Every year in the United States, over 80,000 women go missing. Only a fraction are ever found.
Most simply vanish without a trace.
Where do you think they end up?
The young woman was soaking in the shower with her eyes closed, letting the warm water cascade through her long, silky hair, trickling down her smooth shoulders, flowing onward, cresting peaks and dipping into valleys.
Behind the foggy glass door, her youthful, curvaceous figure looked utterly captivating.
Especially that slim, hand-span waist, those straight, toned legs, and skin as pale and creamy as fresh milk.
The rush of water drew a soft, whispery moan from her lips.
Ding!
But at that moment, her phone chimed inappropriately.
She opened her eyes, and an anonymous text popped up: "Your body... holds no secrets."
In an instant, her relaxed expression twisted into panic.
But this was just the beginning.
What followed was a barrage of eerie, unsettling messages.
They bombarded her senses, plucking at her raw nerves.
Ding!
"Emma Hayes, 19, Riverside State University student, ID: 20240101"
Ding!
"Bust 34D, waist 22, hips 36."
Ding!
"That beauty mark on your right shoulder—it's my favorite."
...
The tone was chilling, like a demon from the abyss, yet it nailed every detail about her with unnerving accuracy.
"Ah!"
She let out a blood-curdling scream, snatching a towel to wrap around herself, desperately scanning the already locked windows.
But the damning texts kept coming: "Don't bother with futile resistance. My eyes... are everywhere!"
"You're my prey."
"The little lamb will become the wolf's feast."
The taut string in her mind snapped completely. She flung the horrifying phone away like it burned her, crouching in the bathroom corner, sobbing uncontrollably as hot water mixed with tears pelted her shaking body.
It had been a month—she'd been tormented by this perverse sense of being watched for a full month!
Starting last month, she'd felt her life plunge into something bizarre. Whether in class, at her part-time job in the coffee shop, or heading home, it always seemed like a pair of cold, piercing eyes were sizing her up.
When she'd whip around, the space behind her was empty, like it was all in her head.
She didn't live in the dorms; for easier shifts at the coffee shop, she'd rented a cheap apartment nearby.
The route back home cut through an alley called Whisper Lane—a local twist on "Willow Lane," meaning new beginnings.
At first, she'd rolled her eyes at the old-fashioned name.
Now, that alley had become her nightmare!
Every night walking through it, she'd hear a second set of footsteps besides her own.
They sounded like a man's boots, clacking steadily, matching her pace.
She walked, they followed; she stopped, they halted!
Trembling, she'd fumble for her phone, flick on the flashlight, and spin around to shine it—only to find the alley deserted.
But as soon as she kept going, the footsteps resumed, even when she slyly checked with her compact mirror—nothing.
The whole alley held only her shadow, lying still on the cobblestones, as if sighing softly.
In that moment, she'd bolt, the wind carrying a ghostly pursuit behind her.
She was on the verge of breaking, convinced an invisible "specter" had fixated on her!
Finally making it home, the feeling lingered, even with doors and windows bolted multiple times, even without hearing the elevator—still, it felt like eyes were roaming the room, appraising her.
This invasive gaze persisted into daylight!
In lectures, she'd catch her male professor staring with a smirk, the curve of his mouth seeming... off, like someone else!
As if another pair of eyes lurked behind his glasses, and even his soul had been hijacked by a stranger.
She was introverted, with just one or two close friends. When she confided in her bestie, they chalked it up to stress-induced hallucinations, suggesting she see a therapist and not overthink it.
Hallucinations?
Those sensations could be imagined, but how to explain the rest?
Like how her forgotten trash bags by the door would vanish several times, though she hadn't paid the disposal fee.
Or how she'd realized her apartment had been broken into more than once—after the stalking started, she'd wedged a receipt in the doorframe.
Coming home at night, the receipt was on the floor, proof someone had entered during the day, yet nothing was missing.
She'd tried getting security footage from the guard, but conveniently, that day's cameras were down—nothing to see...
Later, she forced herself to socialize, commuting with classmates and coworkers to shake off the stalked vibe.
But inexplicably, her friends and colleagues started fine but soon distanced themselves, even whispering behind her back.
She had no idea why, until she found an anonymous note in her backpack: "You're mine. I forbid you to talk to others!"
Just as the note decreed, no one spoke to her anymore. Then the anonymous texts began, their tone as domineering as ever.
Like an omnipotent predator, coldly observing his quarry, toying with her, breaking her, until she shattered...
She couldn't take it anymore and went to the police.
At first, they dismissed it—no real harm done, just spam texts harassing her.
"But he knows everything about me—my school, address, job, even my measurements!"
She broke down in tears, and seeing her state, the cops took it seriously, suspecting a real stalker.
Two officers scoured her apartment inside and out, finding nothing amiss, until she pointed fearfully at the building across the street.
But after exhaustive checks, those floors were all vacant rentals, covered in dust and cobwebs—no signs of life.
No way anyone was setting up binoculars there to spy on her showers, changes, or sleep every day.
"How about I call your family?"
Faced with the female officer's kindness, she shook her head—her parents were working out of state, already struggling enough.
Telling them would only worry them pointlessly, without helping.
The sensible girl left the station. She was too scared of the apartment to return, so she took a two-hour train home.
She skipped classes and her job, convinced that only at home could the unseen phantom be kept at bay.
Knock knock knock.
At 2 a.m., the knocking started abruptly.
Alert, she bolted wide awake—but this was home; maybe her parents were back?
She cautiously cracked the door, but outside was empty, just a hollow hallway ushering in gusts of desolate wind.
That feeling surged again!
She slammed the door, locking it several times over, and this time, the clever girl didn't move away.
Soon, the knocks resumed—three long, two short—one after another, growing more frantic, like an enraged beast.
She peered through the peephole immediately.
Who are you?
This time, through the peephole, she glimpsed the most terrifying sight of her life...