You Run Fast - Part II

After the Message

The message haunted me.
"You run fast. Next time, I’ll be faster."
It had no number, no traceable ID. My dad called the police again. They shrugged. “Sick prank,” they said. “Probably some idiot with a burner phone.”
They told me to change my number. I did. I changed everything; number, locks, routines. I stopped going out at night. Stopped driving alone. I kept a bat by my bed.
But still… I couldn’t sleep.
My dad tried to act normal. He was protective now in a way he hadn’t been before, sitting up at night with the hallway light on, quietly pacing outside my door. I think it made him feel like he was doing something. But we were both lying.
Neither of us believed it was over.

Three weeks passed. I tried to move on.
Then one night, my dad’s car alarm went off, shrill and sudden, waking the entire neighborhood. He rushed outside with a bat, shirt half-buttoned, shouting into the dark.
No one was there.
But someone had unscrewed the back left tire. Just enough to loosen it. Not enough to notice. If we hadn’t caught it, the wheel would’ve come off at highway speed.
That was no prank.
It was a warning.

I started noticing things. Small things, at first.
Footsteps outside my window. Faint. Measured.
A trash can tipped over in our driveway.
The sound of a car idling down the street too long.
Once, while I was at the grocery store, I saw a man in a black cap and red flannel watching me from the far end of the aisle. I looked away for half a second. When I looked back, he was gone.
I told myself I was being paranoid. That was easier than believing someone was still out there. Watching. Waiting.
But the feeling in my gut said otherwise.

Then, the envelope came.
Plain, brown, no stamp. Slipped under the front door while we slept.
Inside were two photos.
The first was when I left work, headphones in, staring at my phone, completely unaware.
The second was of my bedroom window taken at night, from outside the house. The curtains were slightly open. I was in bed.
Sleeping.
My dad went straight to the police.
They promised extra patrols. They said all the right things. But I could see it in their eyes; the weariness, the doubt. They didn’t think they’d catch him. Not unless something worse happened.
That night, we installed cameras. Four of them. One at the front door, one at the back, two pointing at the street.
We checked the footage every morning. Nothing.
Until Wednesday.
At 3:47 a.m., one of the cameras picked up movement. The grainy video showed a figure walking calmly up our driveway. He didn’t go to the door. He didn’t look at the cameras.
He just stood at the edge of the yard.
Watching the house.
He stood there for thirteen minutes.
Then turned and walked away.

I started to feel like I was drowning in my own life. School didn’t matter. Friends couldn’t relate. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat much. My world had narrowed to the size of a shadow on a screen.
I needed answers. Something concrete.
So I made a mistake.
I went back to the road where it all started.
Back to where the truck had been. Where the chase began.
The woods were quiet. Too quiet.
I parked and waited, watching the treeline, my phone clutched in both hands.
At first, nothing happened.
Then I saw it, the shape of a man stepping out of the trees. Slowly. Deliberately. Same flannel. Same build. He didn’t run.
He just stared.
And raised a phone to his ear.
My phone rang.
Blocked number.
I didn’t answer.
I floored the gas and didn’t look back.

When I got home, I found another envelope on my pillow.
One sentence, printed in clean block letters:
"Next time, you won’t see me coming."

To be continued...