They were following me…
I had seen them, watching me from the café, their hollow eyes like knives both silent and patient, they had regarded me for no more than a second, but it was a look that held the weight of an anvil within its intent. The shopping centre was cold, it was nearly Christmas and the joviality of season seemed to be lost on this person, such a scowl of anguish, such a foul kind of pure hatred, directed at me and toward me only. This was not a passing glance; this was a locked stare of a man designing himself to be my reaper. He spoke to the waiter–solemnly, not turning to greet them–and placed a newspaper upon the table with no visible intention to read it.
A chill washed over me as I ducked into a nearby store, not caring what they sold.
I browsed for as long as I could, pillows, manchester and the like, the staff of this store were patient but clearly knowing that I was not a customer. They could not sense the watcher outside like I could, they didn’t fathom the peril that I was now in.
I had noticed the watcher’s breakfast was well finished while stealing a glance from behind the stack of doona covers. They sat, watching the door like a hawk with murder in its veins. My only option was to flee, cornered as I was by quilts and linen doyleys. I knew that in time he would enter this store and wrought whatever evil that was his intention, I had to flee.
Moving from the store I took care not to run, predators can sense the fear, the thrill of the chase is more exhilarating than the capture. I promised myself that I wouldn’t run, I swore that I would brave. Striding behind a column, I made my way around the neatly stacked calendar display and hoped to lose the watcher within the line for a picture with Santa.
Across the food court I stole a glance back to the café and to the empty chair where my watcher had once been. No, I screamed inside myself, while brushing past a stall of ornamental pinecones. The conformation of my doom so blatant upon the waitress cleaning away half eaten beans on toast, never before has a discarded newspaper looked so menacing.
The crowd was building, a surge of people enchanted by unbought worry shuffled from store to store and filled the concourse with my only chance of survival. I ducked and weaved, never had I been so rude as to walk in front of a person but within this moment of life and death I’m sure they would not mind.
Now lost in the crowd, I stole a glance backward and the worst was confirmed to me.
Parting the crowd with the force of his will alone, the watcher stood no less than a few meters from me, his finger raised in judgment and a wild smile upon his face.
This was the end, the unravelling of my mortal coil. Fleeing from this demon I moved as though through molasses. The throng of shoppers would not allow me escape, I was jostled and shoved backward at every chance, their eyes not regarding me as existent nor showing any signs of humanity left within their impassive features.
And yet progress was still made. A relaxing of pedestrians had allowed me to slip over to the contraflow of the shopping centre and, at last, the door to car park was visible as my salvation. My pursuer was still close, and I knew that once in the open they would have their chance at whatever evil they intended. I needed to take a risk, I needed to do something to elude them and give me the opportunity at escape.
A line was seen—Salvation army cards, $1 for five, quite reasonable—and the gaggle of elderly with their walking frames provided the perfect barrier. If I could just slip around them, If I could just snake past and be within seconds of the automatic doors.
That was my mistake, by whatever design I thought myself to be cunning and with fox like speed I made a quick left and found myself trapped by a flight of stairs. With no time to think I was already nearing to top of the staircase before I could rue my arrogance; A fox never chooses to be within the hunt, and I had marked my own sentence.
Behind me the Watcher drew close as the corner he pushed me towards became narrow. There was no escape I had trapped myself within the toy section of the shopping section. A model train happily winded around the delighted children who laughed with joy, basking in the colours and sounds of a Sunday spent in laughter.
I had no joy in this moment, only fear. Pushing through the crowd I chose to forgo any remaining politeness and made for the toilets hoping for a fire escape of similar miracle.
And it is here that I sit, marking my story on the door of a public toilet with a sharpie.
I do not know if I will survive this. I can hear them still breathing on the other side of this door.
I am afraid.
J. McCray
2021
Sunday Short Stories 