Watching
The streetlamp flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow across the pavement, its light pooling in uneven patches like spilled oil. Beneath it, she stood, oblivious to the eyes that followed her. Her name was Eleanor, though he didn’t know that yet. Not officially. He’d heard it once, in passing, when her friend called out to her at the café three weeks ago. Eleanor. It was a name that rolled off the tongue like a half-forgotten lullaby, soft and lilting, yet heavy with something he couldn’t place. He liked it. He liked her.
From his vantage point across the street, hidden in the shadowed mouth of an alley, he watched her adjust the strap of her canvas bag, the one she carried every Tuesday evening after her shift at the bookstore. The bag was forest green, frayed at the edges, with a small enamel badge shaped like a fox pinned near the zipper. He’d noticed it the first time he saw her, three months ago, when the autumn air was still crisp and the leaves hadn’t yet turned to rot. The fox intrigued him. Did it mean something to her? A childhood memory, perhaps? A gift from someone she loved? He didn’t know, but he wanted to. He wanted to know everything.
Eleanor’s routine was a clockwork symphony, each movement precise, predictable, yet endlessly fascinating. She left the bookstore at 7:03 p.m., always a minute late because she lingered to straighten the shelves or chat with a coworker. She’d walk two blocks to the corner market, where she’d buy a single bottle of iced tea—lemon, never peach—and a pack of gum. Spearmint. Always spearmint. Then she’d cross the street, her boots clicking softly against the asphalt, and pause under that flickering streetlamp to check her phone. Every Tuesday, without fail.
Tonight was no different. He leaned against the damp brick wall, his breath shallow, careful not to let the faint cloud of vapor give him away in the October chill. His coat blended with the darkness, a nondescript gray that made him invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely. And no one ever did. People don’t notice shadows. They don’t notice the absence of light. They notice her, though—her auburn hair catching the streetlamp’s glow, her quick, nervous smile as she typed a message on her phone. He wondered who she was texting. A friend? A lover? The thought made his fingers twitch, curling into fists inside his pockets.
He’d first seen her in July, on a day so hot the air shimmered above the pavement. She’d been sitting outside the café, her legs crossed, a book open on the table in front of her. The Bell Jar. He’d noted the title, later buying a copy for himself, though he hadn’t read it yet. It sat on his shelf, a relic of her, its pages still crisp and unturned. That day, she’d worn a yellow sundress, the kind that seemed too delicate for the city’s grime, and she’d laughed at something her friend said, her head tilting back, exposing the pale curve of her throat. He’d felt it then, that pull, like a hook lodged deep in his chest. She was different. Not like the others who passed through his gaze, fleeting and forgettable. Eleanor was a puzzle, a mosaic of details he was determined to piece together.
He knew so much already. Her Tuesday shifts at the bookstore. Her Saturday mornings at the park, where she’d sit on a bench near the fountain, sketching in a leather-bound notebook. She wasn’t an artist, not professionally, but her pencil moved with purpose, capturing the world in sharp, deliberate lines. He’d seen her sketches once, when she’d left the notebook open on the bench while she bought a coffee from the nearby cart. They were good—better than good. Scenes of the city, of strangers’ faces, of the fountain’s spray catching the light. He wondered if she’d ever drawn him. The thought thrilled him, a shiver of possibility that made his pulse quicken.
He knew her habits, her rhythms. She listened to music on her walks home, earbuds tucked beneath her hair, and she always chose the same playlist—he could tell by the way her steps matched a faint, upbeat tempo. She drank her coffee black, no sugar, and she always tipped the barista, even when her wallet was thin. He’d seen her count out coins once, her brow furrowed as she calculated what she could spare. She was kind, but not naive. Careful, but not paranoid. She lived alone, in a second-floor apartment with a fire escape that overlooked a narrow alley. He’d stood there once, just once, late at night, watching the warm glow of her window. He hadn’t meant to stay long. Just long enough to see her silhouette pass by, to know she was safe.
Safe. That was what he told himself. He was keeping her safe. The city was full of dangers—men who didn’t notice the way she moved, who didn’t care about the fox pin or the spearmint gum or the way her laughter sounded like a melody. Men who didn’t see her. But he did. He saw everything.
Tonight, she lingered longer under the streetlamp, her thumbs moving quickly over her phone. A frown creased her forehead, and he felt a pang of unease. Something was wrong. He could tell by the way her shoulders tensed, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to step closer, to cross the street and ask her what was troubling her, but he stayed rooted in the shadows. He couldn’t break the barrier between them, not yet. Not until he knew her completely.
She slipped her phone into her bag and started walking again, her pace quicker now, her head lowered against the wind. He followed, keeping his distance, his steps silent on the damp pavement. The city was alive around them, a cacophony of car horns and distant sirens, but to him, it was just noise. She was the signal, the only thing that mattered. He noted the way her scarf—a deep burgundy, knitted, probably handmade—slipped slightly, revealing the nape of her neck. He wondered if it was soft, if it smelled of the lavender perfume she sometimes wore. He’d caught the scent once, standing too close in the bookstore, pretending to browse the poetry section while she restocked the shelves.
He’d been careful, always careful. He didn’t follow too closely, didn’t linger too long. He varied his routes, his times, his clothing. Sometimes he wore a baseball cap, sometimes a scarf pulled high. He was a ghost, a flicker at the edge of her world. She never saw him, not really. Once, their eyes had met, briefly, in the reflection of a shop window. Her gaze had slid past him, uninterested, and he’d felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. He didn’t want her to see him—not yet. But he wanted her to know he was there, to feel his presence like a whisper against her skin.
Her apartment building loomed ahead, a squat brick structure with peeling paint and a rusted fire escape. He stopped at the corner, half-hidden behind a parked van, and watched as she climbed the steps to the entrance. Her key turned in the lock with a faint click, and then she was gone, swallowed by the building’s dim interior. He waited, counting the seconds until her window lit up, a soft amber glow against the night. There she was, moving behind the curtains, her silhouette graceful and unhurried. He imagined her kicking off her boots, setting her bag on the kitchen counter, maybe pouring a glass of water. He knew her routines, but he didn’t know her thoughts. Not yet.
He turned away and slipped back into the alley. The city pressed in around him, cold and indifferent, but he felt alive, electric. She was his secret, his purpose. He’d go home and write it all down—the way she’d frowned at her phone, the new scarf, the quickness of her steps. His notebook was nearly full now, pages crowded with details, a map of her life drawn in ink. He’d started it the day after he first saw her, a way to keep her close when she was out of sight. Each entry was a thread, weaving her into his world, binding her to him.
Days turned to weeks, and his observations grew sharper, more intimate. He noticed the way her hair fell differently when she was tired, the way her fingers tapped a rhythm against her thigh when she was nervous. He learned her favorite coffee shop, her preferred seat by the window, the way she always ordered a second cup if she was meeting someone. He saw her cry once, alone in the park, her face buried in her hands as the fountain burbled nearby. He’d wanted to go to her then, to offer comfort, but he’d stayed hidden, his chest tight with the weight of her sorrow. He didn’t know what had made her cry, but he wrote it down, the date and time, the way her shoulders shook, the way she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.
He began to see patterns, connections. The days she wore her hair up, she seemed more confident, her steps bolder. The days she wore it down, she was quieter, more introspective. He wondered if she knew how much she revealed in these small choices, how much of herself she gave away to someone who was watching. He wondered if she’d ever sense him, if she’d ever feel the weight of his gaze. Sometimes, he thought she might. There were moments—brief, fleeting—when she’d pause, her head turning slightly as if listening to something only she could hear. In those moments, he held his breath, certain she’d see him, certain she’d know. But she never did.
Winter came, and the city grew colder, sharper. The streetlamp still flickered, but now it was joined by strings of Christmas lights strung across the storefronts, their colours bleeding into the snow. Eleanor’s routine shifted slightly—she stayed later at the bookstore, her shifts extended for the holiday rush. He adjusted too, lingering longer in the cold, his fingers numb but his eyes never leaving her. He noticed new details: a silver ring on her left hand, a gift perhaps, or a whim. A new coat, navy blue, with a hood she rarely used. A habit of humming softly to herself when she thought no one was listening. He collected these fragments, hoarding them like treasures, each one a piece of her he could hold.
One night, something changed. She didn’t stop under the streetlamp. She didn’t check her phone. Instead, she walked straight to her apartment, her head down, her steps hurried. He followed, a sense of wrongness creeping into his bones. At her building, she fumbled with her keys, dropping them once, her hands shaking. He wanted to call out, to help her, but he stayed silent, hidden. When she finally disappeared inside, her window didn’t light up. The curtains remained dark, lifeless.
He waited, longer than usual, his breath clouding the air. An hour passed, then two. Still nothing. The unease grew, a gnawing thing that clawed at his chest. Had something happened? Was she hurt? Sick? He imagined her lying on the floor, unconscious, or worse, not alone. The thought was unbearable. He crossed the street, something he’d never done before, and stood beneath her window, staring up at the blank glass. He could climb the fire escape, just to check, just to be sure. But that was a line he hadn’t crossed, a boundary he’d promised himself he’d never breach.
He turned away, his mind racing. He’d come back tomorrow. He’d watch again, more closely. He’d make sure she was safe.
The next evening, she was there, under the streetlamp, her routine restored. Relief flooded him, but it was tinged with something else—doubt. She looked different tonight, her movements sharper, her eyes darting to the shadows. Did she know? Had she felt him last night, standing too close, breaking his own rules? He stayed further back, but he couldn’t stop watching. She was still his puzzle, his mosaic, but now there was a crack in the pattern, a question he couldn’t answer.
Weeks passed, and the crack widened. She stopped sketching in the park. She changed her route home, taking a different street, one he hadn’t mapped. She looked over her shoulder more often, her eyes scanning the darkness. He was careful, so careful, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was slipping away, that the threads he’d woven were unraveling.
One night, under the flickering streetlamp, she stopped. She didn’t check her phone. She didn’t adjust her bag. Instead, she turned, slowly, deliberately, and looked straight at the alley where he stood. Her eyes locked onto the shadows, and for a moment, he was certain she saw him. His breath caught, his body frozen. She took a step forward, then another, her gaze unwavering. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. The air between them felt charged, electric, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
Then she spoke, her voice low, steady, cutting through the night like a blade. “I know you’re there.”
His heart stopped. He wanted to step forward, to explain, to tell her he was keeping her safe, that he saw her in a way no one else did. But he didn’t. He stayed in the shadows, silent, invisible.
She waited, her eyes searching the darkness, and then she turned and walked away, her steps quick, purposeful. He watched her go, his chest tight, his notebook heavy in his pocket. He didn’t follow her that night. He couldn’t.
The next evening, he returned to the alley, but she wasn’t there. The streetlamp flickered, casting its sickly light, but the pavement beneath it was empty. He checked the bookstore, the park, the café. Nothing. Her window stayed dark, her apartment silent. Days turned to weeks, and still, she was gone. He searched for her, retracing her routes, haunting the places she’d been, but it was as if she’d vanished, a ghost slipping through his fingers.
He went back to the alley one last time, standing beneath the streetlamp, its light buzzing faintly above him. He opened his notebook, the pages filled with her life, her details, her essence. He tore them out, one by one, letting them scatter in the wind, watching as they disappeared into the night.
And then he felt it—a prickle at the back of his neck, a weight he couldn’t shake. He turned, slowly, his eyes scanning the shadows. There, at the edge of the alley, something moved. A figure, indistinct, watching him. He squinted, trying to make out its shape, but it was gone, swallowed by the darkness.
He stood there, alone, the streetlamp flickering above him, and for the first time, he wondered if he’d ever been the only one watching.
40 thoughts on “Watching”
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This story is so good, HG. You’re so talented at writing and storytelling. I listened to the audio version. Your voice is such spooky perfection for stories like these. 🖤🖤🖤
Thank you.
Book! Book! Book! Our hearts and minds demand it! 💖✨
The perfect afternoon surprise…finding this in audio. Thank you, sir. Glorious performance.
Mr. Tudor,
Is this article fiction or non-fiction?
I feel sadness and fear for Eleanor and then her anxiety upon realizing something wasn’t right. Her then empowering move and her newfound confidence. Also, his initial faux confidence and the changes in him as she steps toward him and then away. And his fear at the end, who else has been there?
Well written, of course. I look forward to it continuing if it does.
HG,
I just moved countries, and an ex narc lover of mine let me stay at his place the first two weeks.
When I arrived after driving all day, hungry, tired, … he did not even offer me water, but he was all dressed up and perfumed to go “on a very important date”, and left me there. He just handed me the keys. (…)
He said when he was back, he did not want to cuddle with me anymore (or have sex). He was “monogamous” now (lol). Then went on other dates the whole week, changed clothes in front of me, made a show of carrying a tool box to go help a woman, .. but he never stayed the night.
I went therefore on meetups, told him I met guys, gave them my number, …
One day, he said, he had been on 3 dates in one day, his shoulder was so hurting from driving all day.
I hardly saw him, but he drove me to view an apartment, then I got a sightseeing tour on the way with “this is where my ex lives”, “this is where my other ex lives”, and an account of how many different nationalities he had slept with.
I did not react and kindly told him about my “adventures”.
He lent me money for renting my own place (repaid now), and helped me move my heavy stuff.
That was 2 weeks ago and I haven’t seen him since.
WHY? Please, can you make sense of that? Why lend me money, help me, let me stay in his space (!), texting now, but not wanting to see me at all, what did he do that for then??
I also wondered if he did not realize that he was hurting me, but now I think he is emotionally cruel on purpose. 🙁
(And no, he is not as dumb as he sounds, he has a master’s degree in computer engineering after all).
Hello AVA101,
1. Why are you engaging with a narcissist who once was a lover? This is a breach of no contact.
2. He triangulated you, belittled you, lent you money in order to assert control over you and draw fuel from you. Each of these actions are manipulations which are utilised by the narcissist in order to achieve the prime aims. In one moment his narcissism selects benevolence (lending you money) to achieve the Prime Aims, in another moment his narcissism chooses malign triangulation to achieve the Prime Aims. The selection will be based on you being painted white or black and also dependent on what else is going on within his fuel matrix. If you require a more detailed explanation you should book a consultation.
Pretending you’re not jealous doesn’t help. He knows he’s hurting you, humiliating you. Your retaliatory “adventures” only confirm this. He didn’t care where you were, what you did, or who you were with. Such stories actually delight the Narcissist. It’s worth realizing this.
Let the others take the idiot. Ignore him. Life is so short. It’s a waste of time.
I enjoyed this, thank you HG 🙂 I was wondering if it was a particular city in your mind. At first I thought London, then it sounded NYC.
I will let you think about the relevant city.
Beautiful writing of course but readers must be aware that psychopaths do stalk, some are sadistic sexual predators like Ted Bundy and there is nothing romantic about stalking. Nothing. If you are being stalked, make it very public and take precaution asap. Consult HG, alert law enforcement, do whatever it takes to stay safe! It’s no joke.
Good reminder Contagious, thank you.
I’ll go for Helsinki 😀
Or perhaps Edinburgh.
I was just going to ask if there is any chance you would read this for us, and there it is already!Thank you, HG, it really is a wonderful story.
There are several points that tell me that it cannot be about you. If you had not wanted to be caught watching, you never would have been caught. You would be more likely to be the third one we never hear about, the eyes watching that shadow the stalker felt at the end, or the one who made Eleanor vanish without a trace. And this sentence: “But that was a line he hadn’t crossed, a boundary he’d promised himself he’d never breach.” Nah.
Your older works are very good, and you have only grown in brilliance since then. This has everything you could wish for from a story.
Thank you.
Crikey! 😬 Amazing writing HG.
Thank you.
There are a few things that stand out for me in this. Firstly, it’s beautifully written, almost romantic. To be noticed in such detail, definitely pulled at my heartstrings.
That made me wonder what type of stalker this man might be. I decided upon an Intimacy Seeking Stalker. This type of stalking is said to arise out of loneliness and a lack of confidantes so that the stalker essentially creates an imagined bond with an acquaintance. They hold delusional beliefs about the victim which ties in with the pedestalisation and attention to detail exhibited towards this victim.
I also wondered about the reconnaissance a narcissist sometimes conducts in relation to his victim. At what point does reconnaissance fall under the heading of stalking? Essentially, where does the raising of chances of success with the victim actually class as stalking? Here we have a change in seasons Summer to Winter so we can say six months minimum, more than a few weeks of reconnaissance. Definitely stalking, is it purely based on time though, or is stalking something that commences as the watching commences?
In terms of the victim, she confronts. “I know you are there.” She even crosses the street, gets closer. Honestly, that’s what I would do too. I’d confront. I might not cross the street, but I’d do something similar. Pause, stand, point, slow wave, move on. I can see myself doing it. That would be irritation at the invasion of privacy. I’m hot on privacy so I absolutely know that I would confront. I can’t imagine that being the brightest move, I would imagine the advice would be not to confront, but I don’t know for certain, perhaps it would depend on the type of stalker.
I wondered if he was a ghost for most of the article. His breath in the air made me reject that idea. Then I wondered if she was the ghost! It’s October so…
There’s quite a lot to unpack in this, not least how it makes me feel. I’m still trying to settle on and analyse that.
It is a haunting article.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts TS.
Now we’re talkin!
You are a masterful storyteller HG.
Thank you NA.
This is one of the stories that keep you up all night going over it in your mind and then you want to read more, but the next part is in the next book! Please don’t leave us hanging, HG! Please tell us more! I really enjoyed it! Xx
I am pleased you enjoyed it.
Hi HG:
I enjoyed it but psychopaths in the USA are half of all violent crimes. They are 20%of the jail population and highly recalcitrant. Many stalk. Their crimes are so horrible bizarre, not insane, they know from right from wrong. Dr.Rene and Dr.Morhadhanie who said he was a narcissistic psychopath working with the police and others found OJ Simpson to be a psychopath . While many don’t commit violent crimes and most lurk in the business world.
But with Dr. Robert Hare is a well-known Canadian psychologist who has contributed significantly to the understanding of psychopathy. He developed the Hare Psychopathy Checklist-Revised (PCL-R), which is a tool used to assess psychopathy in individuals, particularly Psychopaths often exhibit a lack of empathy, superficial charm, manipulation skills, impulsivity, and a tendency towards antisocial behavior. According to Hare, these traits can make them more likely to engage in manipulative and harmful behaviors, including stalking.
Some individuals with psychopathic traits may stalk others due to a need for control, power, or possession. Their lack of empathy can lead them to disregard the emotional distress they cause theirPsychopaths often choose their victims based on vulnerability, allowing them to exploit and control them more easily. They may use charm and manipulation to establish a connection before displaying more harmful traits.
Victims of stalking by individuals with psychopathic traits can experience severe emotional and psychological distress. The unpredictable nature of their behavior can lead to prolonged fear and anxiety.
Be aware: Understanding the traits of psychopathy can help in identifying potentially dangerous individuals.
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Establishing clear boundaries and recognizing red flags can be crucial in personal safety. If you or someone you know is experiencing stalking, it’s vital to seek help from professionals, such as counselors or legal authorities. Organizations that focus on victim support can also
I was stalked by my ex ASPD. I hired a bodyguard. Lucky as I found his drug money. I also found a former FBI agent who wrote o stalking to help me. . I made it public in court, in DV organizations and through every contact I had from the US attorneys office to the Pentagon. To organized crime. The vast Most did not get involved but if I died…?plenty of notice. The point was he kills me, eyes point to him. He did not. Stalkers should not be taken lightlyy.
But if stalked, keep records, report it to authorities and make it public and let him know it’s public and consult HG. For your safety.
These are really good reminders Contagious. 👌 Thank you for highlighting.
Breathtaking, sir. Utterly absorbing. The perfect pensieve. Is this about you? I read it twice already, walking beside Eleanor once and once beside her stalker.
Only you can so thoroughly ensorcell me with your words that my only movement is my finger to scroll and continue within the worlds you create.
I don’t have a precise word for this feeling. It’s lots of feelings all mixed together to make colors not seen or named and to evoke more wonder than the whimsy of jumping into chalk paintings… Every clause is a deep, dark brushstroke in a different direction. Each leaving its imprint to be discovered in the end. and the colors aren’t mixed into a single color…it’s something new, like a clay pot painted with multiple glazes on top of of each other blasted by your fiery breath into a glassy, glossy interplay of colors. (I have mixed glazes every time I glaze clay pieces. It’s always a surprise and a joy to get them after the firing.)
The perfect stormy winter day would be one spent inside with a fire you built. There could be tea, sandwiches, and fresh cookies while you tell stories.
This may be your most gut-wrenching ending ever. Please, say there will be more. Please.
Dani, beautifully written!!!
«I don’t have a precise word for this feeling. It’s lots of feelings all mixed together to make colors not seen or named and to evoke more wonder than the whimsy of jumping into chalk paintings… Every clause is a deep, dark brushstroke in a different direction. Each leaving its imprint to be discovered in the end. and the colors aren’t mixed into a single color…it’s something new, like a clay pot painted with multiple glazes on top of of each other blasted by your fiery breath into a glassy, glossy interplay of colors. (I have mixed glazes every time I glaze clay pieces. It’s always a surprise and a joy to get them after the firing.)»
P.S. H.G., forgive me for getting distracted, of course. But you have wonderful readers! I love reading what they write.
P.S. №2 It’s a pity, really, that we’ll never meet them in real life.
Nice plot twist, Mr. Tudor!
This was absolutely riveting!
Thank you.
Dear Mr Tudor,
Absolutely riveting and beautifully written.
Was this actually “you” lurking in the shadow ?
I am pleased you enjoyed it.
I enjoyed reading this.
Thank you, HG.
Thank you AA.
You are such a talented writer HG and that writing is what caught me 10 years ago and I never stopped reading. More please Sir! Xxx
Thank you FM1T.
Only you could make stalker sound intriguing.
Precisely.
Completely gripping…please write more.
Thank you.