Two years ago, in the dead of winter, my husband and I bought a farm and moved to a tiny town in Appalachia. We figured we’d fit right in, so we went down to the local Tractor Supply to pick up a propane tank. It seemed simple enough. We were standing in the checkout line when a man in his late fifties walked in.
He didn’t grab anything, didn’t look at a single shelf. He just stared at us. Then he reached out, grabbed a random women’s shirt off a rack, turned back, and stared some more before stepping in line directly behind us. He stood so close I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.
I tried to convince myself this was just small-town friendliness, everyone overly nice and a little too comfortable with strangers. So I turned, smiled, nodded, and said, “Good morning. ” Hoping he’d feel the awkwardness and back off. He didn’t.
Instead, he started talking. Pleasant at first. “The weather’s getting cold. ” “This line is taking forever.
” He told us he had to pick up his great-aunt from the airport in two hours. Then it shifted into something more personal. “Where are you from? Where are you living now?
How old are you guys? ”
For context, my husband and I were in our late twenties, but our baby faces could’ve passed for twenty. Easy. When it was our turn, I said, “Have a good day,” and stepped up to the register.
The poor kid behind the counter, seventeen years old, working his weekend job, started explaining their propane pricing. That’s when this guy completely lost it. He started yelling at the kid. “I can’t believe you’re charging them so much for a propane tank!
They’re a young newlywed couple! Why can’t you give them a break? ” He kept going, cursing under his breath, making a scene. Then he turned to us, all charm again.
“Hey, I have a hundred-pound tank I’m not using at my house. I’ll let you have it for free. You just need to come with me. ”
My husband thanked him and declined.
“Are you sure? My house is only twenty minutes from here. I could even give you two tanks. ”
My husband declined again.
“We have to do it now, though,” he said, “because I have to go to the airport and leave town in two hours. ”
We didn’t catch the slip-up until we got home later. At that point, I said, “No, thank you,” in a more assertive tone. He got annoyed, dropped his items, and stormed out.
We went outside to get our tank filled, and wouldn’t you know it, he pulled into the parking spot right next to the fill-up area in his pickup truck. He got out and went at it again. “You should really think about getting a second tank. It’ll save you a trip.
Last you longer. ”
We declined. “If you don’t want to both go, only one of you can come ride with me, and the other can meet me at my place. ”
“No, thank you.
We’re good. ”
“Come on, it’s a small town. It’s safe. I would never hurt such a lovely young couple.
”
That’s when the outdoor employee came out of the propane area and told him to get the hell out and stop bothering us. He got back in his truck. No license plate. Drove off.
The other day, the guy who fills our tank now asked if we ever saw him again. He said that man comes by in the winters when it’s quiet, and he only talks to young couples. Major creepy vibes, all around. I’m in my fifties now, and I finally told my sister why I was so overprotective when we were kids.
This happened back in the mid-eighties. I was twelve. She was nine. We walked home from school every day, a route we knew by heart.
But there’s one memory that stuck for forty years. I can still feel the exact moment the hair on my arms stood up. We were about halfway home when I noticed an older man sitting on a side road, repairing shoes. I think that’s how he made money.
My sister was a lively girl, and I’m not exaggerating when I say she was the prettiest in her classroom and on the whole block. The moment he looked at her, I got chills. It was a different kind of creepy, something that made every nerve in my body scream. When we walked past him, I stayed alert to what was behind us.
My gut never lied to me. He started following us, keeping a steady distance. My sister, being nine, was completely oblivious. She chatted away about her day, swinging her backpack.
I couldn’t even scream. It was like fear had stolen my ability to speak. I knew if we turned onto our street, quiet and lined with trees, we’d be alone with him. So when we reached a small local restaurant right before our turn, I didn’t explain anything.
I just grabbed my sister and pulled her inside. We didn’t buy anything. I led her straight to the back, near the restrooms, and we stood in the narrow hallway. My sister was confused, whining that she wanted to go home because she was hungry and Mom had promised to bake cookies that day.
I kept my hand on her shoulder and gestured for her to be quiet. I peeked through the side window. Thirty seconds later, the man walked past. He stopped.
Stood on the sidewalk, looking up and down the road, genuinely frustrated that he’d lost sight of us. He lingered for what felt like an hour, probably only two minutes, before finally giving up and moving on. We waited a long time before I felt safe enough to leave. From that day on, I refused to take that route.
We walked two blocks out of the way, and I never let her be more than an arm’s length away. Last week, we were talking about our childhood, and she asked why I was always so bossy and paranoid about her leaving the house alone. When I finally told her the truth, the look on her face said she had no idea she was ever in danger. I’m fifty-four now.
I still think about that man, and I still get the same chills every time we pass that route. A kid banged on my door crying for help at three in the morning. My brother and I were woken up by loud banging and sobbing at the front door. We live in a rough neighborhood, so naturally, my brother grabbed his shotgun, cocked it loudly, and started yelling, “It’s three a.
m. Go away. ”
We were tired as hell and freaked out. We’d recently had a girl from the neighborhood break into my car, so we assumed it might be her.
I looked through the front door’s window. We’ve got a one-way film on it. I didn’t see anyone else around. I crouched near the door and listened.
It sounded like a young kid, completely hysterical, begging us to help her call her mom. I told her I was calling 911 and help was on the way. My brother, in full adrenaline mode, opened the door, still holding the shotgun, and started yelling at her to calm down. I didn’t agree with his approach, but in all fairness, she woke up half the block with her screaming while pressed against our door.
When I saw her, my heart dropped. I’d been hoping it was a homeless person or someone looking to mess with us. But it was a kid, kneeling at our doorstep, with a look in her eyes that broke me. I thought she was around fourteen.
She said someone crashed into her car down the street, and she left her phone in the wreck so she couldn’t call her mom. Things weren’t adding up. She kept begging me to go down the street with her, but I refused. “We’re waiting for the cops.
”
About ten minutes later, three tow trucks drove by, heading toward the crash site, so I felt safe enough to walk with her. On the way, she kept asking to hold my hand. I’m thinking, “You look like a teenager, you’re barely dressed, and I’m a grown man walking through the neighborhood you just woke up. Not a good look.
”
I awkwardly asked her age. She said eighteen and grabbed my hand anyway. I felt very uncomfortable, but her emotions were definitely outweighing mine at the time. Halfway there, the cops showed up.
I flagged them down and explained the situation. Meanwhile, she kept telling the officers, “I have really bad ADHD and anxiety,” while handing me her eyelashes. A full set of false lashes. I really didn’t want to touch them, but I took them to help her feel safer, or whatever.
One cop pulled her aside. The other started casually asking me questions. He told me they’d gotten another call about thirty minutes earlier, a teenager running across someone’s lawn barefoot. That’s when I realized she’d been barefoot the whole time.
Then I saw them cuff her. I think they suspected she was on something. I was fifty-fifty on that too. As we were wrapping up, the officer saw me still holding the eyelashes.
“What are you going to do with those, bro? ”
“I’ll sleep on it. I just want to go back to bed. ”
I headed home and talked to one of the neighbors.
He assumed it was her parents’ house or something, so he didn’t want to get involved in domestic drama. Made sense. I figured that’s why no one else got involved. I couldn’t really go back to sleep.
Too shaken up, too worried about her. I imagine it was traumatic for her. I don’t know if her reaction was justified or if she was on drugs or mentally ill, but I’ll definitely be praying for her and her family. Something about the guy in my apartment building doesn’t feel right.
I live in a pretty average complex. Nothing fancy. Three floors. Kind of quiet.
I’ve been here a little over a year, and most people keep to themselves. Say hi in the hall, take out the trash. That’s it. A few weeks ago, a new guy moved into the unit across from mine.
Early thirties, maybe. Thin, buzz cut, always wearing the same gray hoodie even when it was hot out. Didn’t think much of him at first. People come and go.
He leaves his door open sometimes. Not wide open, but cracked. Just enough to see the light on inside. Never any noise.
No TV. No talking. I’ve never seen anyone go in or out except him. One time I was taking the trash out around one in the morning, and he was just standing in the hallway.
No phone. Just standing by his door, staring at the floor like he was waiting for something. I said, “Hey. ” He didn’t even flinch.
Just kept standing there like I wasn’t there. I walked past him and felt my skin crawl, like when you know someone’s watching you. Last night, I woke up around three a. m.
because I heard soft knocking. Not loud. Just a few taps, spaced out. I thought it was my door, but when I looked through the peephole, no one was there.
I stood there for a second, and right as I started to turn away, I heard it again. This time, it sounded like it was coming from inside the hallway. Just slow, spaced-out knocks, like someone testing how quiet they could be. I opened my door and looked out.
Nothing. But his door was open again, a little wider than usual. I couldn’t see anything inside. Just darkness.
I closed my door, locked everything, and sat in my living room with the lights on like a dumbass for an hour before going back to bed. He didn’t leave his apartment at all today. I know because I stayed home from work to see. No movement.
No sound. The door shut tight now. Maybe I’m being paranoid. But something about him just feels wrong.
Like he’s pretending to be normal, but doesn’t actually know how. Should I say something to management? The cops? Feels dumb.
But there’s a feeling in my chest that won’t go away. I’m thirty-one, female, and I was alone at work the other night. A regular customer, a man I always got along with, came walking in through our back door. I thought it was strange, but I let it go and helped him with his purchase.
We chit-chatted. As he was leaving, he asked if I wanted him to make sure the door he came through was actually closed this time. I said, “Yes, please. ”
He left.
I heard the door open and close loudly. Twice. Like he was making sure I knew he was slamming it. I called my boyfriend, put him on speaker, and told him I’d be later than usual because of the last-minute customer.
We were talking when, all of a sudden, the same customer I thought had left came around the corner from our back room to ask me a follow-up question about something totally trivial. I thought he’d left. I have no idea what he was doing back there between the two door slams and me talking on the phone. He must have just been standing back there, for whatever reason.
After that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad could have happened to me. Eighty percent of my brain said I was overreacting. That man wouldn’t do anything to me. The other twenty percent can’t stop wondering what the hell all that was about.
And I’m creeped out. I told my boss the next day. She had me pick up a doorbell from the nearest Lowe’s so delivery drivers can ring it, because the back door is staying locked from now on. My boss wanted to say something to him the next time he came in, but I told her to let it go.
We’ve prevented it from happening again. I’m glad I trusted that small voice inside me. The part I can’t get past is him pretending to slam the door closed, and what might have happened if I’d just walked back there without a thought. I live in Pennsylvania, and it’s completely buried in snow.
I had a job interview the next day, so I spent three hours shoveling my car out. Finally, it was free, warmed up, and I figured I might as well go to CVS now since I’d have to go tomorrow anyway. About fifteen miles away, a twenty-minute drive. When I got there, there was an old lady just standing at the entrance, staring at me.
I brushed it off and went inside. When I came back out, she was gone. I got in my car, closed the door, and within seconds she was knocking on my window. I rolled it down all the way.
My mom later told me never to do that again. She asked where the closest store was. I told her there was one behind her. “No, the other one.
” I suggested the flea market across the street. “No, the other one. ” Then it hit me. She wanted Price Chopper, a ten-minute drive away.
“Can you give me a ride? ” She kept calling her daughter, but no one was answering. “How did you get here? ”
“She walked.
”
“From where? ”
“She lives in the same community as me. ” Fifteen miles away. In freezing snow.
Something didn’t add up. I suggested she take an Uber. She said she didn’t like Ubers because they took too long. She kept insisting Price Chopper was just down the street, even though it wasn’t.
My brain was going crazy. Part of me thought, what if I give her a ride and it’s a good deed that pays off? But the other part was screaming that anything could happen in that car. She could kidnap me, rob me, or worse.
“I can’t. I’m in a rush. ”
She begged a little more, told sob stories, but I stood my ground. Eventually, she walked off.
Here’s the weird part. She didn’t ask a single other person for a ride. She waited for me to get to my car. When I drove off, I could see her head following my car in the mirrors.
I’m eighteen, a young woman who doesn’t look my age at all. People think I’m fifteen. I almost let peer pressure get to me because I’m scared to say no to strangers. I’m glad I trusted my gut.
Maybe it was just an old lady who needed help. But something was off. I think I might have been targeted at a Morgan Wallen concert. It was 2024.
Me, my two sisters-in-law, and my thirteen-year-old niece got floor tickets at US Bank Stadium in Minneapolis. We got there early and got amazing spots up front. We drank a bit, chatted with people around us. As the lights went down, a woman approached me.
About five feet tall, thirty to forty years old. She started a weird, forced conversation, asking who I was there with. She asked my niece’s age. When I told her thirteen, she abruptly changed the subject.
Whenever I asked about her, she acted like she didn’t hear me. As the concert began, we stood next to each other. I was just a step behind the people I came with, but we were vibing. About twenty minutes in, this woman started stumbling into me, lightly grabbing my arm to steady herself.
I let it happen a few times before asking if she was okay. “Yes, she’s fine. ”
She never had a drink in hand. Within a few songs, she couldn’t stand on her own.
Her hundred-pound frame was practically pulling me down by my arm, aggressively and dramatically. I asked if she was there with anyone. She insisted she came alone. Then she insisted I help her leave the crowd so she could get water.
“No, I don’t want to get separated from my people. ”
She begged me over and over until I made eye contact with security on the other side of the gate to the stage and called him over to help. She sobered up real quick. “Oh, no, I don’t want help from him.
” Then she ran out of the crowd, away from us. I truly believe she was sober and faking it. No way she was that intoxicated, couldn’t stand, and then suddenly could run in a straight line. She was trying to separate me from my people.
Terrified by what could have happened. This happened when I was sixteen, during a family vacation in Turkey. We were staying at a fancy, five-star, all-inclusive resort. Big hotel complex, nice place overall.
Everything was great until one evening after dinner. We were heading out again later that night, and I realized I’d left my jacket in the room. I went back alone to grab it. I took the elevator, and just before the doors closed, a man stepped in with me.
I pressed the button for the third floor. He didn’t press anything. When the elevator stopped, I got off. So did he.
I started walking down the long, winding hallway toward our room. The hotel had a big layout with lots of branching corridors, but as I walked, I could feel him behind me, getting closer. My gut screamed, “If you don’t run now, you’re going to die. ” I’ve never felt dread like that in my life.
I sprinted the last stretch to our room, slammed the door shut, and stood there trying to catch my breath. I was shaken, but I figured that was it. Creepy guy, overactive imagination, nothing actually happened. Wrong.
I stayed in the room for a bit, trying to calm down. Then, just as I was thinking about heading back out, the hotel phone rang. I picked it up. It was a man’s voice.
He told me I was beautiful. Asked my name. I was in shock. Then he started telling me the awful things he wanted to do to me.
Vile and explicit. I hung up immediately. My heart was racing. I was crying and trembling.
The phone rang again. And again. Nonstop. That’s when it hit me.
He saw which room I went into. Despite me sprinting, he tracked exactly where I was staying, and that was all he needed. I didn’t want to leave the room. I couldn’t stop imagining him waiting just outside, or finding another way in.
I felt completely trapped. Eventually, after I didn’t show up, my parents got worried and came back to the room. My dad walked in just as the phone rang again. He answered.
The moment my dad said hello, the line went dead. He didn’t call again. I never saw him again. The hotel was big enough that maybe he was staying in a different wing.
We’ll never know. My parents brushed it off. They told me not to make drama. “Creepy stuff happens sometimes.
It’s over now. Let’s move on. ”
To this day, twelve years later, dim and quiet hotel hallways make me incredibly uneasy. I hate walking to hotel rooms alone.
At my old job, two coworkers and I had to go on a work trip. One was a man, the other a Muslim woman who wore a hijab. Everything went well at first. We just did what we were there to do.
The first night, I was exhausted, so I turned down dinner and went back to my hotel room. The next day, my male coworker was quiet and insisted I sit in the front of the car. Weird, but I didn’t think much of it. After our shift, my female coworker invited us for drinks in her room.
I figured a couple of beers wouldn’t hurt. At first, everything was fine. We drank, talked, had fun. Then, out of nowhere, she started hitting on the male coworker, telling him to take his shirt off.
Mind you, he’s happily married. And so is she. He got uncomfortable and said he was going to bed. Before anyone says I should’ve left too, both of them were much older than me, and this was my first job.
I thought they were flirting in some weird way. I didn’t want her to think I wouldn’t hang out alone with her. So I stayed. Huge mistake.
She started showing me pictures of her kids and family. Then she pulled up an Instagram page of some model. Not many followers, but an obviously attractive guy. She told me they were having an affair and she’d soon be divorcing her husband to run away with him.
Her demeanor completely changed. She had those crazy eyes now. I thought, “What the heck? ” But I didn’t say anything.
I figured she was just trying to impress me. Then she started showing me paparazzi-style pictures of him. Pictures she’d clearly taken without his knowledge. Photos of where he worked, his friends, his family.
More stalker stuff. I felt sick to my stomach. You know that feeling when something is just wrong? Like you know you’re in danger and need to get out.
She had this weird look in her eyes. Then, out of nowhere, she took off her hijab. She only had a few strands of hair and lots of bald spots. Like something out of a horror movie.
With that crazy look in her eyes, it was too much. My stomach dropped. Everything in me was screaming to run. “I’m getting kind of tired,” I said, and stood up to leave.
“Okay,” she said, in this weird, flat tone. The next day, she acted completely normal. I later asked the male coworker why he’d seemed so tense after being alone with her. He just said she made a move on him.
Let’s just say I won’t be ignoring my gut feeling ever again.