I worked as a social worker for twelve years out on the East Coast.
I saw children who were mistreated, women that were abused, and plenty of
others that had mental health problems, bad judgment or worse luck. So many
people suffering, and you get invested and try to help and then have to
leave it at the job so it doesn't eat you alive when you go.
And for the most part, I was good at compartmentalizing that stuff. But
then five months before I quit and moved across the country, I met a
young traumatized woman and everything changed. Her name was Hattie McGovern and she was
a college student who had been attacked the night before as she crossed through a
park and the way to a neighborhood. When I saw her, she was
on the first day of three days of observation. She had injuries, sure,
but there were largely cuts and abrasions to a scalp, and what she
was saying didn't entirely make sense. When we were alone and I was finished
telling her about the government services she might benefit from, I asked her if
she wanted to talk about what happened. I'd heard enough from the nurse outside
to know it would be wild, but I had no idea of the details
until she began to speak in a soft, hoarse voice. She said she'd
been halfway through the park, walking at a fast pace because she planned on
taking a shower and then heading back out to meet some friends, and was
running behind when she realized an older man was walking next to her, well
not next to her, she said, about fifty feet away, traveling across
the grass, stepping over hedges and sidewalks without slowing or even looking at where
he was going. Instead, he was just keeping pace with her, step
for step and staring at her with a wide smile that made him look like
a skull between his pale skin and his bald head. This freaked her out,
of course, and she began walking faster. She didn't run, she
said, because she felt like it was kind of like running from a bear.
You shouldn't show weakness or fear, but just get away before things went
from weird to bad. So she turned to look to where she was going
and to see if she saw any people closer than her apartment complex ad block
away. There was none, and when she looked back to where the man
had been, he was gone. That when she felt the hand plunging into
a long blonde hair and pulling her to the ground. Known he was going
to be something about her hair. Her injuries, other than a bruise on
her throat and a couple of other scrapes, were all on her head,
dozens of oozing places where the strange board man had held her down and roughly
cut off all her hair with a straight razor. Crying softly, she showed
me a picture of her the week before, long curly hair the color of
summer honey framed her. Then smiling face. I passed her that didn't know
what was about to happen. The version of her before me looked ten years
older and broken in some fundamental way. Sniffing back tears, she said that
when the men yanked her to the ground, the breath went out of her,
but she immediately started trying to get up and get away. That he
had grabbed her by the throat and held her back down, but just for
a moment, just long enough that he could spit in her face. Hattie
said it made no sense, but after he did that, she couldn't move
anymore, not at all. The girl told me the doctors had tried to
say it was shock or fear, but she said that was nonsense. She
was paralyzed by the thick, foul smelling wad he'd spat onto her face,
and even him producing the straight razor from a hidden pocket didn't get a move
in again. Beyond the hammering of a heart. He never said anything,
just smiled as he began gripping handfuls of her hair and scraping them off a
scalp. I asked her if it hurt, and she gave me a warchy
laugh. She said that sure it did, but that wasn't the worst part.
He was feeling so violated and having a part of her taken away,
even more than the fear of what he might do to her after the feeling
had been the worst. When he had rolled her over to her stomach to
cut the rest of her hair off, she felt the first tingles of movements
starting to come back, not enough to really move, but some small,
stirring twitches. She decided to wait, let it come back more, and
then tried to run when the opportunity came or he was distracted, not that
she was just sitting and waiting for him to do whatever he wanted. Every
moment she was tensed to try and fight if she saw the blade coming for
her neck, or if he tried to take her clothes off. She just
knew that she couldn't really move or fight yet, and she wanted him to
either go slow or just stop and leave her alone. He chose the latter.
When he had cut off the last of her hair, he scooped up
the pile next to her head and walked a few feet away out of a
line of sight. She heard some kind of gasping, choking sound then,
and while it took all her strength, she managed to turn her head slightly
to see what he was doing. He was eating her hair, all of
it. Golden fistfuls were crammed in one after the other as he chewed and
gasped and choked and swallowed. The sound was disgusting, but seeing it was
worse. She said, it scared her worse than before, though she couldn't
have said why. And it was then, as she lay frozen and horrified,
that the man suddenly let out a gasping groan and toppled over under the
grass. He lay there, twitching for what felt like a minute or two,
and though from her angle she couldn't see his face. She felt like
he was either having a seizure or choking to death. She hoped for the
latter, but didn't dare rely on that. Forcing her limbs to move,
she got to her hands and knees and started to crawl out of the street.
Everything felt weird and slow, but she started making progress, periodically looking
back to see if the man was still out. First time, still down
and twitching. Second time he was sitting up and staring at her. It
was at this point that she started shaking and crying harder. So after waiting
a couple of minutes, I asked the question to prompt her. Did he
come for her again? No, she said. They looked at each other,
He gave her another smile, and she started crawling faster or screaming her
head off. The guy was jogging down the other side of the street and
came over to help. When she looked back the next time, her attacker
was gone. Thank god, I said, and she nodded in mute agreement.
But I could tell there was something more. When I asked, she
paused a long time before shaking her head. You'll just think I'm a crazy
liar, like they do. I had to reassure her that I wouldn't think
any such thing several times before she finally told me the rest when he sat
up. When I saw him that last time, he wasn't bald anymore.
He had long, curly hair, blonde hair just like mine. He ate
my hair and stole it from me. Over the next couple of months,
I checked on her case. Hattie had moved back to Wisconsin to be with
her family, and while her physical wounds were healing well enough, she still
had emotional issues she was working through from the attack. When I called her
mental health counselor at a new college, she tried to talk very broadly and
not give me any details, But toward the end of the conversation she did
let one slip. The poor dear, it's so strange how her hair won't
grow back. It was another month and a half before I saw the graffiti.
I normally took a bus home to just two blocks from my work,
but one day my normal bus line was delayed due to an accident, so
I had the choice of paying for a taxi or walking further to a different
stop. I picked the latter, and while the neighborhood I traveled through didn't
seem especially rough or dangerous. It was more run down than the places I
worked or lived, more closed businesses and unkent blots and graffiti scattered along the
walls here and there. It was, when I was nearing the bus stop
that I had to walk under an overpass bridge that I had colorful drawings and
sayings, insults and boasts. Yet among that riot of lines and squiggles,
one thing stood apart, as though none of the rest wanted to be close
to this single line, written in simple letters of dark red, he I
only eat the best of us. A year earlier, I would have laughed
at the line, wondering if it was a social commentary or a line from
a movie. But walking through that patch of shadows, as the words burned
down at me from above, my mind immediately went a hattie, and I
walked faster until I reached my stop. When I reached it, I looked
back, and that's when I saw him, a thin, pale man with
long, flowing blonde hair. I might have let out a little scream right
then, I don't remember. I do recall turning back to the street,
thinking I needed to call a taxi or get someone's attention. When I saw
the bus turning the corner, A blocked down and I nearly cried and really
running to meet it. I jumped on as soon as the doors opened,
and when I looked back, I saw no sign of the man anywhere.
Heart pounding, I scanned my pass and took a seat in the middle of
the bus. It was only half full, but the comfort of being around
other people, even total strangers, was undeniable. I felt like a gazelle
hiding in the herd from a stalking lion. The dramatic flare of the thought
made me laugh. Wasn't I overreacting? Had I really seen the man?
Or had I just imagined it because I was tired and taking a strange route
that made me uneasy. Glancing at my phone, I guessed my nearest stop
to home would be about twenty minutes away. After a moment's debate, I
set my phone alarm for fifteen in case I dozed off, though that seemed
unlikely given the panic I had felt a few moments before. I might not
ever sleep. I woke up to words being spoken right next to my ear.
Few have lovely eyes. I jumped to my seat and started to turn
round when I froze. The evening had fully come on by now, and
the windows of the bus were all black with the growing night outside. In
the reflection of the window closest to me, I could not only see myself,
but who had spoken to me. It was the old blond man,
leaning against my ear like a whispering lover. In the reflection, my terrified
gaze found his milky eyes hanging like infected moons above his sickly sickle smile.
He held me with that look for a moment before rasping out the words again,
you have lovely eyes. My fear broke the spell this time, and
I jumped out of my seat and rushed to the front, yelling for the
driver to let me out. Let me out now, goddamn it. Looking
surprised and irritated, he pulled at the curb, even as my phone alarm
went off. I was just two blocks away now, and I wasn't above
running the entire way, so that's exactly what I did. I jumped off
the bus as the doors opened, pulling off my heels and running barefoot down
the sidewalk for two blocks to my building. I never looked back the entire
time. And it wasn't until I was behind my door and the dead bolt
was thrown that I took a breath or dared to look back out through the
peep hole. I saw no sign of anyone out there, and when I
went to my windows to look for any sign of the old man following me,
I found none. Good it was maybe a coincidence, but even if
it was Hattie guy, he couldn't have followed me all the way home,
not with how fast I was. There was a knock at the door,
stifling another scream. I crept back to the door, not wanting to betray
that I was home. Looking back through the peep hole, I saw nothing.
Maybe he had been a mistake and the person had realized they had the
wrong door and went on. I waited for a couple of minutes, watching
and listening for someone, and there was nothing. It wasn't until I turned
to go into the living room that a new knock returned, this one more
rhythmic and familiar. Knock knock, kN knock, knock, knock knock.
I gave a shudder as I realized I recognized what that was. Shaven a
haircut, two bits, biting my lip, I went back to the door
and stared out again through the hole. There was still no one out there
that I could see, not that I was about to open the door to
fully check. What if they were just standing to the side waiting for me
to crack the door. I debated calling the police, but I wasn't sure
what to tell them, or if they'd even come for something so small,
so instead I called the building's handyman. George told him I thought a creepy
guy might have followed me into the building, and now someone kept knocking on
my door. I asked him, did he mind coming up and just see
if he saw anything. He sounded sleepy and irritated initially, but when he
heard the fear of my voice, he said he'd be right there. Less
than five minutes later, there was a new knock on the door, for
this time who was quickly followed by George's voice, Miss Castillo. There's no
one out here. Now. I'm going to double check the other doors,
but I think you're okay. Someone did leave you something out here, though
I unlocked the door and opened it part way left something what. George pushed
the items through the crack and handed it to me. There that's for you.
I guess. I think you're okay, but you be careful. Okay,
there are some bad things out there. I noticed that he said things
instead of people, but I let it pass. George, it's something wrong.
He looked a little paler as he forced a smile and shook his head,
never raising his eyes to me. No, I think everything is okay.
Just keep your door locked, okay, and let me know if you
have any more trouble. I gotta get back downstairs. I thought about reminding
him to check the other floors, but then he was gone, shutting the
door back and locking it. I decided it didn't matter. I had a
feeling he wasn't going anywhere except down to his own apartment to turn his own
dead bolt. That feeling only grew when I turned on the lights and looked
more closely at what had been left for me. Maybe it had been a
mocking threat or a warning, but I knew what it felt like a promise.
So the next day I gave my notice and move most my stuff into
an extended stay hotel. Three weeks later, I was driving a moving truck
across the country to my new home. The first thing I set out in
my new house was the gift I got that night. I hate looking at
it, but I need to see it, be reminded of it, like
a head or heart full of scars, or the red letter scrawled underneath a
bridge. It warns me to never let my guard down, to never assume
that the darkness has nothing but empty fear waiting for me in its depths.
Even now, I can see it on my mantle, gleaming a dull gray.
I think it's made of pewter, and it feels very heavy and old.
The few times I've been able to make myself touch it, not that
I need to any more, I still see it when I close my eyes.
A thick handled metal spoon with a deep round bowl. The tabors to
a sharp edge on the outer rim, not by initial design, but by
use of wet stone or a grinder. It's more of a razor, now,
hard and cold and bitingly thin, shaped for cutting and digging. And
I know, without checking that if some one were to stick it into my
eye socket, they could sliced through the lid and scoop out my eyeball like
a bit of over ripe melon. My hands are shaking as I tell you
this. I can't quite look at the mantle any longer, so I look
out the window instead. It's not dark yet, but the shadows are growing
fatter with each passing morsel of the day. I force myself to keep looking
into the deepening twilight, and some nights I even tell myself, I'm not
still afraid. But the whisper in my heart is en of bravery or strength,
is the dreadful double thrum of the gazelle's heart looking out into the darkness,
not looking out of courage, but out of terror and necessity and weak
trembling. Hope, hope that when we look out into the darkness, nothing
looks back or is drawing near