I was just one of many moderators on a popular horror subreddit. A year ago, I noticed something odd with a new post.

The story was about a woman being stalked. The main character lived alone with a tortoiseshell cat in a small Iowa community. She bought vanilla Soy lattes on Saturdays as a special treat after visiting her grandmother at the nursing home. After dinner, the main character would curl up on her couch with her laptop and Army of Darkness pillow and read until bed.

The main character was me. The author didn't come right out and use my name or user name, but it was me. I was sure of it. I am the sole occupant of the overlapping center position in the Ven diagram: small Iowa town, tortoiseshell cat owner, Saturday vanilla latte after a nursing home visit, and Army of Darkness throw pillow cuddler.

I was creeped out.

The rest of the night, I tiptoed around the house with my Stupid Freaking Cat weaving between my legs. After testing each door lock with a hard pull, I felt better but decided to check the closets. My Stupid Freaking Cat jumped into each closet happily as I poked at the hanging clothes with a broom handle.

When I finished checking the house for hidden attackers, I felt silly. Coincidences happen, I told myself. But I locked my bedroom door. Then I had to take a melatonin gummy just to get to sleep.

The following day was typical. I dressed, ate breakfast, fed the Stupid Freaking Cat, and drove to work. Nothing was different, but throughout my morning routine, I felt a tingle on the back of my neck like someone was watching me. I told myself I was acting paranoid, but the feeling wouldn't disappear.

At lunch, when I would usually be eating at my desk and proofreading PowerPoint decks, I ate at my desk and clicked on u/ mal*****'s Reddit profile.

u/ mal***** only posted once or twice a year and only to the subreddit I helped moderate. Each story they posted was broadly similar. The Main Character is followed. Their habits are documented and photographed. Then the stalker finds a way into the Main Character's home and makes themselves known by leaving a small gift. The gifts the stalker leaves behind are small things like earrings or, in one case, baby shoes. The Main Character in that story was expecting.

Finally, when the Main Character is alone at night, the stalker comes for them. The last paragraph is always the Main Character’s reaction as the hooded silhouette of the stalker approaches them.

While each story was similar, there were differences in setting or situation. The Main Character could be male or female, old or young. Some lived alone, but many lived with family or roommates.

The settings also varied. One Main Character lived in a European coastal city, but most lived in North America.

I sat at my work desk and pondered as I ate my peanut butter crackers. Was this all a coincidence? Did the author just enjoy creating victims and fantasizing about their fear? If so, was the woman in u/ mal *****'s latest story me or just a writing exercise? Is something much worse happening?

After work, I called my brother. Gary is one of the few Social workers left in southwest Iowa. He's also the only family I have left besides grandma, so anytime I need to vent, he's my first choice.

Gary listened as I drove home. He listened as I turned on every light in my cozy two-bedroom. He listened as I double-checked the locks and as I made sure the windows were bolted shut. And he listened as I once again probed the closets with a broom.

"Well," he said as I finally gave him a moment to reply. "Did you want me to listen, or do you need some advice?"

"Advice," I said as my Stupid Freaking Cat curled around my legs.

Gary took a deep breath. "If you think you are being paranoid, watch some sappy cable propaganda films about idyllic small-town life and then drink every time a young widower has to chop or carry wood. "

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it will get you drunk, and then you can dream of Christmas trees instead of demon cats or whatever it is you read about every night."

"And if I don't think I'm paranoid?" I asked.

"If you don't think you're paranoid, try the NAMUS website. You can search for missing persons and filter by date, location, and a half dozen other variables. If you don't find anything, this whole thing is a coincidence. If you find something or someone, go to the Police or the FBI."

As much as I wanted the story to be a coincidence, my mind wouldn't rest. I spent most of the evening searching the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System or NAMUS database. At first, I didn't find anything that worried me, but then I searched by county instead of by city and found someone.

Alex's description was Male, Black / African American. He disappeared from his home two weeks after a story by u/ mal***** described a black man in a Hawaiian shirt with bleached blond hair.

My heart raced as I looked at Alex's smiling photo. Alex wore a shirt with multicolored pineapples tumbling across a red background. His hair was bleach blond and cut into a short flat top.

The next person I found was a young mother of two. u/ mal***** described her blue and orange braces and permed hair. She loved dogs and had a paw print tattoo on her forearm. She disappeared one month after u/ mal***** posted their story.

All night I searched and compared character descriptions with missing person reports. When I gave up the search, I had five missing person reports and their accompanying stories. I emailed everything to my brother, and because it was the weekend and I was exhausted, I climbed into bed, fully dressed. The world went black the moment my head hit the pillow.

When I woke, I knew something was wrong. My Stupid Freaking Cat wasn't lying against my back or sitting on my head. I sat up and examined my bedroom. The door to the bedroom was closed. I blew out a breath I did not realize I was holding. My Stupid Freaking Cat wasn't in bed with me because I had closed the door. I began to relax but then I saw the nail polish bottle on my dresser.

I don't wear nail polish.

Standing automatically, I was drawn to the bright red bottle. I reached for the nail polish and noticed my hand.

My face felt hot. My breaths drew quick and shallow.

My nails were painted the same bright red as the nail polish. I raised both hands and examined the tips of my fingers. They were all red. The edges of my vision began to darken as I felt myself tilt and fall.

The room was dark when I woke from my position on the floor. A rhythmic pounding echoed through my small home. A woman's voice pronounced loudly that she was a Police Sergeant between sharp raps on my front door. I hauled myself upright and nearly tripped over my Stupid Freaking Cat as I lurched out of the bedroom.

The deadbolt was locked. My painted nails mocked the usefulness of the security measure as I turned the bolt and asked the Sergeant to come in.

Sergeant Johnson was a short rectangular woman with an aggressive ponytail bound low to the back of her head. I had seen her from time to time responding to traffic accidents along the highway or escorting shoplifters from the local Walmart to a police cruiser.

"Your brother asked us to do a wellness check," she stated. "He said you weren't answering your phone."

My voice broke and shook against my wishes as I said, "Someone was in my house."

I stood aside, let Sergeant Johnson into my home, and blurted out my suspicions as she checked each room. I couldn't tell if she believed me or not. However, after I showed her the email I sent my brother, she asked me to follow her to the police station. I spent the rest of the afternoon retelling my story to one investigator after another.

After the excitement, Sergeant Johnson followed me home and, at my request, searched my house for intruders again. My Stupid Freaking Cat wound around her leg as she told me an officer would keep an eye on my home. Then Sergeant Johnson drove away as a second patrol car parked in front of my house.

I stood alone in my living room, afraid to move. My home didn't feel safe anymore, but I could not imagine being elsewhere. When I finally felt exhaustion begin to take me, I lowered myself to the floor and slept next to the front door.

Two months passed as I waited for my turn as the victim. Every day that it didn't happen, I felt less afraid. New locks, a security system, and security cameras added to my sense of well-being.

The Police didn't have any news to share, but they were confident that the process was working. And since I hadn't been attacked, I had to agree with them.

Then the message came.

I sat in the dark, my legs crisscrossed on the sofa, petting the Stupid Freaking Cat when a notification pulled my attention to my laptop. The message looked like one of the template messages we used in the subreddit I helped moderate.

A low whimper escaped me as I read the user name u/ mal*****. I held my breath as I read.

Hello u/ po*****.

I enjoyed your story and can't wait to find the next one in the series.

Slice-of-life stories are allowed on r/ sn**** as long as the story's focus is horror. If the Slice-of-life elements in the story overshadow the horror, YOU will be removed. This is the case with your story.

For a complete list of community guidelines, please click here.

Thank you!

Numb and needing to understand, I clicked the community guidelines link.

The click-here link took me to a high-resolution jpg of Pieter Bruegel the Elder's 1562 painting, The Triumph of Death. The painting is a panorama of a skeleton army marching to war across a desolate landscape. Every manner of violent death is depicted on that canvas. I tried to close the image, but my laptop froze and shut itself down.

My chest felt tight as I stood and walked to the window.

Police cruisers were common near my home, but their visits had become less frequent in the past few weeks. I searched the night for any sign of an officer, but the street was empty.

From behind my curtains, I looked for movement or any indication that I wasn't alone. As I studied the horizon, the creaking moan of my bedroom door shocked me to attention.

I turned. The figure stood at my bedroom door. The light of my bedside lamp backlit their form. The shadow of a raised hood hid the figure's face.

All of u/ mal***** stories end like this. The stalker's silhouette is the last thing each victim sees.

A random thought flashed through my mind, and then manic laughter escaped me as frightened tears rolled down my face. I laughed and could not catch my breath. The edges of my sight began to darken. The thought bouncing around my mind drove me to even louder hysterics, and I doubled over to catch my breath.

A change came over the figure's posture. The figure’s confident menace was now replaced by a less sure silhouette. I don't know why I found it as funny as I did, but I voiced the realization that had me cackling like a mad woman.

"You posed for me," I yelled at the silhouette." You turned on my lamp and posed," I squeaked as my breath ran out and I held my sides.

I stepped back just as the figure lunged at me. My Stupid Freaking Cat yowled a complaint as the figure's forward momentum changed from a lunge into a face plant. The unexpected thud of my attacker crashing to the floor was enough to bring me back to the reality of the situation.

Sprinting out of my house with only my pajamas and socks on, I ran the quarter mile to my nearest neighbor's home at what had to be a record-breaking speed.

My eyes darted in every direction, searching for my attacker as I pounded on the neighbor's door. I saw no one behind me, but that didn't stop me from pounding harder. A hunched older man opened the door. He glared at my panicked face and bloody socks and then waved me into his home.

Some people believe that everyone in a small town knows each other. That's just not true. I had never met Mr. Humeston before he waved me into his home and called the Police. But I am grateful he sat with me and distracted me with stories of his time as a rodeo clown as we waited for the Police to search my home.

The Police found blood on my floor, but that was all. u/ mal**** escaped.

Sergeant Johnson took my statement. Disappointment flashed across her face when I told her I only saw a silhouette. I didn't even hear u/ mal ****'s voice when my Stupid Freaking Cat tripped them.

That night when I was allowed in my home, I fed my Stupid Freaking Cat shredded chicken. After his meal, I forced my Stupid Freaking Cat to sit with me as I leaned against the front door. Saving my life was at least worth a chicken dinner.

This space, my home, didn't feel like it was mine anymore. It didn't feel safe. I would have to move.

Later that week, a woman I didn't recognize rang my new camera doorbell as I searched for homes online. I stared suspiciously at the figure on my phone until I realized it was Sergeant Johnson. She wasn't on duty and seeing her without her uniform and strict ponytail made her almost unrecognizable. I poured coffee, and My Stupid Freaking Cat jumped on Sergeant Johnson's lap as she 'unofficially' told me what she knew of the u/ mal**** investigation.

"They tested the blood, so we know u /mal ****'s a man, and because of your description, we know his approximate height, but that's about it," she said. "We don't know if u/ mal**** realizes their user name has been exposed. We were told the FBI has requested that the user's account remain active pending the investigation. They're hoping he'll use the account again when he moves on to his next victim. Hopefully, we can better understand his location if he posts again."

"What if he doesn't move on?" I whispered.

The look of concern on Sergeant Johnson's face confirmed my suspicions. I wasn't taken because of dumb luck and my Stupid Freaking Cat. u/ mal**** is intelligent and patient, and if he wants to take me, the Police cannot stop him.

I've made several changes since the attack. I moved. I changed my name. I found a new job in a new city. I don't see my grandma or brother as much, but I made it as difficult for u/ mal**** to find me as possible.

And, u/ mal**** has been silent until today. Today u/ mal**** posted a new story.