“How are the roads?”
“Not bad,” he says. “A little slick.”
“Glad it’s not snowing.”
“Hopefully it won’t start.”
“It looks cold out there.”
Individually, we’re both unspectacular. It seems noteworthy. Combining our ingredients, Jake’s lean height with my overt shortness, makes no sense. Alone in a crowd, I feel condensed, overlook-able. Jake, despite his height, also blends into a crowd. When we’re together, though, I notice people looking at us. Not at him or at me: at us. Individually, I blend in. So does he. As a couple, we stand out.
Within six days of meeting at the pub, we’d had three proper meals together, gone for two walks, met for coffee, and watched a movie. We talked all the time. We’d been intimate. Jake has told me twice after seeing me naked that I remind him—in a good way, he stressed—of young Uma Thurman, a “compressed” Uma Thurman. He called me “compressed.” That was the word. His word.
He’s never called me sexy. Which is fine. He’s called me pretty and he said “beautiful” once or twice, the way guys do. Once he called me therapeutic. I’d never heard that from anyone before. It was right after we’d fooled around.
I thought it might happen—fooling around—but it wasn’t planned. We’d just started making out on my couch after dinner. I’d made soup. For dessert we were splitting a bottle of gin. We were passing it back and forth, taking swigs right from the bottle like high school kids getting drunk before a dance. This instance felt much more urgent than the other times we’d made out. When the bottle was half-finished, we moved to the bed. He took off my top, and I unzipped his pants. He let me do what I wanted.
He kept saying, “Kiss me, kiss me.” Even if I stopped for only three seconds. “Kiss me,” again and again. Other than that, he was quiet. The lights were off, and I could barely hear him breathing.
I couldn’t see him very well.
“Let’s use our hands,” he said. “Only our hands.”
I thought we were about to have sex. I didn’t know what to say. I went along with it. I’d never done that before. When we were finished he collapsed on top of me. We stayed like that for a bit, eyes closed, breathing. Then he rolled over and sighed.
I don’t know how long it was after that, but eventually Jake got up and went to the bathroom. I lay there, watching him walk, listening to the tap running. I heard the toilet flush. He was in there for a while. I was looking at my toes, wiggling them.
I was thinking then that I should tell him about the Caller. But I just couldn’t. I wanted to forget about it. Telling him would make it more serious than I wanted it to be. That was the closest I came to telling him.
I was lying there alone when a memory came to mind. When I was very young, maybe six or seven, I woke up one night and saw a man at my window. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. I don’t often talk—or even think—about it. It’s sort of a nebulous, patchy memory. But the parts I recall, I remember with clarity. This is not a story I offer up at dinner parties. I’m not sure what people would make of it. I’m not sure I know what to make of it myself. I don’t know why it came to mind that night.
HOW DO WE KNOW WHEN something is menacing? What cues us that something is not innocent? Instinct always trumps reason. At night, when I wake up alone, the memory still terrifies me. It scares me more the older I get. Each time I remember it, it seems worse, more sinister. Maybe each time I remember it, I make it worse than it was. I don’t know.
I woke up for no reason that night. It’s not like I had to go to the bathroom. My room was very quiet. There was no coming to. I was immediately wide-awake. This was unusual for me. It always takes me a few seconds, or even minutes, to come to. This time, I woke up like I’d been kicked.
I was lying on my back, which was also unusual. I normally sleep on my side or stomach. The covers were up around me, tight, like I’d just been tucked in. I was hot, sweating. My pillow was moist. My door was closed, and the night-light that I usually left on was off. The room was dark.
The overhead fan was on high. It was spinning fast, I remember that part well. Really spinning. It seemed like it might fly off the ceiling. It was the only sound I could hear—the fan’s metronomic motor and blades cutting through the air.
It wasn’t a new house, and I could always hear something—pipes, or creaking, something—whenever I woke up in the night. It was strange that I couldn’t hear anything else at that moment. I lay there listening, alert, addled.
And that’s when I saw him.
My room was at the back of the house. It was the only bedroom on the ground floor. The window was in front of me. It wasn’t wide or tall. The man was just standing there. Outside.
I couldn’t see his face. It was beyond the window frame. I could see his torso, just half of it. He was swaying slightly. His hands were moving, rubbing each other from time to time, as if he was trying to warm them. I remember that vividly. He was very tall, very skinny. His belt—I remember his worn black belt—was fastened so that the excess part hung down like a tail in the front. He was taller than anyone I’d ever seen.
For a long time I watched him. I didn’t move. He stayed where he was, too, right up against the window, his hands still moving over each other. He looked like he was taking a break from some kind of physical work.
But the longer I watched him, the more it seemed—or felt—like he could see me, even with his head and eyes above the top of the window. It didn’t make sense. None of it did. If I couldn’t see his eyes, how could he see me? I knew it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t not a dream, either. He was watching me. That’s why he was there.
Soft music played, from outside, but I can’t remember it clearly. I could barely hear it. And it wasn’t noticeable when I first woke up. But I came to hear it after seeing the man. I’m not sure if it was recorded music or humming. A long time elapsed this way, I think, many minutes, maybe an hour.
And then the man waved. I wasn’t expecting it. I honestly don’t know if it was definitely a wave or a movement of his hand. Maybe it was just a wavelike gesture.
The wave changed everything. It had an effect of malice, as if he were suggesting I could never be completely on my own, that he would be around, that he would be back. I was suddenly afraid. The thing is, that feeling is just as real to me now as it was then. The visuals are just as real.
I closed my eyes. I wanted to call out but didn’t. I fell asleep. When I finally opened my eyes, it was morning. And the man was gone.
After that, I thought it would reoccur. That he would appear again, watching. But it didn’t. Not at my window, anyhow.
But I always felt like the man was there. The man is always there.
THERE HAVE BEEN TIMES I think I saw him. I’d pass a window, usually at night, and there’d be a tall man sitting with his legs crossed outside my house on the bench. He was still and looking my way. I’m not sure how a man sitting on a bench is pernicious, but he was.
He was far enough away that it was hard to see his face or know for sure if he was looking at me. I hated when I saw him. It didn’t happen often. But I hated it. There was nothing I could do about it. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. But he also wasn’t doing anything at all. Not reading. Not talking. Just sitting there. Why was he there? That was probably the worst part. It may have all been in my head. These kinds of abstractions can seem most real.
I was lying on my back, as Jake had left me, when he returned from the bathroom. The covers were messed up. One of the pillows was on the floor. The way our clothes lay in messy heaps around the bed made the room look like a crime scene.
He stood at the foot of the bed without saying anything for what felt like an unnaturally long time. I’d seen him lying down naked but never standing. I pretended not to look. His body was pale, lean, and veiny. He found his underwear on the floor, pulled them on, and climbed back into bed.
“I want to stay here tonight,” he said. “This is so nice. I don’t want to leave you.”
For some reason, right at that moment, as he slid up next to me, his foot rubbing up against mine, I wanted to make him jealous. I’d never felt such a strong urge before. It arrived out of nowhere.
I glanced at him beside me, lying on his stomach, his eyes closed. We both had sweaty hair. His face, like mine, was flushed.
“That was so nice,” I said, tickling his lower back with the tips of my fingers. He moaned in agreement. “My last boyfriend . . . there was no . . . a real connection is rare. Some relationships are all physical, only physical. It’s an extreme physical release and nothing more. You might be all over each other, but that kind of thing doesn’t last.”
I still don’t know why I said it. It wasn’t entirely true, and why would I bring up another boyfriend in that moment? Jake didn’t react. Not at all. He just lay there, turned on his side to face me, and said, “Keep doing that. It feels good. I like when you touch me. You’re very tender. You’re therapeutic.”
“You feel good, too,” I said.
Five minutes later, Jake’s breathing changed. He’d fallen asleep. I was hot and kept the covers off me. The room was dark, but my eyes had adjusted; I could still see my toes. I heard my phone ring in the kitchen. It was really late. Too late for anyone to be calling. I didn’t get up to answer it. I couldn’t fall asleep. I tossed and turned. It rang three more times. We stayed in bed.
When I woke up in the morning, later than usual, Jake was gone. I was under the covers. I had a headache and a dry mouth. The bottle of gin was on the floor, empty. I was wearing underwear and a tank top but had no memory of ever putting them on.
I should have told Jake about the Caller. I realize that now. It’s something I should have told him about when it started. I should have told someone. But I didn’t. I didn’t think it was anything significant until it was. Now I know better.
The first time he called, it was just a wrong number. That’s all. Nothing serious. Nothing to be worried about. That call came the same night I met Jake at the pub. Wrong numbers don’t happen often, but they aren’t unheard of. The call woke me from a deep sleep. The only strange part was the Caller’s voice—a strained timbre and subdued, gradual delivery.
Right from the start, from that first week with Jake, even from the first date, I noticed odd little things about him. I don’t like that I notice these things. But I do. Even now, in the car. I notice his smell. It’s subtle. But in this enclosed space, it’s there. It’s not bad. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just Jake’s smell. So many small details that we learn in such short periods of time. It’s been weeks, not years. There are obviously things I don’t know about him. And there are things he doesn’t know about me. Like the Caller.
The Caller was a man, I could hear that, middle-aged at least, probably older, but with a distinctly feminine voice, almost as if he was putting on a flat female intonation, or at least making his voice higher pitched, more delicate. It was unpleasantly distorted. It was a voice I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t someone I knew.
For a long time, I listened to that first message over and over, seeing if I could detect anything familiar. I couldn’t. I still can’t.
After that first call, when I explained to the Caller that it must be a wrong number, he said, “I’m sorry,” in his scratchy, effeminate voice. He waited for another beat or two and then hung up. I forgot about it after that.
The next day I saw I had two missed calls. Both were received in the middle of the night when I was asleep. I checked my missed-calls list and saw it was the same number as the wrong number from the day before. That was weird. Why would he call back? But what was really weird, and inexplicable—and this still makes me upset—was that the calls had come from my own number.
I didn’t believe it at first. I almost didn’t recognize my number. I did a double take. I thought it was an error. It had to be. But I double-checked and made sure I was looking at the missed-calls list and not something else. It was definitely the missed-calls list. There it was. My number.
It wasn’t until three or four days later that the Caller left his first voice message. That’s when it really started to get eerie. I still have that message saved. I have them all. He’s left seven. I don’t know why I’ve kept them. Maybe because I think I might tell Jake.
I reach down into my purse and take my phone out, dial.
“Who’re you calling?” asks Jake.
“Just checking my messages.”
I listen to the first saved message. It’s the first voice message the Caller left.
There’s only one question to resolve. I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid. The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing. Now is the time for the answer. Just one question. One question to answer.
The messages aren’t obviously aggressive or threatening. Neither is the voice. I don’t think. Now I’m not so sure. They’re definitely sad. The Caller sounds sad, maybe a bit frustrated. I don’t know what his words mean. They seem nonsensical, but they also aren’t babble. And they’re always the same. Word for word.
SO THIS IS BASICALLY THE only other interesting thing in my life right now. That I’ve been seeing Jake and that someone else, another man, has been leaving me unusual voice messages. I don’t often have secrets.
Sometimes when I’m in bed, sound asleep, I’ll wake up and see that I have a missed call, often around 3:00 a.m. He usually calls in the middle of the night. And the call always comes from my number.
Once he called when Jake and I were watching a movie in bed. When my number came up, I didn’t say anything but pretended I was chewing and handed the phone to Jake. He answered and said it was some old woman who’d called the wrong number. He seemed unconcerned. We kept watching the movie. I didn’t sleep very well that night.
Since these calls have started, I’ve had nightmares, really scary dreams, and have woken up twice in the middle of the night in a bit of a panic, feeling like someone is in my apartment. That’s never happened to me before. It’s a terrible feeling. For a second or two, it feels like someone is right in the room, standing in the corner, very close, watching me. It’s so real and frightening. I can’t move.
I’m half-asleep, but after a minute or so, I fully wake up and go to the bathroom. It’s always very quiet in my apartment. I run the water in the sink and it sounds extra loud because everything is so quiet. My heart’s pounding. I’m very sweaty, and once had to change pajamas because they were so wet. I don’t usually sweat, not like that. It’s really not a nice feeling. It’s too late to tell Jake any of this. I just feel a little more on edge than I usually am.
ONE NIGHT, WHILE I SLEPT, the Caller called twelve times. He didn’t leave a message that night. But there were twelve missed calls. All from my number.
Most people would have done something about the issue after that, but I didn’t. And what could I do? I couldn’t call the police. He’d never threatened me or said anything violent or harmful. That’s what I find so bizarre, that he doesn’t want to talk. I guess I should say he only wants to talk. He never wants to converse. Anytime I’ve tried to answer one of his calls, he just hangs up. He prefers leaving his cryptic message.
Jake isn’t paying attention. He’s driving, so I listen to the message again.
There’s only one question to resolve. I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid. The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing. Now is the time for the answer. Just one question. One question to answer.
I’ve listened to it so many times. Over and over.
All of a sudden it had gone too far. It was the same message as it had always been, word for word, but this time there was something new at the end. The last message I got changed things. It was the worst. It was really creepy. I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I felt scared and stupid for not putting a stop to the calls sooner. I felt stupid for not telling Jake. I’m still upset about it.
There’s only one question to resolve. I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid. The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing. Now is the time for the answer. Just one question. One question to answer.
And then . . .
Now I’m going to say something that will upset you: I know what you look like. I know your feet and hands and your skin. I know your head and your hair and your heart. You shouldn’t bite your nails.
I decided I definitely had to answer the next time he called. I had to tell him to stop. Even if he didn’t say anything back, I could tell him that. Maybe that would be enough.
The phone rang.
“Why are you calling me? How did you get my number? You can’t keep doing this,” I said. I was mad and scared. This didn’t feel like a random thing anymore. It didn’t feel like he’d just dialed a number off the top of his head. It wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to go away, and he wanted something. What did he want from me? Why me?
“This is about you. I can’t help you!”
I was yelling.
“But you called me,” he said.
“What?”
I hung up and threw my phone down. My chest was heaving.
I know it was just a stupid fluke, but I’ve been biting my nails since fifth grade.