That Creeping Feeling
by Rachael Almeida
The coffee is strong with hints of vanilla. The pastries are baked fresh each day. You come every weekday on the way to work teaching freshmen English for a cortado and croissant because you love supporting small business. As you wait for your order you have that feeling of someone standing too close behind you. You turn to politely request that they take a step back, but no one is there. You shrug it off as post-pandemic jitters. The feeling persists until you leave, the owner’s eyes following your every move.
Your friends describe the café as quaint or cute, never eerie. The owner is a balding, unassuming man in his mid-fifties to everyone else. They see his pleasant smile at every customer as lovely. You see the smile doesn’t reach his eyes and that he stares, at first you interpret it as his smile being that vacant eyed customer service; the one people adapt after years in the business and the staring as daydreaming. But sometimes you catch his eyes lingering with an unsettling hollowness that causes you to keep your interactions with him as brief as possible.
That uneasy feeling of someone just behind you happens every time you enter the café and only stops once you get into your car. You stop going to that particular café and change to the other local one a mile out of the way of your commute. Your friends invite you to go to the old one and you make excuses to not go such as needing to catch up on laundry or watching shows. You start suggesting other shops around the city, encourage them to try new things. Eventually, you run out of excuses and are pressured to go.
On the day you enter you breathe a silent sigh of relief that the feeling isn’t there. You pay and join your group and the discomfort hasn’t begun; you also notice the owner isn’t in the building. You have a good time, talk with ease, actually enjoy your coffee and treat. It starts with the hairs on the back of your neck rising and your shoulders tightening. You try and fail to hide how uncomfortable you’ve become. Your friends pester you and you claim indigestion, one shot of espresso too many today. They laugh making lighthearted jokes about your caffeine addiction and say how unhealthy your relationship with it can be when you should know better at your age. You awkwardly laugh with them, trying hard to act normal.
The feeling is getting worse. The sensation of breath on your neck is new and by far the worse yet. And then it gets worse with the lightest touch of a finger on your left earlobe. You can’t help but to jump and squeak in surprise. You know better than to look, you know nothing is there. Your friends give you a look of confusion and concern. You force a laugh and say your hair tickled and scared you. They laugh and make more playful jests and conversation continues. You wait ten minutes and after finishing your pastry before excusing yourself, claiming needing to grade essays. As you make your escape you see him, his eyes following you to your car.
The feeling begins persisting even at home. After a week of this you stop leaving your house, putting in a leave of absence at the college. You leave your phone off, same with your laptop. You feel like you’re losing your mind. You keep thinking you see the owner in the corner of your eye whenever you open your door for deliveries, but he’s never really there.
You try to tell your therapist the one time you go to an in-person session, but he tells you it is paranoia from your social anxiety induced from reentering society after such a traumatic shutdown of the nation. You don’t go back. Weeks go by and your savings and emergency funds are running low. You reluctantly return to work. You hear whispers before entering rooms that you had a breakdown. The department head never presses you for an explanation of your disappearance, but you see the worry in her eyes.
The constant presence is still with you, and you have to try not to jump whenever someone accidentally sneaks up on you. You decide you’re tired of being afraid and sign up for self-defense classes. It proves to be a good outlet for all your pent up, nervous energy. You start to genuinely feel better for the first time in the six months since the feeling first started. You finally agree to go in the general area of that café on a friend outing. Within half an hour and ten feet from the accursed place the presence is back with a vengeance. The feeling of a hand on your shoulder alerts you to what you already knew; he is watching. You have had enough; this has to end.
The next day, a Saturday, you psyche yourself up the entire day and arrive moments before closing. He doesn’t protest. He seems as though he had been waiting for you, that you were expected. He gives you that empty smile and asks what it is you need. You glare and shout at him that he knows damn well why you’re here and that you want answers. Why you? Why is he always watching, how is he making the presence?
His hollow eyes finally show an emotion: a deep, unending hunger. His pleasant smile becomes more of a bearing of teeth. His voice is low and sickly sweet as he takes a step forward.
“Because you are observant. You notice things.”
You get into the first stance for defense, ready to fight him off if he tries anything. The feeling of hands gripping your shoulders and pressing down keep you in place as he closes the space between you. The scream never reaches your lips as his teeth make contact. The next day the café is closed for its monthly deep clean. After all, it is so hard to get blood out of tiling grout.
Your friends describe the café as quaint or cute, never eerie. The owner is a balding, unassuming man in his mid-fifties to everyone else. They see his pleasant smile at every customer as lovely. You see the smile doesn’t reach his eyes and that he stares, at first you interpret it as his smile being that vacant eyed customer service; the one people adapt after years in the business and the staring as daydreaming. But sometimes you catch his eyes lingering with an unsettling hollowness that causes you to keep your interactions with him as brief as possible.
That uneasy feeling of someone just behind you happens every time you enter the café and only stops once you get into your car. You stop going to that particular café and change to the other local one a mile out of the way of your commute. Your friends invite you to go to the old one and you make excuses to not go such as needing to catch up on laundry or watching shows. You start suggesting other shops around the city, encourage them to try new things. Eventually, you run out of excuses and are pressured to go.
On the day you enter you breathe a silent sigh of relief that the feeling isn’t there. You pay and join your group and the discomfort hasn’t begun; you also notice the owner isn’t in the building. You have a good time, talk with ease, actually enjoy your coffee and treat. It starts with the hairs on the back of your neck rising and your shoulders tightening. You try and fail to hide how uncomfortable you’ve become. Your friends pester you and you claim indigestion, one shot of espresso too many today. They laugh making lighthearted jokes about your caffeine addiction and say how unhealthy your relationship with it can be when you should know better at your age. You awkwardly laugh with them, trying hard to act normal.
The feeling is getting worse. The sensation of breath on your neck is new and by far the worse yet. And then it gets worse with the lightest touch of a finger on your left earlobe. You can’t help but to jump and squeak in surprise. You know better than to look, you know nothing is there. Your friends give you a look of confusion and concern. You force a laugh and say your hair tickled and scared you. They laugh and make more playful jests and conversation continues. You wait ten minutes and after finishing your pastry before excusing yourself, claiming needing to grade essays. As you make your escape you see him, his eyes following you to your car.
The feeling begins persisting even at home. After a week of this you stop leaving your house, putting in a leave of absence at the college. You leave your phone off, same with your laptop. You feel like you’re losing your mind. You keep thinking you see the owner in the corner of your eye whenever you open your door for deliveries, but he’s never really there.
You try to tell your therapist the one time you go to an in-person session, but he tells you it is paranoia from your social anxiety induced from reentering society after such a traumatic shutdown of the nation. You don’t go back. Weeks go by and your savings and emergency funds are running low. You reluctantly return to work. You hear whispers before entering rooms that you had a breakdown. The department head never presses you for an explanation of your disappearance, but you see the worry in her eyes.
The constant presence is still with you, and you have to try not to jump whenever someone accidentally sneaks up on you. You decide you’re tired of being afraid and sign up for self-defense classes. It proves to be a good outlet for all your pent up, nervous energy. You start to genuinely feel better for the first time in the six months since the feeling first started. You finally agree to go in the general area of that café on a friend outing. Within half an hour and ten feet from the accursed place the presence is back with a vengeance. The feeling of a hand on your shoulder alerts you to what you already knew; he is watching. You have had enough; this has to end.
The next day, a Saturday, you psyche yourself up the entire day and arrive moments before closing. He doesn’t protest. He seems as though he had been waiting for you, that you were expected. He gives you that empty smile and asks what it is you need. You glare and shout at him that he knows damn well why you’re here and that you want answers. Why you? Why is he always watching, how is he making the presence?
His hollow eyes finally show an emotion: a deep, unending hunger. His pleasant smile becomes more of a bearing of teeth. His voice is low and sickly sweet as he takes a step forward.
“Because you are observant. You notice things.”
You get into the first stance for defense, ready to fight him off if he tries anything. The feeling of hands gripping your shoulders and pressing down keep you in place as he closes the space between you. The scream never reaches your lips as his teeth make contact. The next day the café is closed for its monthly deep clean. After all, it is so hard to get blood out of tiling grout.
Rachael Almeida writes for people who feel outside the norm and like they don't belong, and she enjoys using stories from working as a barista as inspiration for her work.