who I am; Megan Alana Fitzpatrick, 34 years old. I know he knows, because he’s sent me letters. Or slipped them under my door in an instance of trespassing in my yard, and up to my home. The house that is, or was, my safe haven. Now it’s a place that I hesitate to go to alone, and even when my sisters are with me I am never 100% comfortable there.

Not anymore.

How unnerving it is to have someone like him coming around uninvited. I’ve gone to the police, only to find out he is the police. He’s doing some investigating on a case around my town, there was a robbery next door, a girl was missing; there was always an excuse for why he was nearby, but I knew better. He was there for me, but I had no idea who he was, or anything about him for that matter.

Even after talking to the police I was no closer to finding out his name. They said that because he hadn’t directly confronted me and I am unable to prove he left the letter, they can’t give out his information. I don’t put much faith in the system that has let me down so many times before, especially when it comes down to a “he said she said” scenario.

As I hurried away from the cafe I could feel his eyes on me. They were the type of eyes that when they were on you, you could feel the intentions of the owner. And these weren’t good intentions. I could see him walk out after me and I did what I could to vary my path, but it wasn’t working. I could hear his steps and see his shadow.

“Megan.” He called out. I didn’t look back. To know my name when I don’t know his, for his position with the police force to outweigh my voice as a woman, all of it was flooding my mind.

I could hear him speeding up, so I doubled my pace. He repeated my name over and over, as if it was supposed to comfort me.

“Please stop, I have to go.” I yelled behind me. I ended up on an empty street, which was the opposite of my intention.

“Awe come on,” I could hear him gaining on me.

“Just. Stop.” I felt his hand on my arm.

I slowly turned to see his dark eyes glaring down at me. He was at least a foot taller than me, and his intimidation tactics were working.

“I don’t know you, I didn’t do anything wrong.” I plead. “I don’t even know who you are.”

He raised his hand as if to shield his eyes from the sun, but there was no sun to be seen. It was then that I noticed the glare of something shiny in his hand; a knife.

“It’s Graham.” He whispered, as he raised the knife a little higher. “My name is Graham.”

I felt the knife enter my chest, but the power behind his strike pushed me to the ground. I could hear him whispering to me:

“It’s okay Megan, it’ll be over soon.” He was stroking my hair, touching my face, saying my name.

I wanted to pull those words out of his mouth, each letter of my name, one at a time. He didn’t deserve to know my name, let alone speak it. I felt myself losing consciousness, and the people on nearby streets who heard the commotion were starting to get closer to us.

I didn’t know if I was going to make it, but I knew I wouldn’t let him get the last words.

As the coward started to run, I finally said his name.

“Graham.”’

He looked back.

“You’ll see me everytime you close your eyes. You know me, but now I know you, too.”

As I slipped into the darkness, I thought about the power behind a name. For the last few weeks all I wanted was to find out who this cowardly bastard was. Now I know. I know his name, burt more than that, I know what he’s capable of.

And I wish I didn’t.