Keith (0:05)

My name is Keith. I'm 19 years old, and I've lived my whole life in a quiet little town. We've only got about 800 people here, and not much ever really changes. Folks live slow here. Real slow. You get up early, go to work, maybe stop by the diner for lunch, then sit on the porch in the evening and talk about the weather. People say nothing ever happens here, but that's not really true. Some things have happened. Strange things. There's one part of our town that everyone avoids. A place that we all know about but don't talk about much. We just call it the Hill. No one gives it a fancy name. It's just the Hill. Simple, dangerous. Off limits. When we were kids, our parents always told us to never go near it. Stay away from the hill, they'd say. Don't play there. Don't even look at it too long. But no one ever told us why. They'd just get quiet whenever we asked or changed the subject. That made it worse. Honestly, it made us curious. There were rumors, of course. You know how kids love to tell stories. Some said a cult lived out there. Others said people went missing near it. But they were just whispers, nothing we could prove. I always figured it was just a scary story to keep us from wandering off. But then one night, Joe dared me to go. Joe's two years older than me. He's 21 now. He's always been like a big brother. Brave, tough. Maybe a little stupid sometimes, but he's the kind of guy you want on your side. We've been best friends since we were in diapers. When I was 10 and Joe was 12. We were sleeping over at his house one summer night. It was hot and we couldn't sleep. We were talking about ghosts and monsters like kids do. And somehow we'd started talking about the Hill. You know, I bet that cult stuff ain't even real, Joe said, staring up at the ceiling. I shrugged. I don't know. Maybe not. He then turned to me and grinned. Wanna go find out? I froze. I wanted to say no, but I didn't. I couldn't. I didn't want him thinking I was scared, even if I was. We grabbed a couple of flashlights and slipped out the back door just after midnight. The streets were empty. Just the sound of bugs in our shoes crunching on the gravel. The air felt thick, like a storm was coming. We reached the hill after about 10 minutes. It looked bigger at night. The grass moved like waves in the dark, and the moon made everything feel colder than it should have. Been. We climbed slowly, keeping our lights low. At the top, we had dug down and peeked over the edge. That's when we saw them. About 20 people were standing in a circle near the base of the hill, under the big oak tree that had been there forever. They wore long black robes and white masks. Plain blank masks with no features. Each of them held a candle, and they were chanting something we couldn't understand. The sound didn't even feel like words. It felt like buzzing in your bones. I wanted to run right then, but I couldn't move. Then Joe slipped. His foot, caught a loose rock, and it tumbled down the hill with a loud crack. The chanting stopped. Every head turned toward us. We didn't wait. We took off running, tearing through the grass, down the far side of the hill and across the tracks. I swear I heard someone chasing us, but I never looked back. We didn't stop until we were behind Joe's house again. Hearts pounding, lungs burning. We collapsed in the backyard and didn't say a word. For a long time after that, we never really talked about what we saw. We just moved on, sort of. But every time I walked past that hill, I felt eyes on me. Years passed. We finished school and started working. Our small little town stayed the same. Quiet on the outside, but that feeling, the one that you get when something isn't right. It never left us. Then a few months ago, Joe came to me with a strange look on his face. Have you ever thought about going back? He asked. I didn't answer right away. Part of me had been thinking about it too. The other part wanted to forget it forever. We're older now, he said. We can handle it. Might even find out what's really going on. I should have said no, but I didn't. So we went. This time we brought better flashlights, pocket knives just in case, and our phones. It was around 1am when we reached the hill again. The grass was still tall. The wind was still quiet. Everything looked the same, but it felt worse somehow. We climbed to the top and looked over. Nothing. No circle this time. No candles, no chanting. We started to relax. Maybe it really had just been a weird memory from when we were kids. Then Joe tapped my shoulder and pointed. There was something under the tree. We crept down slowly, trying not to make a sound. When we got close enough, I saw what it was. A circle of rocks. Fresh, like someone had just made it. And right in the middle was a small wooden box. Joe bent down and opened it. Inside were five white masks. Old, but clean, untouched by time or weather. Suddenly, we both felt it. We weren't alone. The year shifted. Cold swept in. I looked around and saw shadows, figures standing just beyond the trees, watching. We dropped the box and ran. That night. We didn't go back to our homes. We drove two towns over and slept in Joe's truck at a gas station. We never told anyone. Not our parents, not our friends, no one. But we both agreed on something. We'd never go back to the hill again. And when we have kids of our own, we'll tell them the same things that our parents told us. Stay away from the hill. Don't go near it. Don't even think about it. Because now we know why. And some things are just better left alone. My name is Zanna and I'm 21 years old. I've lived in the same small town my whole life. It's not a place you'll ever see on the news or find on a map unless you're really looking. But it's home. Everyone knows everyone, and you can't walk down Main street without someone waving or asking how your family is doing. It's quiet here. Nothing big really happens. No one even locks their doors during the day. People leave their keys in the ignition while they run into the store. It's the kind of place where you feel safe. At least most of it is. There is one part of town, though, that we all avoid. It's on the west side, past the old train yard and behind the factories that shut down years ago. People don't go there unless they have to. Most of the houses are falling apart, some are abandoned, the rest are barely holding on. It's where a lot of the homeless people and addicts end up. There's a gas station over there, but no one from my side of town stops at it, especially not after dark. My parents always warned me about that area. Don't drive through there, don't stop, don't even roll down your window, my dad would say. I always listened. Until one night when I didn't really have a choice. It was late, around 10:30pm and I had just finished a long shift at the diner. I was more tired than usual, my feet hurt, my back was sore, and I was counting down the minutes until I could get home and collapse into the bed. I walked out to my car and locked the door and noticed something that made my stomach drop. The gas light was on. I hadn't even realized how low it was. I'd been meaning to fill up for days, but just kept putting it off. I figured I could make it to the station near my apartment. But halfway across town, my car gave a little jerk. The needle dropped all the way to the E. I knew I wouldn't make it. The only gas station close enough was the one on the west side, the one that I'd always avoided. I tried to think of another way, maybe someone I could call, but my phone battery was dead. Of course it was. I was alone, out of gas and out of options. I sighed, turned down the old industrial road, headed towards the one place that I never wanted to go. The gas station was mostly empty. A few of the overhead lights flickered, casting weird shadows across the lot. The building looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. The windows were stained, and one of the pumps had a trash bag taped over it. There was only one other car there, a rusted old sedan with one headlight missing and a busted front bumper. I pulled up to the farthest pump, trying to stay close to the light. I told myself that it would only take a minute, just enough gas to get home. I got out and swiped my card. The screen was cracked, but it worked. As I started pumping, I kept glancing around. The silence felt heavy. I tried to keep calm and told myself I'd be out of there in no time at all. That's when I saw him. He came from around the corner of the building. Tall, thin, with messy hair and clothes that looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. His eyes were wide, darting around like he was looking for something or someone. It walked straight toward me. Hey there, he said, smiling in a way that didn't really feel friendly. Got a few bucks? I gave a quick shake of my head. Sorry, I don't have anything, I said. He didn't stop. He kept coming closer. Um, you sure? He asked again. I just need a couple of dollars, that's all. I'm having a rough night. I could feel my heart start to race. I tried to stay calm. I didn't want to make a scene. I forced a small smile. I don't really have any cash, I said. I'm just getting gas and heading home. But then he stepped closer again. Too close. You live around here? He asked, tilting his head. You look familiar. My hands started to shake. At this point I could feel the gas pump still running, but I didn't care anymore. In the middle of pumping gas, I stopped and put the pump back in the holder. I need to go, I said quickly. Before he could say anything else, I turned, got into my car, and slammed the door shut. I hit the lock button just as he reached it and knocked on the window. Hey, he said, louder this time. Don't be rude. I just wanted to talk. I didn't look at him. I started the engine, backed up fast, and drove out of the line like something was chasing me. My heart didn't slow down until I pulled into my apartment complex on the other side of town. I didn't sleep much that night. I kept hearing that same knock on my window and my head. I kept seeing his eyes, the way he smiled at me, like he already knew me somehow and made my skin crawl. For weeks after that, I didn't go anywhere at night without feeling nervous. Every time I saw someone walking down the street, I'd tense up. I started double checking my doors at night. I even bought pepper spray to keep in my bag. I didn't tell my parents. I didn't want them to worry, but I think they noticed the change. I wasn't as relaxed as I used to be. That one night really stuck with me. Eventually, the fear faded a little at a time. Life went on, but I never forgot how it felt. I've always loved my town. It's a good place, but I've learned that even good places have dark corners, places people don't talk about, places that feel like something right out of a bad dream. And sometimes all it takes is one bad night to remind you that safety can be a fragile thing. I'll never go back to that gas station again, no matter how low my tank gets. Hi, everyone. My name is Richard. I'm 60 years old now, living in a Manhattan apartment that overlooks the park. It's not the biggest place in the city, but it's mine and it's comfortable. I've made a good life for myself here. A career in finance, some wise investments, and enough luck to retire early. I keep busy with charity boards, museum visits, and way too many cups of coffee from the shop down the street. People here know me by name. They see me in my tailored coats and polished shoes and assume that I've always been this version of myself, collected, successful entities. But sometimes, especially on quiet nights, I think about who I used to be. A boy named Richie from a town in Georgia you've never even heard of. A town where the crickets screamed louder than the passing trains and everybody knew the make and model of your family's car. I really loved that town once, but I also feared it. There's one memory that's never really left me, no matter how many years in City Lights I've put between myself and that backwoods road it happened in the summer of 1975. I was 10 years old. Back then. We lived on the edge of our little town. A population of maybe 2,000 if you counted the cows. My father worked at the lumber mill and my mother stayed home. I spent most of my time riding my bike, exploring dirt roads, and pretending I was a stuntman or a cowboy or something much bigger than what I was. That particular day had been ordinary. I rode over to my friend Tommy's house after breakfast. We played in his backyard, traded baseball cards, and argued over whether Superman could beat Spider man in a fight. It was still light out when I started to ride back home. Late afternoon, maybe a little past five. The air was hot and sticky. The sun was beginning to dip, throwing long shadows across the fields. The ride home was about 2 miles. Most of it was a quiet road. Trees on one side, barbed wire fences on the other. I didn't mind the quiet. I liked it. But that day, something was different. I first noticed the truck about halfway home. It was an old model, maybe a Ford or a Dodge. Mad Gray with rust patches. I heard it behind me before I saw it. A low growl of an engine that wasn't in any hurry. I glanced back and I saw it cresting a hill behind me, just far enough away to not think much of it. But it didn't pass me. Instead, it stayed behind, not close, but steady, always just a little too far back to see who was driving. I slowed down a bit, thinking maybe they wanted to pass. The truck slowed down, too. That's when I knew something was wrong. I sped up, pushing my little legs harder on the pedals. The tires rattled on the gravel, and my backpack bounced against my spine. The truck picked up speed, too, matching me again. Not fast, not aggressive, just following. There was a spot up ahead where the trees got thicker, a patch of woods I sometimes cut through when I wanted to take the long way home. That day I didn't plan to, but when I saw those trees, I didn't think. I just turned. My tires slid on the loose gravel, but I caught myself and darted off the road. The path into the woods was narrow, barely wide enough for a bike, full of roots and fallen branches. Behind me, the truck came to a slow stop. It didn't turn off the road. It just sat there. I didn't look back again. I dropped the bike as soon as I was far enough in. The brush was too thick to ride through, and I didn't want the sound of the tires giving me away. I ran deeper into the woods, my breath burning in my chest, my legs getting scratched by twigs and thorns. I didn't stop until I found a fallen tree and slid underneath it, pressing myself into the cool dirt. Then I just waited. Minutes passed, then an hour. It got darker, the trees casting shadows that seemed to move even when the wind didn't. I kept listening for the truck, for footsteps, anything. At one point, I'd heard the leaves crunching nearby. I held my breath for so long that it actually hurt. But nothing came. Eventually, the forest went quiet again. The cicadas hummed like always. The fear stayed with me, But I knew that I couldn't hide there forever. It was nearly nightfall when I finally crept back out, still crouched low, scanning the road through the trees. The truck was gone. My bike was where I left it at first, but when I stepped closer, I realized it wasn't. The spot was empty. Just flattened grass where it had fallen. No sign of the tires, no broken pieces. Just gone. I just stood there for a while, frozen. Part of me wanted to call out, but I didn't really know who would answer. I started walking home. The road home felt longer than it ever had before. Every rustle in the woods made my heart jump. Every shadow looked like something watching. I didn't run, though. I just kept walking. When I finally made it to our porch, my mother was outside, calling my name. She ran to me, eyes wide, Hugged me like I'd been missing for days. I didn't tell her what happened. Not all of it. I just said I got lost and walked home. That night, I didn't sleep. I stared out the window, waiting to see that truck again. But I never did. The next day, I went back. I told my parents that I was going to Tommy's again, but I didn't. I walked the same road, heart pounding the whole way. I searched the woods, thinking maybe I'd missed the bike. Maybe I'd panicked and just forgot where I dropped it. But it was gone. Completely. I never saw that bike again. My parents ended up buying me another one later that year. But I never rode that route again. I never even wanted to. And I never even told anyone the full story. Not even my best friend, Tommy. Life went on after that. I grew up, left that town after high school, and I never looked back. I moved north, went to college, got a job, and built a career. Now I live in New York City, where the streets never sleep and there are way too many people to notice. You're afraid of the dark. But I never forgot that night. That truck, that silence. Sometimes I wonder who was driving it. Why they didn't try harder to catch me, what they wanted, what they were thinking when they took my bike. Maybe it was just a bored local trying to scare a kid. Maybe it was something worse. I'll never know. Back in the late 90s, when I was 19 and done with love, I left everything behind in Montana to move to Arizona with my boyfriend at the time. Yeah, don't ever do that. I thought I was trading pine trees and dry cold for palm trees and a fresh start. You know, sunshine, cactus blossoms. Maybe even a few fun weekends in Sedona or a road trip to California. What I got instead was dirt roads, endless dust, mosquitoes the size of quarters, and heat that felt like a punishment. It was all thorns and dead grass. No magic. We lived in this sad little town, which I won't say where for anonymity reasons, but it was a blimp on the map. Just outside of Flagstaff. One stoplight and four actual stores. There was a Dollar General, a small grocery store, a Walgreens pharmacy, and then one restaurant in town. That was it. That was what my town had to offer. I got a job at the Walgreens, which, fun fact, doesn't exist anymore. Well, that one, anyways. It sat right in the middle of town, right between the grocery store and the post office. So basically everyone shopped there at some point. After about three months working there, I showed up one afternoon for my shift. I walked in, clocked in, and was halfway through tying my apron when the manager, Gary, called me into his office. He didn't say too much, but just motioned toward his desk. There, laid out in careful rows, were at least 30 or 40 opened envelopes, all addressed to me, handwritten. Do you know this person? Gary asked, tapping the corner of one of the letters. I looked at the name Lance Hill. Um, nope. Gary told me to read one. I picked a bright yellow envelope with loopy handwriting. Inside were two handwritten letters and a magazine cut out of a woman with long, wavy blonde hair just like mine. As Gary leaned back in his squeaky desk chair, arms crossed, I started reading. The letter bounced around in tone. Some parts were like a journal, others like a love note. Most of it was someone fantasizing about spending time with me, but non normal fantasies, intimate, uncomfortable, detailed. There were whole paragraphs all about my hair, washing it, brushing it, what it would smell like in the heat of the Arizona night. Sentences were highlighted, some underlined. One in particular stuck with me. You glow under the moonlight. I see it even when you're not looking. That's when it stopped being weird and started being terrifying. My first thought was, am I being fired? Do you know this guy? Gary asked again, this time pointing at the name. And then it clicked. Lanky guy, late 20s. Always wore polo shirts and thin glasses that never quite stayed on his nose. Came in two or three times a week to buy Diet Coke and medicine for his mom. He'd sometimes try and make small talk at the register. Stared a little too long. Socially awkward, sure, but not hostile. I figured he was just shy or slow. Compared to some of the guys I'd met in Arizona, he seemed harmless. Until this. I told Gary I thought I knew who he was. And then I remembered something strange that happened a couple of weeks earlier. I was stocking shelves when I felt someone behind me. I turned around. He was there, touching my hair, just slowly running his fingers through it like it belonged to him. I pulled away. He looked surprised and mumbled an apology. I shrugged it off. Just weird, I thought. Not dangerous. After hearing that, Gary told me that Lance was going to be banned from the store and that I should head home while they sorted things out. His words. What things? I wondered. I walked out feeling cold and confused. I couldn't explain why, but it felt like something was coming. Two hours later, someone knocked on my front door. I looked out the window and thought maybe I was hallucinating. There were at least seven people standing on my tiny porch. Two in plain clothes with badges, a few in police uniforms. And then, yes, a suave looking crew dressed in tactical gear and carrying what I later found out were real assault rifles. I opened the door with my mouth halfway open. A female officer stepped forward holding a stack of letters. We need to talk to you about these, she said gently. All I could think was, oh God, the entire police department has read them. They came in. I sat on the couch. The officer began explaining what had happened while my then boyfriend hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, radiating judgment like it was his job. Apparently the cops had gone to Lance's house to give him a formal trespassing notice. Standard protocol. But when they got there, he lost it. He spent over 45 minutes arguing that he hadn't done anything wrong. He said that I wanted to talk to him, that we had some kind of connection. He was so persistent, so emotional, and just unstable enough that they decided to file full stalking charges. That's when things took a turn I couldn't process. The officer said, you should know. Lance killed and partially dismembered his own mother when he was 12 years old. He was released from a juvenile psychiatric facility just four years ago. I just sat there, staring, blinking. We also found some disturbing materials in his home, she said carefully. There are indications he's been watching you, following you. The letters were just the beginning. My mind went blank. I heard my own breath. I kept picturing him in the checkout line, his thin hands placed on the Diet Coke on the counter, his quiet smile. He always said it was for his mom, I mumbled. Yeah, she said. That part might have been true. Or not, we don't know. Lance was arrested the next day. He was found sitting in the Walgreens parking lot, just staring at the building, waiting. They took him in without incident, but I was told that he'd likely be moved back to the psychiatric facility, not prison. At least not yet. I never saw him again. I never got to read the rest of the letters either. One of the police collected them. They were locked away somewhere for evidence. They didn't explain what exactly they found at his house, just said it was enough to make every officer in town agree I needed to get out. My boyfriend, being the compassionate man that he was, acted like I had caused all this. Blamed me for the attention, like I'd asked for it. Said I must have been too friendly. I packed up and left Arizona for the next week, went back to Montana. It was colder, sure, but I never felt safer. Even now, all these years later, I still think about it. About how normal he seemed, how harmless. How I came close to something I don't even want to imagine. So, yeah, if you ever think about moving across the country for a boyfriend at 19 years old, don't. And for the love of God, if you're working retail in a dusty little town and someone starts talking about your hair in the moonlight, do me a favor and run. For context, I'm still in school and I work for my family member on certain weekends at a local college, selling concessions at the stadium. It's about once to twice a month, and the stadium is off towards the edge of town. It's Friday night and I had just gotten out of school and had to go straight to work. I get to work and I work for four hours. It's a half shift tonight and my boss, who's my aunt, tells me we need more spoons for tomorrow's event. We sell ice cream and these events have like 5,000 people at them. I say OK and I'll go grab them on my way home. The only store open with heavy duty spoons is all the way on the other side of town, and I still wanted to go meet up with some of my friends and mess around. I decided to take the faster but more sketchy way around the outskirts of town. I live in a weather bipolar state. It snowed last night but I figured the roads would be fine enough even if they weren't plowed. I take off to the store and the first five minutes go by and nothing is wrong. I haven't seen a single car or any buildings the entire time, but keep in mind it's approaching 9pm and I'm on the outskirts of town and no one really takes this way in case they really have to all of a sudden I see something in the corner of my eye and it looks like a man, roughly about 5 foot 8 I'd say, wearing shorts, T shirt and a backwards hat. He's in the ditch walking in Snow. When it's 10 degrees out my first thought is to pull over, but I'm on the phone with my mom at the time and she warns me not to as some things have happened before in this town. A couple of years ago a college girl was kidnapped and found dead rolled up in a rug. In 2014 I considered stopping, but for some reason I told myself not to. I wasn't really worried about anything. I'm a young dude driving a big pickup truck, the last type of person anyone would want to harm, right? I pass the man going about 40 miles per hour. Like I said, roads aren't the best. I drive not even 500ft pass him and immediately a car that I did not see at all before turns and pulls out of a field entrance off the road and starts to follow me. At first I thought I was just focused on the man in the ditch and didn't see a road and that's where they came from. But I later found out that there was not even a road there. Now again, I'm not super worried. I've watched my fair share of crime movies and read plenty of stories on this sub and I didn't feel like it was a threat yet. I start to approach the town again and have to take some turns to get where I'm going. I turn left, the car turns left, I turn right and the car turns right. I go around a roundabout and skip my turn and go twice as no one else was there and the car follows. At this point I start to worry a little, but maybe they just need to go to the store also. I then pull up to a stop sign and I turn without my turn signal. I also wasn't on the best side of town either. May I add the Car follows now. At this point I should have gone straight to the police station, but I still didn't think too much of it. I'm two miles from the store where plenty of people could be. I take a few more turns and then the car continues to follow me. I completely blew a stop sign at a non busy intersection and the car does a quick stop and go and catches up. At this point I'm two turns till the store so I'm still not worried. I turn into the store and the car turns also. The store also has a gas station so I pull up there first to act like I was getting gas. The car sits off the side of the road and just sits there and between the gas station and store. I wait about 10 minutes and the car doesn't move. At this point I start to get worried. I'm a young kid alone at night near the bad side of town. I call my friends that I'm supposed to meet up with later on and I give them the license plate for the worst case scenario, then take off to the store. I cross the street and the car comes straight behind me. I'm freaking out not knowing if I should call the cops or not. I go and park as close as possible to the store and the car parks three rolls behind me and a couple down. It's getting late at this point and the stores are closing soon. There's only a couple of others in the lot. I turn my truck back on and go park on the complete opposite side of the lot. I then get out and completely bolt inside of the store. I'm not super overweight, but I'm not skinny either. I'm about 6 foot 1 and 200. Who would want anything to do with me? I get the spoons and take my time in the store. I go to call my friends to walk back outside and now my phone is dead. I look out the sliding doors and suddenly there's a white van next to my driver's side. Looks like no one's in it, but the back windows are covered and it's running big red flag. I run to customer service and explain everything, but they think I'm just some young kid messing around. At the time I didn't see the original car, but there's no way in hell I'm going outside with that creepy van next to my truck. After waiting for what seemed like hours but was only 30 minutes in reality, the van pulls forward and the original car from before appears. From the side of the building you can see from the in store Starbucks window that they talked and both drove off. I waited another 10 minutes and dash outside. I speed to my friend's house and when I get there I park in his garage. My one buddy asked me why there's a big orange mark in my tire and my heart sank. When I was inside, the following car must have marked my tire. After inspecting the rest of the truck, we found a small pipe dropped in the bed of my truck surrounded by snow. It was about an inch wide and I'd say about 18 inches long wrapped in duct tape. It was not mine. I was alone, no phones, scared in a part of town that I'm not familiar with. I try to laugh it off, but now that everyone's asleep I can't help but think what would have happened if I had walked outside. I've always been sort of ego boosted on the fact that I'm a chubby fat guy that no one would want to mess with. But after the night I realize that anyone can be targeted. The police came and took the pipe today and as multiple people said I already knew that they can't really do anything about it as nothing really happened. They said that they'll take a look at the license plate but other than that nothing much can happen as really no crimes were committed. Regardless, this was a scary night for me and I really hope to never experience something like that ever again. I was 23 years old when this happened. I once met up with an old friend of mine, male, 22 years old, a friend that I had known for a few years. Prior to the meet up in November 2017, I had actually met this person on a dating site. However, as time went on, the relationship between us became strictly platonic. There were no red flags. My gut did not warn me so I completely trusted this person. We met up in town behind a bus station on a grassy hill surrounded by trees and a tall wall. Our meeting was to just have a smoke, get a little high and to have a small catch up. The meat was fine. I actually started smoking weed a few months before so I was still relatively new to it. He had brought something new for me to try, Purple Haze. I wasn't at all anxious about trying it as I completely trusted this person and would never believe that he would lie to me. He had packed a full blunt for me, but I only managed to smoke a quarter of the blunt. We spoke during this time about work, our previous relationships and random stuff. About half an hour later I had started to feel extremely light headed and anxious. I suddenly had this strange feeling where I did not feel comfortable at all. And I really wanted to go home. When I asked him if I could go home, he had offered to take me home, but I just said no. It's okay. He offered again. Please let me take you home. You'll be safe with me. I won't hurt you. I shook my head and said, no, thank you. I can take myself home. When I started to walk away, I felt like I was walking on a cloud. My head became dizzy and my eyesight was a little blurry. I had never felt like this before, and in time I started to panic. When we made our way down the hill toward the bus station, I was relieved as there were a lot of people around so if anything happened, someone would step in. I became extremely terrified of him. I had this horrible feeling in my gut that told me to stay away from him. And when I got to the bus station, I told him I would call my taxi here and go home. His tone was no longer nice, but very stern. I'm gonna take you home now. And he began to pull in my jacket. I told him no, and I was going home on my own. He pulled my jacket harder and I fell against him. He pulled me into him and told me that I didn't need to be scared of him. But I was so, so terrified. At this point, I had started to feel very paranoid and I couldn't see properly. I pushed him away from me and rubbed my eyes and called for a taxi. He tried to pull my phone from me and yelled in my face, do you ever listen? I'm taking you home. I noticed a few people had stopped and asked if I was okay. All I remember was that I wanted to go home. So a lady kindly called a taxi for me and waited with me, made sure I was okay, and helped me into the taxi. During the time when I waited for the taxi, he kept trying to get me to come to his car with him. But the lady that looked after me told him to go home and that she was going to take me home instead. So he left. When I got home, I gave the taxi driver some money and told him to keep the change. I didn't want to wait around. I just wanted to get to my bed. Because at that time, it was the only place I would feel safe from harm. That evening, I laid in my bed for five hours straight, staring at the ceiling. I don't remember if I thought about anything or if my mom came in at any time. I just remember lying in bed doing nothing until the paranoia and sickly feeling began to wear off. I remember looking at my phone and seeing that I had 32 missed calls from him, 10 voicemails left, and 50 messages. The messages were weird. He had sent about 20 messages just asking where I was and when I got home. And in one of the voicemails he had told me that he had this fantasy of taking me home while shrugged up and tying me up. He wanted to blindfold me and he wanted me to submit myself to him. I freaked out and blocked him on all social media, Instagram, Snapchat, Discord and I blocked his number too. Before the blocking, I told him if he ever contacted me again then I would call the police. I heard nothing from him for about a month until I received a text from an unknown number asking me how I was. I hadn't given my number to anyone, so I ignored it. I then received another message a few minutes later saying they missed me and they would see me soon. I asked who they were. No reply. Nothing. I've spoken to some friends with regards to my story and all of them explained that weed would never make anyone feel this way and a lot of them think I was given spice, not weed. Spice looks a lot like weed, but the effects are a lot stronger and more dangerous. I grew up in a small town where you wouldn't necessarily know everybody, but you're familiar with the people in town. The story happened when I was 1516 years old, so about 15 years ago. I was on my way to practice one Saturday morning when I noticed an older man on the corner ahead staring at me. Me being me. I smile and wave at the guy as I pass, then stop at that same corner waiting to cross. The guy comes right up behind me and I vaguely remember smelling him, feeling him breathing on my neck. I'm a bit worried but brush it off as being overreactionary. The light changes and I carry on and this guy speeds up walking behind me mumbling something to get my attention. I must have looked terrified because a woman begins to walk next to me asking if I know the guy. I tell her that I don't and she stays in pace with me and she has me going to the local grocery store we were passing right in front of with her. We get to the store and the lady immediately grabs an employee at the register for help. At this point I'm shaking in fear trying to hide behind people standing by the register. They're discussing something, I'm not sure what because the guy that was following me was staring at me through the window making a throat slicing motion and I'M just paralyzed at this point. The people at the store gathered around me to make me feel safe. I'm pretty sure I broke down in tears when he did that. And soon after, the cops came, and I watched them arrest this man. I don't remember much after that besides my parents picking me up from the store and going to the police station. My dad actually worked as a dispatcher in town at the time, and he told me a few days later that the guy was off his meds and he had been brought into a local psych hospital for treatment. I never saw that man or the woman who saved me after that. To my guardian angel, I never got the chance to thank you for protecting me. But seriously, thank you.