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I worked as a social worker for
twelve years out on the East Coast.

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I saw children who were mistreated,
women that were abused, and plenty of

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others that had mental health problems,
bad judgment or worse luck. So many

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people suffering, and you get invested
and try to help and then have to

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leave it at the job so it
doesn't eat you alive when you go.

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And for the most part, I
was good at compartmentalizing that stuff. But

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then five months before I quit and
moved across the country, I met a

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young traumatized woman and everything changed.
Her name was Hattie McGovern and she was

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a college student who had been attacked
the night before as she crossed through a

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park and the way to a neighborhood. When I saw her, she was

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on the first day of three days
of observation. She had injuries, sure,

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but there were largely cuts and abrasions
to a scalp, and what she

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was saying didn't entirely make sense.
When we were alone and I was finished

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telling her about the government services she
might benefit from, I asked her if

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she wanted to talk about what happened. I'd heard enough from the nurse outside

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to know it would be wild,
but I had no idea of the details

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until she began to speak in a
soft, hoarse voice. She said she'd

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been halfway through the park, walking
at a fast pace because she planned on

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taking a shower and then heading back
out to meet some friends, and was

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running behind when she realized an older
man was walking next to her, well

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not next to her, she said, about fifty feet away, traveling across

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the grass, stepping over hedges and
sidewalks without slowing or even looking at where

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he was going. Instead, he
was just keeping pace with her, step

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for step and staring at her with
a wide smile that made him look like

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a skull between his pale skin and
his bald head. This freaked her out,

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of course, and she began walking
faster. She didn't run, she

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said, because she felt like it
was kind of like running from a bear.

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You shouldn't show weakness or fear,
but just get away before things went

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from weird to bad. So she
turned to look to where she was going

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and to see if she saw any
people closer than her apartment complex ad block

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away. There was none, and
when she looked back to where the man

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had been, he was gone.
That when she felt the hand plunging into

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a long blonde hair and pulling her
to the ground. Known he was going

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to be something about her hair.
Her injuries, other than a bruise on

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her throat and a couple of other
scrapes, were all on her head,

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dozens of oozing places where the strange
board man had held her down and roughly

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cut off all her hair with a
straight razor. Crying softly, she showed

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me a picture of her the week
before, long curly hair the color of

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summer honey framed her. Then smiling
face. I passed her that didn't know

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what was about to happen. The
version of her before me looked ten years

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older and broken in some fundamental way. Sniffing back tears, she said that

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when the men yanked her to the
ground, the breath went out of her,

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but she immediately started trying to get
up and get away. That he

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had grabbed her by the throat and
held her back down, but just for

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a moment, just long enough that
he could spit in her face. Hattie

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said it made no sense, but
after he did that, she couldn't move

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anymore, not at all. The
girl told me the doctors had tried to

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say it was shock or fear,
but she said that was nonsense. She

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was paralyzed by the thick, foul
smelling wad he'd spat onto her face,

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and even him producing the straight razor
from a hidden pocket didn't get a move

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in again. Beyond the hammering of
a heart. He never said anything,

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just smiled as he began gripping handfuls
of her hair and scraping them off a

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scalp. I asked her if it
hurt, and she gave me a warchy

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laugh. She said that sure it
did, but that wasn't the worst part.

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He was feeling so violated and having
a part of her taken away,

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even more than the fear of what
he might do to her after the feeling

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had been the worst. When he
had rolled her over to her stomach to

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cut the rest of her hair off, she felt the first tingles of movements

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starting to come back, not enough
to really move, but some small,

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stirring twitches. She decided to wait, let it come back more, and

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then tried to run when the opportunity
came or he was distracted, not that

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she was just sitting and waiting for
him to do whatever he wanted. Every

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moment she was tensed to try and
fight if she saw the blade coming for

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her neck, or if he tried
to take her clothes off. She just

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knew that she couldn't really move or
fight yet, and she wanted him to

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either go slow or just stop and
leave her alone. He chose the latter.

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When he had cut off the last
of her hair, he scooped up

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the pile next to her head and
walked a few feet away out of a

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line of sight. She heard some
kind of gasping, choking sound then,

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and while it took all her strength, she managed to turn her head slightly

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to see what he was doing.
He was eating her hair, all of

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it. Golden fistfuls were crammed in
one after the other as he chewed and

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gasped and choked and swallowed. The
sound was disgusting, but seeing it was

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worse. She said, it scared
her worse than before, though she couldn't

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have said why. And it was
then, as she lay frozen and horrified,

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that the man suddenly let out a
gasping groan and toppled over under the

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grass. He lay there, twitching
for what felt like a minute or two,

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and though from her angle she couldn't
see his face. She felt like

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he was either having a seizure or
choking to death. She hoped for the

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latter, but didn't dare rely on
that. Forcing her limbs to move,

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she got to her hands and knees
and started to crawl out of the street.

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Everything felt weird and slow, but
she started making progress, periodically looking

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back to see if the man was
still out. First time, still down

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and twitching. Second time he was
sitting up and staring at her. It

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was at this point that she started
shaking and crying harder. So after waiting

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a couple of minutes, I asked
the question to prompt her. Did he

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come for her again? No,
she said. They looked at each other,

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He gave her another smile, and
she started crawling faster or screaming her

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head off. The guy was jogging
down the other side of the street and

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came over to help. When she
looked back the next time, her attacker

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was gone. Thank god, I
said, and she nodded in mute agreement.

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But I could tell there was something
more. When I asked, she

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paused a long time before shaking her
head. You'll just think I'm a crazy

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liar, like they do. I
had to reassure her that I wouldn't think

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any such thing several times before she
finally told me the rest when he sat

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up. When I saw him that
last time, he wasn't bald anymore.

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He had long, curly hair,
blonde hair just like mine. He ate

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my hair and stole it from me. Over the next couple of months,

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I checked on her case. Hattie
had moved back to Wisconsin to be with

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her family, and while her physical
wounds were healing well enough, she still

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had emotional issues she was working through
from the attack. When I called her

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mental health counselor at a new college, she tried to talk very broadly and

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not give me any details, But
toward the end of the conversation she did

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let one slip. The poor dear, it's so strange how her hair won't

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grow back. It was another month
and a half before I saw the graffiti.

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I normally took a bus home to
just two blocks from my work,

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but one day my normal bus line
was delayed due to an accident, so

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I had the choice of paying for
a taxi or walking further to a different

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stop. I picked the latter,
and while the neighborhood I traveled through didn't

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seem especially rough or dangerous. It
was more run down than the places I

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worked or lived, more closed businesses
and unkent blots and graffiti scattered along the

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walls here and there. It was, when I was nearing the bus stop

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that I had to walk under an
overpass bridge that I had colorful drawings and

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sayings, insults and boasts. Yet
among that riot of lines and squiggles,

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one thing stood apart, as though
none of the rest wanted to be close

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to this single line, written in
simple letters of dark red, he I

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only eat the best of us.
A year earlier, I would have laughed

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at the line, wondering if it
was a social commentary or a line from

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a movie. But walking through that
patch of shadows, as the words burned

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down at me from above, my
mind immediately went a hattie, and I

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walked faster until I reached my stop. When I reached it, I looked

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back, and that's when I saw
him, a thin, pale man with

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long, flowing blonde hair. I
might have let out a little scream right

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then, I don't remember. I
do recall turning back to the street,

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thinking I needed to call a taxi
or get someone's attention. When I saw

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the bus turning the corner, A
blocked down and I nearly cried and really

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running to meet it. I jumped
on as soon as the doors opened,

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and when I looked back, I
saw no sign of the man anywhere.

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Heart pounding, I scanned my pass
and took a seat in the middle of

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the bus. It was only half
full, but the comfort of being around

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other people, even total strangers,
was undeniable. I felt like a gazelle

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hiding in the herd from a stalking
lion. The dramatic flare of the thought

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made me laugh. Wasn't I overreacting? Had I really seen the man?

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Or had I just imagined it because
I was tired and taking a strange route

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that made me uneasy. Glancing at
my phone, I guessed my nearest stop

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to home would be about twenty minutes
away. After a moment's debate, I

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set my phone alarm for fifteen in
case I dozed off, though that seemed

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unlikely given the panic I had felt
a few moments before. I might not

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ever sleep. I woke up to
words being spoken right next to my ear.

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Few have lovely eyes. I jumped
to my seat and started to turn

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round when I froze. The evening
had fully come on by now, and

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the windows of the bus were all
black with the growing night outside. In

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the reflection of the window closest to
me, I could not only see myself,

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but who had spoken to me.
It was the old blond man,

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leaning against my ear like a whispering
lover. In the reflection, my terrified

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gaze found his milky eyes hanging like
infected moons above his sickly sickle smile.

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He held me with that look for
a moment before rasping out the words again,

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you have lovely eyes. My fear
broke the spell this time, and

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I jumped out of my seat and
rushed to the front, yelling for the

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driver to let me out. Let
me out now, goddamn it. Looking

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surprised and irritated, he pulled at
the curb, even as my phone alarm

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went off. I was just two
blocks away now, and I wasn't above

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running the entire way, so that's
exactly what I did. I jumped off

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the bus as the doors opened,
pulling off my heels and running barefoot down

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the sidewalk for two blocks to my
building. I never looked back the entire

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time. And it wasn't until I
was behind my door and the dead bolt

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was thrown that I took a breath
or dared to look back out through the

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peep hole. I saw no sign
of anyone out there, and when I

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went to my windows to look for
any sign of the old man following me,

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I found none. Good it was
maybe a coincidence, but even if

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it was Hattie guy, he couldn't
have followed me all the way home,

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not with how fast I was.
There was a knock at the door,

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stifling another scream. I crept back
to the door, not wanting to betray

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that I was home. Looking back
through the peep hole, I saw nothing.

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Maybe he had been a mistake and
the person had realized they had the

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wrong door and went on. I
waited for a couple of minutes, watching

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and listening for someone, and there
was nothing. It wasn't until I turned

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to go into the living room that
a new knock returned, this one more

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rhythmic and familiar. Knock knock,
kN knock, knock, knock knock.

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I gave a shudder as I realized
I recognized what that was. Shaven a

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haircut, two bits, biting my
lip, I went back to the door

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and stared out again through the hole. There was still no one out there

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that I could see, not that
I was about to open the door to

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fully check. What if they were
just standing to the side waiting for me

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to crack the door. I debated
calling the police, but I wasn't sure

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what to tell them, or if
they'd even come for something so small,

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so instead I called the building's handyman. George told him I thought a creepy

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guy might have followed me into the
building, and now someone kept knocking on

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my door. I asked him,
did he mind coming up and just see

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if he saw anything. He sounded
sleepy and irritated initially, but when he

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heard the fear of my voice,
he said he'd be right there. Less

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than five minutes later, there was
a new knock on the door, for

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this time who was quickly followed by
George's voice, Miss Castillo. There's no

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one out here. Now. I'm
going to double check the other doors,

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but I think you're okay. Someone
did leave you something out here, though

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I unlocked the door and opened it
part way left something what. George pushed

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the items through the crack and handed
it to me. There that's for you.

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I guess. I think you're okay, but you be careful. Okay,

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there are some bad things out there. I noticed that he said things

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instead of people, but I let
it pass. George, it's something wrong.

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He looked a little paler as he
forced a smile and shook his head,

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never raising his eyes to me.
No, I think everything is okay.

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Just keep your door locked, okay, and let me know if you

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have any more trouble. I gotta
get back downstairs. I thought about reminding

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him to check the other floors,
but then he was gone, shutting the

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door back and locking it. I
decided it didn't matter. I had a

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feeling he wasn't going anywhere except down
to his own apartment to turn his own

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dead bolt. That feeling only grew
when I turned on the lights and looked

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more closely at what had been left
for me. Maybe it had been a

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mocking threat or a warning, but
I knew what it felt like a promise.

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So the next day I gave my
notice and move most my stuff into

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an extended stay hotel. Three weeks
later, I was driving a moving truck

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across the country to my new home. The first thing I set out in

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my new house was the gift I
got that night. I hate looking at

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it, but I need to see
it, be reminded of it, like

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a head or heart full of scars, or the red letter scrawled underneath a

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bridge. It warns me to never
let my guard down, to never assume

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that the darkness has nothing but empty
fear waiting for me in its depths.

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Even now, I can see it
on my mantle, gleaming a dull gray.

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I think it's made of pewter,
and it feels very heavy and old.

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The few times I've been able to
make myself touch it, not that

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I need to any more, I
still see it when I close my eyes.

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A thick handled metal spoon with a
deep round bowl. The tabors to

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a sharp edge on the outer rim, not by initial design, but by

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use of wet stone or a grinder. It's more of a razor, now,

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hard and cold and bitingly thin,
shaped for cutting and digging. And

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I know, without checking that if
some one were to stick it into my

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eye socket, they could sliced through
the lid and scoop out my eyeball like

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a bit of over ripe melon.
My hands are shaking as I tell you

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this. I can't quite look at
the mantle any longer, so I look

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out the window instead. It's not
dark yet, but the shadows are growing

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fatter with each passing morsel of the
day. I force myself to keep looking

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into the deepening twilight, and some
nights I even tell myself, I'm not

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still afraid. But the whisper in
my heart is en of bravery or strength,

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is the dreadful double thrum of the
gazelle's heart looking out into the darkness,

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not looking out of courage, but
out of terror and necessity and weak

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trembling. Hope, hope that when
we look out into the darkness, nothing

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looks back or is drawing near