Uncomfortably Close Encounters

Working late at the office wasn’t something I minded. In fact, I enjoyed the quiet hours when everyone else had gone home. It gave me time to focus without the constant buzz of conversations or ringing phones. But recently, something had been unsettling me about these late nights. And it all started with the janitor. At first, I didn’t think much of it. He was just the guy cleaning up after hours, mopping the floors and emptying the trash bins. But over time, I began to notice something strange. He always seemed to be nearby—closer than necessary. It started small, like him glancing in my direction while I worked. He never smiled or said much, just kept his eyes on me a little longer than felt comfortable. I shrugged it off, figuring it was just the nature of working in the same space. But then, things escalated. One evening, after a long day, I went to the restroom before heading home. As I walked out, there he was—standing just outside the door, mop in hand, staring at me. I paused, startled by how close he was. “Long day?” he asked, his voice low. “Yeah,” I mumbled, brushing past him. That’s when I noticed he wasn’t cleaning anywhere near the restroom. His cart was parked down the hall, far from where he was standing. Why had he been waiting right outside the door? I didn’t dwell on it, but as the days went by, the same pattern emerged. He’d always be around—just a little too close, watching me work from a distance, or standing in odd places like the parking lot after everyone had left. I told myself it was a coincidence, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. One night, as I was packing up to leave, he struck up a conversation, something he rarely did. “You work late a lot,” he said, leaning against the doorframe of my office. “Must be tough, being here alone.” I glanced at him, uncomfortable with the way he was standing, blocking the exit. “Yeah, I guess. Just trying to get things done.” He didn’t move. “I see you leave around the same time every night. You should be careful. You never know who’s watching.” That comment sent a shiver down my spine. There was something in his tone, something that felt more like a warning than casual conversation. I forced a smile and grabbed my bag, squeezing past him without another word. As I walked to my car, I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him following me. That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. The way he watched me, the way he always seemed to be there. I started questioning every little interaction, every glance, every time he lingered nearby. Was I overreacting, or was there something more to this? Then it got worse. One evening, I found a note on my desk when I returned from a break. It was simple, just a few words scribbled on a piece of paper: Nice lunch, hope you enjoyed it. I looked around, confused. There was no one else in the office except me and the janitor. I hadn’t told anyone what I’d eaten, and the break room was down the hall, far from where he usually cleaned. My stomach churned with unease. How did he know? Had he been watching me? I shoved the note into my bag and left the office in a hurry, my heart pounding the whole way to my car. But when I reached the parking lot, my blood ran cold. He was there. Leaning against my car, arms crossed, with that same slow, unsettling smile creeping across his face. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, until finally, he spoke. “You never know who’s watching.” I froze, his words echoing in my head. My instincts screamed at me to get out of there, but I didn’t want to seem afraid. Keeping my face neutral, I walked toward my car, my hands gripping my keys so tightly they left marks on my palms. “What do you want?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just saying hi,” he replied casually, stepping away from my car. “You know, you’re the only one here so late most nights. It’s good to have company.” I didn’t respond, just unlocked my car and got inside as quickly as I could. My heart raced as I started the engine and pulled out of the lot, watching him in the rearview mirror. He stood there, watching me drive away, his smile never faltering. After that night, I started leaving work earlier. I didn’t want to be alone in the office with him anymore, didn’t want to risk another encounter like that. But even during the day, I could feel his eyes on me. Every time I passed him in the hallway, I could sense him watching. The final straw came a week later. I arrived at work one morning to find another note on my desk. This one was more direct: You should lock your doors at night. My heart pounded as I read it, my mind racing with all the possibilities. How did he know where I lived? Had he been watching me outside of work? I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to HR, reported everything—the notes, the comments, the way he’d been watching me. But they brushed it off, saying it was probably just a misunderstanding. They promised to look into it, but I knew nothing would change. That night, I drove home with the windows up and the doors locked, glancing in the rearview mirror the whole way. Every shadow, every car behind me felt like him, lurking, watching. I knew he was still out there, still keeping track of my every move. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was never truly alone.