The Shape Behind Me

I notice it most

when the world grows quiet.

Not silent—

silence is honest.

I mean the hour when the refrigerator hums alone,

when distant traffic fades into memory,

when a house remembers how old it is.

That is when I feel it.

A presence.

Not a footstep.

Not a breath.

Just the certainty

that I am no longer alone.

I never turn around immediately.

Perhaps that is the strangest part.

Some ancient instinct tells me

that looking is a mistake,

as though my eyes

would complete a contract

my fear has already signed.

So I keep walking.

Down empty hallways.

Across parking lots

where the streetlights leave islands of gold

floating in black oceans.

Past mirrors

that seem a fraction of a second too slow.

Always with the sensation

that something keeps pace behind me.

Not close enough to touch.

Close enough to matter.

Sometimes it follows me home.

I feel it while locking the door,

while checking windows,

while pretending the shadow in the corner

belongs to a chair,

a coat,

a trick of the light.

The explanations arrive first.

They always do.

The house settling.

The wind.

An overactive imagination.

The language of reason

building fences around panic.

Yet every fence has gaps.

And through those gaps

the feeling returns.

Watching.

Waiting.

Knowing my name

without ever speaking it.

There are nights

when I wake suddenly,

certain that someone has entered the room.

The darkness remains unchanged.

The walls stand where they should.

Nothing moves.

Nothing proves itself.

Yet my heart races

as though it has seen evidence

my eyes were denied.

I lie still.

Listening.

Counting seconds.

Feeling the weight

of unseen attention

resting gently

between my shoulder blades.

The terror is not that something is there.

The terror is that it might not be.

That a mind can create

such vivid company

from emptiness alone.

That loneliness and fear

might share the same face.

Still,

when I walk through the dark,

I leave one lamp glowing behind me.

Still,

I glance over my shoulder

one extra time.

Still,

I hurry the last few steps

before reaching a doorway.

Because some part of me believes

that if I stop moving,

if I hesitate,

if I look too long into the darkness,

I may finally discover

whether the shape behind me

has been following all along—

or waiting for me

to notice it.