"Eyes in April":
I never thought I’d live through something so terrifying. I’m just a regular 22-year-old, working part-time at a bookstore in a small New England town. Last spring, my peaceful life turned into a chilling ordeal that still makes my skin crawl.
It started in early April. I was heading home from work, taking my usual shortcut through the town’s community garden. The place was lively with people tending to plants or chatting on benches. As I walked, I noticed a man standing near a flowerbed, staring at me. He was in his late thirties, with a scruffy beard and a dark cap pulled low. His gaze felt heavy, but I brushed it off and kept going.
The next day, he was there again, leaning against a tree, watching me. I felt a knot in my stomach but told myself it was nothing. By the third day, when I saw him in the same spot, my unease grew. I decided to avoid the garden, taking a longer route home. But then I started seeing him elsewhere—outside the bookstore, at the bus stop, even near my apartment complex. He never spoke, just stared with those unblinking eyes.
I confided in my coworker, Lisa, during a slow shift. We were restocking shelves, the smell of old books around us. “Lisa, there’s this guy,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I keep seeing him everywhere, and it’s freaking me out.”
Lisa stopped shelving and turned to me. “Everywhere? Like, following you?”
“I think so,” I said, fidgeting with a bookmark. “He just stares. It’s creepy.”
“That’s not okay,” Lisa said, her brows furrowing. “You need to tell someone. Maybe the police?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He hasn’t done anything. What if I’m being paranoid?”
“Trust your instincts,” Lisa said firmly. “This sounds bad.”
I didn’t go to the police right away. I was scared of making a fuss over nothing. But a few days later, something happened that changed everything. When I got home, I found a small envelope slipped under my apartment door. Inside was a handwritten note: “You look nice today.” I’d worn a new scarf that day. My hands shook as I read it, realizing he’d been close enough to see me.
I called Lisa immediately. “There’s a note,” I said, my voice trembling. “It’s him, Lisa. He knows where I live.”
“That’s it,” Lisa said. “You’re not staying there tonight. Come to my place, and we’re calling the cops.”
I grabbed a bag and went to Lisa’s. That night, we sat on her couch, and I showed the note to Officer Patel, a calm man with a notepad. “This is concerning,” he said, sliding the note into an evidence bag. “Do you know who this man is?”
“No,” I said, hugging a pillow. “I just see him all the time.”
“We’ll investigate,” Patel said. “For now, stay with your friend and consider a security camera.”
I stayed with Lisa, but the fear didn’t go away. A week later, we came back from grabbing coffee and found another note taped to her apartment door. It read, “I miss seeing you.” My knees buckled, and Lisa caught me before I hit the floor.
“We’re done with this,” Lisa said, her voice shaking with anger. “This guy’s unhinged.”
We called Officer Patel again. He came over, took the note, and promised to increase patrols. But they still had no solid leads—no fingerprints, no clear description beyond my vague one. I felt trapped, like this man was a shadow I couldn’t escape.
Lisa’s neighbor, Tom, a burly guy who worked construction, overheard us talking and stepped in. “You need to catch this creep,” he said, leaning against Lisa’s kitchen counter. “What if you go back to your routine, and I keep an eye out? I’ll stay out of sight.”
“That’s dangerous,” I said, my heart racing. “What if he does something?”
“I’ll have backup,” Tom said. “My buddy’s a security guard. We’ll make sure you’re safe.”
I was terrified, but I couldn’t keep living like this. So, I agreed. The next day, I walked to work, my palms sweaty, knowing Tom and his friend were nearby. The street felt too quiet, every sound making me jump. Halfway to the bookstore, I saw him—the man, standing across the street, watching me. My breath caught, but I kept walking, trusting Tom’s plan.
Then I heard shouts. Tom and his friend were crossing the street, confronting the man. “Hey, you!” Tom yelled. “Why you following her?”
The man’s face went white. “I—I wasn’t,” he stammered, stepping back.
“Don’t lie,” Tom said, blocking his path. “We’ve seen you.”
A police car pulled up, alerted by Tom’s friend. The officers took the man in for questioning. Later, Officer Patel called me. “His name’s Mark Evans,” he said. “He’s got a record—stalking, harassment. We found notes and photos of you in his apartment. He’s not going anywhere for a while.”
I felt a rush of relief, but also dread. “Photos?” I asked. “How long was he watching me?”
“Months,” Patel said. “He worked maintenance at your apartment complex last year. That’s how he knew your place.”
Evans was charged with stalking and trespassing. I got a restraining order and moved to a new apartment with better locks. Lisa and Tom still check on me, and I’ve got a security camera now. But I’m not the same. I avoid shortcuts, check behind me constantly, and sleep with a light on.
This spring taught me how fast someone can invade your life. I ignored the signs at first, thinking I was overreacting. If you feel watched, don’t wait. Speak up. It might save you from a nightmare like mine.
"Vanished in Spring":
I was sitting in my apartment, folding clothes, when my phone rang. It was March 31, 2006, and Brian, my boyfriend, was out with friends to kick off spring break. We were supposed to leave for Florida the next morning. His voice came through, loud and happy, over the bar noise. “Hey, I’m at the Ugly Tuna with Clint and Meredith. Having a good time. I’ll be home soon, okay?”
“Don’t stay out too late,” I said, smiling. “We’ve got a flight at 7 a.m.”
“I know, I know,” he laughed. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” I said, and hung up. That was the last time we talked.
Morning came, and Brian wasn’t there. I called him, but it went straight to voicemail. My stomach twisted. I tried again. Nothing. I called Clint, his friend from the bar. “Hey, have you seen Brian?” I asked.
“Not since last night,” Clint said. “We left the bar around 2 a.m. He was still there, talking to some girls.”
“What do you mean, still there?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“He said he was gonna stay a bit. I thought he’d head home after,” Clint said. “You okay?”
“No, I’m not,” I snapped, hanging up. I drove to Brian’s apartment. His car was parked outside, but he wasn’t inside. His bed was made, dishes clean, backpack on the chair. It was like he’d never come back.
I called his dad, Randy. “Something’s wrong,” I said. “Brian’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean?” Randy’s voice cracked.
“He didn’t come home. His stuff’s here, but he’s not,” I said. We agreed to meet at the police station. The officer we spoke to was calm, too calm. “He’s an adult,” he said. “Maybe he’s just out. We’ll look into it if he’s not back in a couple days.”
“He’s not like that,” I said. “He wouldn’t just disappear.”
Randy nodded. “Please, check now. He’s a good kid.”
They took our statement and said they’d pull security footage from the bar. A few days later, they called us in. The detective played the video. There was Brian, tall, wearing his green shirt, laughing outside the Ugly Tuna at 1:55 a.m. with two women. He waved, stepped off-screen, and that was it. He didn’t come back into view. The bar had one main entrance, cameras on it. No one saw him leave.
“How does that happen?” I asked, my hands trembling. “Where did he go?”
“We don’t know,” the detective said. “We’re talking to everyone who was there. No leads yet.”
Randy leaned forward. “What about the girls he was with?”
“They said he seemed fine, said he was going back inside,” the detective said. “That’s all we’ve got.”
We didn’t wait for the police. Randy and I organized searches. We walked through campus, checked alleys, handed out flyers with Brian’s picture. One night, I stood outside the bar, staring at the spot where he was last seen. “Brian!” I yelled. “Brian, please!” My voice echoed, but no one answered.
A week later, a cop called. “We found a jacket by the Olentangy River,” he said. “Matches what Brian might’ve worn.”
“Is it his?” I asked, hopeful.
“We’re testing it,” he said. Days later, they confirmed it wasn’t. My heart sank. Every lead felt like a dead end.
Months passed. I went through Brian’s apartment, hoping for clues. In his drawer, I found a small box with a ring inside. My breath caught. Was he going to propose in Florida? I sat on his bed, holding it, tears falling. I couldn’t let go.
People had theories. Some said he ran away, started a new life. Others thought he was hurt, taken. But Brian wouldn’t leave. Not with his mom gone just weeks before, not with his family, not with me. Still, no one found anything. No body, no trace.
Years later, in 2019, someone sent a photo of a man in Mexico who looked like Brian. My hopes spiked, but DNA tests said it wasn’t him. Every time I thought we were close, the truth slipped away.
Now, it’s been almost 20 years. I’ve built a life, but Brian’s absence is a shadow. Every spring, I think of that night, that call, his laugh. We still hold vigils, light candles, share memories. Randy’s gone now, but I keep hoping. Maybe one day, someone will know something. Until then, I’m stuck, haunted by the question: where is he?
“Eyes at the Window.”:
I was eight years old, curled up in my bed, the covers pulled tight. My little brother was asleep in the next room, his soft snores drifting through the wall. Dad was working late again, some big job that kept him away most nights, so it was just Mom, my brother, and me in our quiet house. I couldn’t sleep. The house felt too still, like it was holding its breath. Then I heard it—a faint creak outside, like someone stepping on the porch.
I slipped out of bed, my socks silent on the carpet, and crept to the living room. Mom was at the kitchen table, paying bills, a single lamp casting long shadows. She looked up, her eyes narrowing when she saw me.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice low.
“I heard something,” I said, pointing toward the front door. “On the porch.”
Her face changed, like she’d been slapped. She stood, moving to the window, and peeked through the curtains. Her hand froze on the fabric. “Go to your brother’s room,” she whispered. “Stay there.”
“Mom, what is it?” I asked, my stomach twisting.
“Now,” she said, her voice sharp. I ran down the hall, my heart thumping, and slipped into my brother’s room. He was still asleep, his toy truck clutched in one hand. I locked the door and hid behind his bed, the carpet rough under my knees.
Then came a knock at the front door, slow and heavy. “Hey, it’s me,” a man’s voice called, deep and too calm. “Open the door.”
I didn’t know that voice, but it made my skin crawl, like he was smiling as he spoke. The knocking got louder, and I heard Mom’s footsteps, quick and uneven. The phone beeped as she dialed.
“Police, please,” she whispered. “There’s a man at my door. He’s trying to get in.”
The man’s voice came again, closer, like he was at a side window. “Come on, I just want to talk.” His tone was harder now, like he was losing patience. I heard a faint scrape, like he was messing with the window lock. My brother stirred, mumbling in his sleep, and I pressed my hand over my mouth to stay quiet.
“Mom?” I whispered, so soft I barely heard myself. No answer. The floor creaked under me, and I froze, terrified the man would hear. Dust tickled my nose, but I held my breath, afraid to sneeze.
The knocking stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and awful. I thought maybe he’d left, but then I heard a tap at my brother’s window, right above me. Tap. Tap. Tap. My chest hurt, and I curled tighter, my nails digging into my palms.
“Ma’am, police are here,” a new voice shouted outside. Flashlights swept through the room, bouncing off the walls. I heard the man’s footsteps, fast and heavy, then a car engine roaring away. Police radios crackled, and someone knocked on the front door, firm but not scary.
Mom opened my brother’s door, her face white as paper. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said, pulling me out from behind the bed. Her hands were cold, shaking. “He’s gone.”
“Who was that?” I asked, my voice wobbly.
She didn’t answer, just hugged me tight. My brother woke up, rubbing his eyes, confused. The police came inside, their belts jingling. I sat on the couch, holding my brother’s hand, while Mom talked to an officer in the kitchen.
“Do you know who it was?” the officer asked, his pen scratching on a notepad.
“Yes,” Mom said, her voice barely steady. “He used to work with my husband. I recognized his voice… and those eyes, so blue, like ice. They had an argument a while back. I didn’t think he’d come here.”
“Has he done this before?” the officer asked.
“He’s called a few times,” Mom said. “Left messages, saying he wanted to check on us. I ignored them.”
The officer nodded. “We’ll try to find him. Stay somewhere else tonight, just to be safe.”
That night, Mom packed bags and drove us to Aunt Linda’s house, a small place with flowery curtains and a squeaky couch. Aunt Linda met us at the door, her face worried.
“You okay?” she asked, hugging Mom.
“No,” Mom said, setting my brother’s car seat down. “I keep seeing his face at the window.”
“You’re safe here,” Aunt Linda said, but Mom kept checking the locks.
A few days later, I saw him again. We were at a store near Aunt Linda’s, picking up milk. He was in the parking lot, leaning against a truck, staring at us. His blue eyes locked on mine, and he waved, slow and deliberate. I grabbed Mom’s arm.
“Mom, it’s him,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
She looked up, her face going pale. She pulled us back inside, telling the cashier to call security. By the time they checked, he was gone. Mom called the police again, but they didn’t find him.
We stayed at Aunt Linda’s for weeks. Mom barely slept, always watching the windows. I kept my brother close, scared those eyes would appear again. When Dad finally came home, he was furious. I heard him talking to Mom one night, their voices low.
“He’s been obsessed,” Dad said. “I should’ve known he’d try something.”
“What do we do?” Mom asked. “He knows where we live.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Dad said, his voice like steel. I don’t know what he did—maybe confronted him, maybe got the police to do more—but the man stopped coming around.
We moved to a new house soon after, one with a tall fence and extra locks. Mom started to relax, but she always checked the doors at night. I’m older now, but that night still haunts me. The creak of the porch, the tap at the window, those icy blue eyes. I check my locks, too, because I learned some fears don’t need ghosts to keep you awake.
“Lost on the Boardwalk”:
I was 17, buzzing with excitement, standing in the crowded lobby of our Myrtle Beach hotel. Spring break 2009, and my best friend Brittanee and I had snuck away from our boring lives in New York to chase the sun and freedom. The air was thick with chatter, music blasting from somewhere, and the smell of sunscreen and pizza. Brittanee’s eyes sparkled as she tossed her dark hair, her flip-flops slapping against the tile.
“This is it,” she said, grinning. “No parents, no rules. Just us and the beach.”
I laughed, but my stomach twisted a little. “Just don’t do anything crazy, okay? Text me if you go anywhere.”
She rolled her eyes. “Relax. I’m not a kid.”
That night, the boardwalk was alive—neon lights flashing, crowds of teens shouting, the ocean roaring in the distance. We’d spent the day lounging by the pool, but now Brittanee was restless. She wore a bright green top and denim shorts, her phone tucked in her pocket. Around 8 p.m., she turned to me in our hotel room, where I was sprawled on the bed, scrolling through my phone.
“Hey,” she said, grabbing her purse. “I’m gonna meet up with a friend at another hotel. It’s like a 10-minute walk.”
I sat up, uneasy. “Alone? It’s dark out there.”
“It’s fine,” she said, waving me off. “Tons of people are out. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Text me when you get there,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant.
She smirked. “Yes, Mom.”
I watched her leave, the door clicking shut. The room felt too quiet. I tried to shake the bad feeling, telling myself it was just nerves. Myrtle Beach was safe, right? Full of spring breakers like us. I waited for her text. Thirty minutes passed. Nothing. An hour. Still nothing. My fingers hovered over my phone, then I typed: “You there yet?”
No reply.
By 10 p.m., my chest was tight. I called her. Straight to voicemail. I paced the room, the carpet rough under my bare feet. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she was just having fun. But the boardwalk wasn’t that far, and she’d promised to text. I grabbed my sneakers and headed out, the hotel hallway buzzing with laughter from other rooms. The streets were still packed, but the crowds felt different now—too loud, too chaotic. I scanned every face, hoping to spot her green top. Nothing.
I called another friend staying nearby. “Have you seen Brittanee?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Nope,” he said. “She was supposed to meet someone, right? Maybe she’s still there.”
I walked faster, checking alleys, peering into bars. A guy in a hoodie stood near one, watching me. My skin prickled, and I hurried past, my heart pounding. By midnight, I was back at the hotel, calling her mom, Dawn, in New York.
“Dawn, it’s me,” I said, barely holding it together. “Brittanee’s gone. She went to meet a friend and didn’t come back.”
There was a long pause. “What do you mean, gone?” Her voice was sharp, scared.
“I don’t know,” I said, tears burning my eyes. “She’s not answering her phone. I looked everywhere.”
“I’m coming down there,” Dawn said. “Call the police. Now.”
The police station was cold, the fluorescent lights harsh. An officer took my statement, his pen scratching as I described Brittanee’s clothes, her plans. “She’s probably just partying,” he said, but his eyes didn’t meet mine. I wanted to scream. Brittanee wasn’t like that. She’d text me. She’d come back.
Dawn arrived the next day, her face pale, eyes red. We searched together, putting up flyers with Brittanee’s picture. The boardwalk, once so exciting, now felt like a trap—every corner hiding something dark. People stared at the flyers, then looked away. Days turned into weeks. Nothing. No calls, no sightings. Just grainy security footage from a hotel camera showing Brittanee walking alone, her green top bright against the night.
“Do you think she’s okay?” I asked Dawn one night, sitting in her hotel room. My voice was small, like I was a kid again.
Dawn clutched a flyer, her knuckles white. “I have to believe she is,” she said. “I can’t lose her.”
But I saw the fear in her eyes, and it mirrored mine. I kept replaying that night, wondering if I should’ve gone with her, should’ve stopped her. The guilt ate at me, heavy and sharp.
Years passed. The case went cold. I’d wake up at night, picturing Brittanee’s face, wondering where she was. Then, in 2016, a break—someone in prison said it was a homicide. My stomach dropped when I heard. Homicide. The word felt like a punch. But there was no body, no proof, just more questions.
In 2022, I got a call from Dawn. “They found him,” she said, her voice trembling. “A man named Raymond Moody. He confessed.”
I sat down hard, my legs weak. “Confessed to what?”
“Everything,” she said. “He took her. Hurt her. Killed her.”
Moody was 62, a drifter with a rap sheet. He’d seen Brittanee walking that night, lured her into his car. She never had a chance. He dumped her body in the woods, and it was gone by the time police searched. I felt sick, picturing her alone, scared. Moody pleaded guilty, got life in prison. Dawn fought for justice, even suing the hotel for not watching the cameras better. She won millions, but it didn’t bring Brittanee back.
I still see her in my dreams, standing in that hotel lobby, laughing. I wish I’d grabbed her arm that night, told her to stay. The boardwalk’s neon lights don’t look bright anymore—they’re cold, flickering, hiding shadows I can’t unseen.
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