It had been two weeks since the incident at my parents' house, and I was trying to move on, but things hadn’t been the same. The emails stopped after that last one—the one that said *Drive safe*—and despite everything, nothing else had come through since. I contacted the police again, hoping for some kind of progress, but they told me they still hadn’t been able to trace the emails back to a sender. They claimed they were doing what they could, but I could hear the same frustration in their voices that had been gnawing at me.
I kept telling myself it was over, that maybe it had been some elaborate prank or that whoever was behind it had lost interest and moved on. But it didn’t matter. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, even in the supposed safety of my own home. No matter where I was—whether sitting at my desk or lying in bed—there was this constant itch in the back of my mind, a feeling like unseen eyes were on me, just beyond my awareness.
Paranoia had started to creep in. I found myself constantly checking the windows, glancing over my shoulder whenever I went out, and lying awake at night, straining to hear any sound that didn’t belong. I had no real evidence to back it up—no more photos, no more strange emails—but that nagging sense of being watched wouldn’t leave me. It had begun to mess with my head.
My work suffered. I used to be on top of everything, but lately, my performance had taken a nosedive. Reports that used to be second nature were now getting turned in late, or sometimes not at all. My boss had started to notice, but I couldn’t explain the truth. How could I? It would’ve sounded insane. So I kept things vague, offering excuses about not sleeping well or feeling off. Even that was wearing thin.
And the truth was, I hadn’t been sleeping. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, that last email haunted me, and the thought that whoever had sent it was still out there—waiting. Watching.
I found myself drifting back to my desk, staring blankly at the screen, unable to focus. My eyes wandered toward the window, drawn to the courtyard outside the building. It was lunchtime, and a few people were heading out to grab food, chatting as they walked toward their cars. I used to join them, but lately, I hadn’t had much of an appetite. My mind was too occupied.
I glanced past the parking lot toward the woods that bordered the property. At first, everything seemed normal, the trees swaying lightly in the breeze. But then something caught my eye. A flash, like light reflecting off a piece of glass. I squinted, trying to make sense of it, and that’s when I saw it—someone standing in the woods, just beyond the lot, holding a camera. They were taking pictures of the building.
My heart lurched, and without thinking, I jumped up from my desk, adrenaline surging through my veins. I sprinted down the hall, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the walls, barely aware of the confused looks from my coworkers as I rushed past. I burst through the front doors and into the parking lot, my eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of the person.
But by the time I got outside, they were gone. The woods stood still, silent and indifferent, as if no one had ever been there at all.
I stood there, breathless, my pulse racing as I frantically searched for any sign of movement, any clue as to where they’d gone. But there was nothing. Just the shadows between the trees and the unsettling feeling that whoever had been watching me at my parents' house hadn’t gone far.
I made my way back inside the building, my heart still racing and my mind spinning with the images of what I had just seen. As I headed down the hall toward my desk, I saw my boss waiting for me, his arms crossed and a concerned look on his face.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice stern but not unkind. “You’ve been acting strange lately. Is something going on?”
I froze for a second, scrambling to come up with an answer. I couldn’t tell him the truth. How could I explain that I felt like I was being followed without sounding completely paranoid? Instead, I brushed it off, forcing a weak smile.
“I thought I saw someone looking into my car,” I lied, hoping it would be enough to satisfy him.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Do you want me to get security to pull up the parking lot cameras? If someone’s trying to break into your car, we should check it out.”
Panic shot through me as I realized I’d been caught in my lie. I shook my head quickly, feeling my face flush with embarrassment. “No, no, it’s fine,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I was mistaken. It wasn’t my car they were looking at, after all.”
My boss stared at me for a moment, his frown deepening. He didn’t push the issue, but I could tell he wasn’t buying my story. “Listen,” he said, his tone softening a bit. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re clearly not yourself. Whether it’s sleep, personal stuff, or whatever, you need to take some time. I’m putting you on a week’s suspension—with pay. Go home, sort out whatever is happening, and come back when you’re in a better place.”
A knot formed in my stomach. I knew he was right—my performance had been slipping, and now I was getting caught in my own lies—but I couldn’t afford to just leave everything hanging. I needed to at least finish what I’d been working on before taking time off.
“Let me just wrap up this project before I go,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I can finish it today, then I’ll take the week off.”
He studied me for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “Alright, but I want it done by the end of the day. After that, I don’t want to see you back here for a week. Understood?”
“Understood,” I replied, grateful for the small reprieve.
As I walked back to my desk, my mind was racing again. I’d bought myself a few more hours, but the reality of the situation was closing in fast. Someone *was* watching me—of that I was sure. And now, I had no choice but to go home and face whatever was coming.
On the way home, I stopped at a Chinese takeout place, barely registering the order I placed. I wasn’t hungry, not really, but I needed something to occupy my mind—something normal to cling to. By the time I got home, the food was lukewarm, but I didn’t care. I ate it in the dim silence of my living room, surrounded by the glow of every light I had turned on. It was the only way I could convince myself that everything was fine, even though deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
I was halfway through my meal when my phone buzzed, the sudden noise making me jump. My heart pounded in my chest as I fumbled to grab it off the table, fearing the worst. When I saw the caller ID, I relaxed for just a second—it was my brother. We hadn’t spoken since the gathering at my parents' place weeks ago. Maybe he was just calling to check in.
But when I answered, the tone of his voice told me immediately that something was wrong.
“Hey,” he started, his voice low and heavy, as if he were struggling with the words. “I... I didn’t want to call, but you need to know. Something happened to Patricia.”
My mind instantly flashed back to my aunt—the one who had screamed when she found the dead chickens at my parents' house. “What happened?” I asked, the uneasy feeling in my gut returning.
He took a breath, then spoke, each word slower and more deliberate than the last. “She... she got into a car accident last night. She drove straight into a busy intersection, didn’t stop. Another car hit her. She didn’t make it.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. My throat felt tight, and my stomach dropped, a cold emptiness settling in. Patricia was gone. The news hit me like a punch to the gut, a wave of grief washing over me. But almost immediately, that grief was tainted by something darker—a feeling I couldn’t shake.
It didn’t feel like a coincidence.
My mind raced, trying to piece it together. Patricia was the one who had discovered the chickens, the one who had first sounded the alarm. Now, just weeks later, she was dead in what seemed like a random accident? My thoughts spiraled. Could it have been intentional? Could *whoever* had been watching us be involved?
I didn’t want to believe it, but the timing was too perfect. I felt sick to my core.
“I... I’m sorry,” my brother said, breaking the heavy silence on the line. “I know this is a lot, but I thought you should hear it from me.”
“Thanks,” I managed to choke out, my voice weak. “I just... I can’t believe it.”
Neither could he. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.
I tried to shake off the feeling of creeping paranoia, focusing instead on the conversation with my brother. Patricia had always been a part of our lives growing up, always there at family gatherings and holidays. She’d been a constant presence, and having her ripped away so suddenly like this was a shock we weren’t prepared for.
“I just found out about the service,” my brother said, his voice strained. “It’s going to be next week, but... I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. One moment she was fine, and then—” He paused, struggling to find the words.
“I know,” I replied quietly. “It doesn’t feel real.”
As he continued talking, my phone buzzed again, a vibration that sent a cold shiver down my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I slowly pulled the phone away from my ear, already dreading what I might see.
Another email. The same random jumble of letters and numbers for a sender. My heart pounded in my chest as my brother’s voice faded into the background, his words blurring into the back of my mind. My focus locked onto the screen.
The subject line was blank, but my eyes drifted to the body of the email, and the words there made my blood run cold:
“Goodbye, Patricia.”
I felt the phone tremble slightly in my hand as I stared at the message, a sickening knot twisting in my stomach. My heart raced, my breath shallow. Attached to the email was a video file. My fingers moved on their own, almost mechanically, as I tapped on it.
It was a traffic cam video. The timestamp in the corner confirmed it had been taken the night before at the intersection where Patricia had been struck. I watched in silence as the camera captured her car rolling through the red light, slowly crossing into the busy intersection.
I held my breath, knowing what was coming.
And then it happened. A car came barreling through the green light, crashing into Patricia’s vehicle at full speed, metal twisting and glass shattering. The footage cut off just after the impact, but it was enough. The pit in my stomach deepened as I watched it all unfold.
I could barely register anything else around me. My brother was still talking on the phone, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the overwhelming sense of dread that consumed me.
Whoever this was—whoever had been sending these messages—they had been watching all along. And now, they were showing me Patricia’s death.
This wasn’t just a coincidence. This was a message.
The phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. My brother’s voice cut through the haze, asking if I was still there. “Hey? You okay? What the hell was that?”
I picked the phone back up, my hands trembling. “I... I just got another email,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“What? What did it say?” His voice was sharp, on edge.
“It had a video attached,” I continued, swallowing hard. “It was from the traffic cam... of Patricia’s accident. It showed everything. The car... the crash...”
My brother let out a string of curses, his voice rising. “You need to call the police. Now.”
“I know,” I muttered, my mind racing as I fumbled to end the call with him. “I’m going to. I’ll call you later.”
Without wasting another second, I dialed 911, my hands shaking as I listened to the ring. When the dispatcher picked up, I blurted out everything—the emails, the photos, and now this new video of Patricia’s crash. I told them that whoever had sent the emails had to be watching, that I didn’t feel safe.
As I spoke, there was a loud, violent knock at my door. Three hard raps that echoed through the house. BANG. BANG. BANG.
I froze mid-sentence, my breath catching in my throat. The sound was so sudden, so aggressive, that for a moment, I couldn’t even move.
“Hello?” the dispatcher asked, sensing my silence. “Are you still there?”
I slowly walked to the door, my legs feeling like lead. I leaned toward the peephole, my heart pounding in my chest, and peered through it.
Nothing. No one was there. Just the empty porch, bathed in the dim light of the streetlamp outside.
My heart sank, and I whispered into the phone, “Someone was just banging on my door. There’s no one there now, but I think I’m in danger.”
“We’re dispatching officers to your location,” the dispatcher said, their voice steady but urgent. “Stay on the line with me, okay? Lock the doors, stay inside, and don’t open the door for anyone.”
I backed away from the door, locking it, my pulse racing. Every sound in the house felt amplified—the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the floor beneath me, the ringing in my ears. I felt trapped, like something terrible was about to happen and I had no control over it.
A few agonizing minutes later, the flashing lights of a patrol car flickered through the windows. The sight of them brought a slight sense of relief, but my heart was still pounding in my chest as I walked to the window and peered out.
The police were here. But the fear didn’t leave me.
It felt like whoever had been watching me was still out there, just beyond the reach of the light, waiting.
I opened the door cautiously when the police knocked, the sight of their uniforms offering a small flicker of relief, though it did little to calm the storm inside me. I quickly ended the call with the dispatcher, then began explaining everything to the officers—the emails, the video of Patricia’s accident, and the banging on the door. I could hear my voice shaking as I spoke, but I forced myself to get through the details, watching as they exchanged concerned glances.
One of the officers stepped past me, eyeing something on the front door. “You didn’t notice this?” he asked, his tone serious.
I turned to look, my breath catching in my throat. Stuck to the door, pinned there with a hunting knife, was a photo—old, worn around the edges. It was my aunt, Patricia, smiling brightly in her high school senior picture from the 80s. The photo had a faded, sepia-toned quality to it, a relic from her past. Now, it hung there like a grim token of something much darker.
My blood ran cold. I hadn’t seen it when I’d looked through the peephole earlier. Whoever had been at the door must have left it while I was on the phone.
The officer carefully removed the knife, pulling the photo free and slipping it into an evidence bag. "We’ll take this," he said, his tone calm but firm. "Along with any emails you’ve received."
I nodded, still in shock, as they checked the perimeter of my house, shining their flashlights into the shadows surrounding the property. Every time the beam hit the treeline or illuminated the dark corners of my yard, I half-expected to see someone standing there, watching.
After a thorough check, the officers regrouped. “We didn’t find anyone,” one of them said, looking at me with sympathy. “But we’ll take the knife, the picture, and the emails as evidence. I’ll also request a patrol car in the area for the next few nights, just to keep an eye out.”
I nodded numbly, barely processing what they were saying. The hunting knife. The picture of Patricia. The video. Whoever was doing this wasn’t just messing with me—they were playing some kind of sick game, and now my aunt was part of it, even in death.
The officers offered a few more words of reassurance before heading back to their car. They promised to keep in touch, but I could see in their eyes that they didn’t have any real answers. Not yet.
As I closed the door behind them, the quiet settled in around me again, heavy and suffocating. I locked the door, every noise in the house suddenly amplified in the silence. The walls didn’t feel safe anymore.
A few days passed without incident, but the weight of everything lingered. Patricia’s funeral was fast approaching, and as the day grew closer, the tension in my chest only tightened. The police hadn’t found anything useful—they told me they were unable to trace the email, and there were no fingerprints on the picture or the knife. Whoever had done this had covered their tracks well. It left me in a state of constant dread, waiting for the next shoe to drop.
I hadn’t told my mom about the email. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She was already devastated by Patricia’s death, and the thought of her finding out that her sister might have been murdered—it was too much. I wasn’t sure she could take it, not now. My brother and I had agreed to keep it quiet until after the funeral. He thought it best to wait before we broke the news to our parents.
The morning of the funeral, I went over to my brother’s house so we could go to the service together. His kids were running around the living room, unaware of the weight hanging over the day, and his wife was busy getting everyone ready. The scene felt strangely normal, almost comforting in its routine, but the heaviness still pressed down on me.
We spoke in hushed voices, keeping our conversation low so we wouldn’t scare anyone. “The police still haven’t found any leads,” I whispered, leaning in close to him as we stood near the kitchen. My fingers twitched nervously, still haunted by the thought of those emails and the picture pinned to my door.
My brother sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I know this is freaking you out, but you’ve gotta stay calm. They’re investigating, and this... it’ll pass. They’ll figure it out.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, trying to reassure me, but his words felt distant. Hollow.
I wanted to scream at him, to tell him that he didn’t understand how terrifying this was, that I felt like I was being hunted by some invisible presence. But I held it in. What good would it do to lose control? Instead, I just nodded, biting my tongue.
“Yeah,” I muttered, forcing myself to agree, though I didn’t believe it. “I hope so.”
He gave me a sympathetic look, as if he could sense how scared I was, but didn’t know how to help. We both knew the reality—we were treading in waters too deep for either of us to navigate. As much as I wanted his reassurance to calm me, the truth was that none of this felt like it would simply “pass.”
As we left for the funeral, the knot in my stomach tightened. I could only hope the day would be free of any more horrific surprises, but deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever had done this wasn’t finished yet.
We made it to Patricia’s service, held in a quiet corner of the graveyard, where the wind whispered through the trees and the overcast sky seemed to mirror the heaviness in our hearts. The priest stood by her casket, giving her last rites, his voice carrying over the somber gathering of family and friends. It felt unreal that Patricia was really gone, and as I looked around, I saw the same disbelief and sadness etched into the faces of everyone there. We had all grown up around her, and now, we were here to say goodbye.
The family stood close together, huddled for warmth and comfort in the chilly air. Heads were bowed, eyes red and swollen from tears. The sound of birds and the soft rustling of leaves added a natural rhythm to the quiet mourning. The earth beneath Patricia’s casket was freshly dug, waiting to receive her, and the weight of that finality settled deep in my chest.
Then, out of nowhere, music began to play.
At first, it was faint—so out of place that it didn’t fully register. But as it grew louder, cutting through the quiet, the unmistakable tune of “Tequila” by The Champs filled the air. My stomach twisted, and I could see the confusion rippling through the crowd. Heads lifted, people looking around in disbelief. This wasn’t the somber hymn or quiet instrumental piece you’d expect at a graveside service—this was a jaunty, upbeat song with absolutely no place in this moment of mourning.
I watched as my relatives exchanged puzzled glances, murmuring to one another. It was as if everyone was waiting for someone to stop the music, to explain this surreal intrusion into Patricia’s funeral. But the song kept playing, the cheery melody filling the solemn space around the grave.
My heart sank. This wasn’t a mistake. It couldn’t be.
I turned to my brother, who looked as bewildered as the rest of the family, but something deep inside me churned with dread. This wasn’t random. Someone had done this on purpose—a sick, twisted joke meant to disrupt the grief we were all feeling.
And I couldn’t help but feel that whoever had been tormenting me was behind it.
Confusion quickly turned to anger, and then to an overwhelming sense of fear as my phone buzzed again in my pocket. My hands trembled as I pulled it out, already knowing what I’d find. Another email. Another random string of characters.
I stared at the screen, my heart hammering in my chest. This time, there was no text, just a GIF. A mariachi band, grinning widely, playing their instruments with infectious enthusiasm. The absurdity of it, the mockery, hit me like a punch to the gut. Whoever was doing this—whoever had been tormenting me and my family—wasn’t just playing with our grief. They were taunting us, laughing at our pain.
A white-hot rage surged through me, and before I even realized what I was doing, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and pushed my way through the crowd of mourners. The confused faces of my relatives blurred past me as I ran, my chest heaving, my mind consumed by fury. I couldn’t stay there, surrounded by the twisted joke of it all. I needed to *do* something.
I ran out into the open field beyond the graves, away from the crowd, away from the casket, until I stood alone in the wide expanse of the cemetery. My breath came in ragged gasps as I turned in a frantic circle, searching the distant tree line for any sign of them—for whoever was watching us, playing this cruel game. I knew they were out there. They had to be. Watching. Always watching.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” I screamed, my voice cracking with desperation. “Leave us ALONE!”
The wind carried my words into the empty field, but there was no answer. I could feel the burning in my throat, my voice raw, but I kept shouting, pleading with whoever they were to just stop. “WHY?! Why are you doing this? What do you want from us?!”
Nothing. Only the sound of my own breath, ragged and uneven, filling the silence that followed. I stood there, my fists clenched, waiting for something—anything—but the only response was the eerie quiet of the graveyard, the stillness of the world around me.
I fell to my knees, my chest tightening, the weight of everything crashing down on me. It felt like no matter how hard I yelled, no matter how much I begged, this shadow hanging over us would never leave.
“TEQUILA!”
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