Someone

“Someone”

Shouldn’t have come here

Corey Harland

The man was dressed no differently than anyone else might have been.

A plain hooded sweatshirt hung loosely from his shoulders. Oversized joggers draped over his frame, their extra fabric shifting with every step. The clothes were not intentionally baggy, though he preferred them that way. They had simply become too large.

He had lost weight.

Not from discipline. Not from some grand commitment to health.

Stress had a way of stripping a person down.

Long nights pacing unfamiliar rooms. Restless mornings spent staring at ceilings. The bottle, once a nightly companion, no longer occupied its familiar place beside the bed. He had spent years chasing comfort in amber liquid poured from aged glass. It dulled burdens. Softened edges. Quieted thoughts.

Now the thoughts remained.

And lately, he found himself thinking about the bottle more often than he cared to admit.

The sharp barking of dogs interrupted his reflection.

Two German Shepherds stood at attention in a nearby yard.

Their posture was defensive but controlled. They neither charged nor retreated. They watched.

The man stopped briefly, scanning for the source of their confidence.

Then he saw it.

A nearly invisible electric fence stretched along the property line.

Of course… a silent laugh escaped him.

The dogs relaxed. He continued walking.

Music swelled through the earbuds tucked beneath his hood. A slow crescendo filled his ears while blood pulsed heavily in his veins.

Calm down.

The thought came uninvited.

He was new here.

That was all.

New town. New streets. New faces.

Nothing more.

Yet the feeling remained.

As he rounded a corner, the road split into two directions.

Two paths.

His eyes drifted toward the narrower route.

The one less traveled.

A faint smile touched his lips.

Then he looked up.

A thick rope hung from a large oak tree in the yard beside it.

The smile vanished.

Sometimes the well-traveled road is good enough.

He took the wider path.

The crunch of gravel beneath his shoes settled into a steady rhythm.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Then another sound emerged behind him.

A low mechanical hum.

Growing louder.

He glanced over his shoulder.

An older man, perhaps in his late sixties, sat atop a riding mower.

The same man he had noticed earlier beside a rusted burn barrel, feeding scraps of wood into a small fire.

The mower rolled slowly down the roadside.

Behind him.

Following the same route.

The outsider faced forward again.

Coincidences happen.

Still...

His pace quickened.

Only slightly.

The mower continued.

Not gaining.

Not falling behind.

Just there.

A presence.

The rope.

The dogs.

The fire.

The mower.

Individually they meant nothing.

Together they formed a pattern his mind could not ignore.

Maybe I should pick up the pace.

The thought arrived immediately.

Don't.

The answer followed just as quickly.

Don't let them see you're nervous.

He grit his teeth.

Kept his stride steady.

And continued walking as though the man on the mower didn't exist.

Even as he became increasingly certain the man was watching him.

The mower suddenly accelerated.

His pulse jumped.

The machine rolled past him before turning sharply into a gravel driveway. The old man cut the engine and sat watching him.

Not glancing.

Watching.

The kind of stare that lingered just a little too long.

The old man hollered as he approached.

The outsider slowly turned and removed his right earbud, signaling that he had not heard the old man's calls for some time.

The old man explained that he had been trying to get his attention for nearly a minute and had become even more suspicious when he appeared to be ignoring him.

The outsider quickly clarified that he had recently moved to town and was simply out walking.

The old man pointed toward the center of town.

"You're headed that way?"

The question felt less like a greeting and more like an interrogation.

"Just walking."

The old man's eyes narrowed.

"Hm."

Nothing else.

No explanation.

Just a grunt.

————————————————————————

The outsider continued down the road.

Only after he disappeared around the bend did the old man mutter to himself.

"Probably not him."

But he wasn't entirely convinced.

Harold watched the stranger vanish behind the trees and scratched at the gray stubble along his jaw.

Too young to be retired.

Too old to be wandering.

Definitely not local.

That much was obvious.

In a town of fewer than a thousand people, strangers stood out.

Not because outsiders weren't welcome.

Because everyone knew everyone.

And everyone knew who didn't belong.

He climbed back onto the mower and continued staring down the road.

Three break-ins in six weeks.

First the bait shop.

Then the hardware store.

Then the gas station.

Nothing major. Nothing worth making the evening news over. But enough to unsettle people.

Enough to make them notice things.

Enough to make them remember faces.

The stranger had appeared less than a week after the latest theft.

Walking roads.

Looking around.

Studying houses.

At least that's what it looked like.

Harold doubted the man understood how suspicious that seemed.

City people walked for exercise.

People here drove.

That simple difference probably explained half the concern.

The other half was harder to ignore.

The stranger seemed nervous.

Harold had noticed it immediately.

The quick glances.

The stiff shoulders.

The way his eyes moved before his head did.

Like he was waiting for something.

Or someone–