Somebody's Watching Me

Every evening at exactly seven-fifteen, my neighbour stood at his window and watched me.

I noticed him for the first time on a Tuesday. I had been washing a mug at the kitchen sink when I felt that peculiar sensation of being watched. When I looked up, I saw him standing in the upstairs window of the house opposite mine. He was incredibly still, a tall man, perhaps in his fifties, wearing a pale buttoned shirt. His face was difficult to make out through the glass, but I knew he was staring straight at me.

What a creep.

I lowered my head and continued washing the mug. When I looked again, he was still there.

I pulled the kitchen blind down and walked away.

That should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t.

The following evening, I checked the window at seven-fifteen. He was there again. The evening after that too. Again, and again. Every night without fail I saw him. I began to wonder how long he had been watching me before I noticed. Perhaps days. Weeks. Months.

I started keeping the curtains closed, but that didn’t stop me from checking. In fact, it made things worse. I found myself standing in the darkness of my kitchen, peering through the narrow gap between the curtains, waiting for him to appear.

Sometimes he stood with folded arms; other times he rested his hands on the windowsill. Once, I watched as he lifted a cup to his mouth.

I began keeping notes after that. Nothing crazy; I bought a small notebook and wrote down everything that happened. It made me feel a bit better about the situation.

Soon I started noticing other things too. His car was a dark blue hatchback, parked outside his house most mornings. I wrote down the registration number—in case he ever followed me outside the house. He left for work around eight and got home just after five-forty. He did a weekly shop on Thursdays and collected his post every morning. Strangely enough, I never saw any visitors.

I took a photo of the car from my bedroom window. His house too. And him.

I used my phone and zoomed in through the gaps in my curtains. By the end of the week I had dozens. Some of them were blurry, but it was enough to show his face. He was always there. Watching me.

Once, when my sister was visiting, I showed her.

“That’s creepy,” she said.

“Exactly.”

She stared at the photo a moment longer. “Who’s he looking at?”

“Me.”

She gave me an odd look before returning to the picture.

“What?” I asked.

She shook her head, sipping her tea. “Nothing.”

After that, I decided not to tell her anymore. She didn’t get it.

After a while, the photographs covered the wall above my desk. I wrote on all of them with markers, noting dates and times. After a short time, I realised that patterns were beginning to emerge. This guy was consistent. Like, way too consistent. He left the house at almost exactly the same time every day. Maybe he was waiting for me to leave?

So, I changed my routine. On Monday I left at half-seven and sat in the café down the road till half-nine. When I returned, his car was gone. I wrote it down.

The next morning I left twenty minutes after eight. But his car was still there. How odd.

I stopped sleeping properly. Every noise outside woke me: passing footsteps, tyres against the kerb, a car door. Once, at two in the morning, I heard someone walking past my house. But when I looked, no one was there.

Across the street, however, my neighbour's upstairs window was illuminated. I could see his silhouette standing there, watching me. I took a photo; it was exactly 2:18 am.

I stared at the photograph the following morning. It was grainy, incredibly dark too. I turned the brightness up and zoomed in until the pixels became a mush of colour. There he was. A pale face behind the glass. Watching me.

By that point I must have had a hundred photos.

I started wondering what he was doing while I was asleep. If he was watching my house at two in the morning, then who was to say he hadn’t been watching it for longer? Perhaps he had cameras. Perhaps he knew when I left and when I came home.

That particular thought made my stomach twist.

I checked the locks before going to bed. Then I checked them again, just to be sure.

I began keeping the curtains and blinds closed during the day too. I didn’t want him to know when I was home. If he could see me moving around, he could learn my routine.

Of course, I already knew his. But it wasn't like I was watching him. I was watching for him.

A few days later I noticed something strange. It was ten past eight, and his car was still outside. Surely he should have left by now? I waited a bit longer, but ten more minutes passed and he still hadn’t left. I found myself staring through the window, wondering if he’d seen me looking at him. Eventually, the upstairs curtains moved. I quickly ducked away, my heart pounding. He knew. I was certain of it.

I stayed away from the window for almost an hour before I dared to look again. His car was gone. I made note of the time and what happened. It bothered me all day. Was he waiting? And if so, for what?

That evening I saw him at the window again, right on time, seven-fifteen. I watched him for about half an hour before a thought occurred to me.

If he was watching me every night, then why did he never seem to react when I moved?

I stood up; he remained still. I walked into the hallway, but nothing. I returned to the kitchen, and he was still there. I decided to wave. But he didn’t react. I raised my hand again, slower this time, but he showed no response.

Maybe he wasn’t watching me after all. That thought lasted for less than three seconds. Because right after, I watched as he raised his hand. My stomach dropped. He had been waiting.

I stepped away from the window. I couldn't explain how I knew, but I suddenly felt certain that he was trying to communicate with me.

The next morning, I followed him. I didn’t mean to; I just happened to leave the house at the same time. His car pulled away just as I reached the end of my drive, and without really thinking, I got into mine.

I stayed several cars behind him. I only wanted to know where he worked. If I knew where he went during the day, maybe I could understand whether he was following me.

He drove for twenty minutes before pulling into the car park of an office building. I noted the address before heading home.

When I pulled up to my house, I had a thought. He was out, so surely he wouldn't notice a quick visit? I quickly crossed the road and opened the mailbox. I took out a letter and snapped a photo of the name.

Bingo.

After that, it was surprisingly easy to find more about him. I learned where he worked. Turned out he did some charity events in his free time. I discovered that he had lived in the neighbourhood for six years. But apart from that, there was little else to him. No wife, no kids. Not even any friends.

The more I searched, the more unsettled I became. Why was he so interested in me? What did he want?

I printed a photo of him I’d found online and pinned it to the wall above my desk. Beneath it I added a single question: Why me?

My sister came over again that weekend. She stopped when she saw the wall.

“What is all this?” she asked.

“Evidence,” I replied. “He’s been watching me.”

She stared at the photos for a while. There were pictures of his house, his car, his workplace, the route he took to work. His portrait sat at the centre. She reached over and slightly lifted it to get a better view.

“You’ve been doing this the whole time?”

“I need to know why he’s doing this.”

She turned to look at me. “Have you ever actually spoken to him?” she questioned.

“Not yet.” I shrugged.

“You should probably leave him alone.”

I laughed. “That’s exactly what he’d want!”

She frowned, her face scrunching up. “What?”

“If I stop looking, he wins.”

She didn’t say anything after that.

Before she left, she stood by the door for a short moment.

“You know,” she said quietly, “you don't have to keep doing this.”

As she walked down the garden path, I watched. I didn’t understand what she meant.

That night I decided I’d confront him. I waited until seven-fifteen. As always, his silhouette appeared behind the upstairs window.

I grabbed my coat and crossed the road. I knocked twice. For a moment there was no response. Then I heard footsteps approaching from inside.

The door opened, and there he stood. Up close, he looked nothing like I’d imagined. He was older, thinner. His eyes were dark with exhaustion. He stared at me.

“You,” he said.

“I need to talk to you,” I replied.

His face went pale. “Please,” he whispered. “Just go home.”

“No,” I bit. “You’ve been watching me for weeks.”

“No,” he said. 

“Yes.”

“You’ve got it backwards,” he said.

I frowned. “What?”

He didn't respond. Instead, he headed back into his house, disappearing into the hallway. I decided to follow.

“Where are you going?” I questioned.

He stopped, turning back to me. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“What are you talking about?” I shouted. “You’re the one harassing me!”

His face shifted into something I couldn't quite understand. But something about it read as disgust.

“Really? I’ve been hounding you?” He slammed a padded envelope to my chest. “Go on, open it.”

Inside was a collection of photos. And all of them were me. Me leaving my house. Me in the car. Me at his post box.

“So what, you’re just admitting it like this? You really are a stalker.”

“I'm the stalker?” he jeered. “You’ve been following me, going through my mail, waiting at my house!”

At that moment I pulled out the exact photo he was talking about. It was me, captured from the perspective of his patio camera. The timestamp read 3:34 am. I was just standing there, at his front door.

“What? But that's …”

“That’s you! Why are you doing this? What did I ever do to you?” he pleaded. “Please, just leave me alone.”

I wanted to argue. To say something to defend myself. But I couldn't. I had followed him to work. I had looked through his mail. And evidently, I had waited at his house.

“I—I don’t … “ What could I say? How many times had I gone to his house and watched? How many times had I stood at that window at seven-fifteen and stared through the blinds?

And, most frightening of all, I realised I wasn't completely certain he had ever been watching me in the first place.