Page 8 of Daddy's Muse
A few minutes into my walk, the rhythm of my footsteps changed subtly. I strained my ears, picking up on someone walking behind me. Their footsteps were soft, almost hesitant. I slowed and turned my head slowly, eyes scanning the dusky stretch of sidewalk behind me. Nothing. Just the wide, cracked cement path and the outline of trees swaying lazily along the edge of the road.
I shrugged, thinking I must have been imagining it.
But maybe a minute or so later, as I continued walking, I heard it again.
I spun around fast this time. And again, there was no one, not even a squirrel.
My heart stuttered against my ribs. I wasn’t typically this paranoid. I’d walked this path dozens of times, usually early in the morning and late at night, and I’d never had any issues. I came to the conclusion that I was just worked up from my talk with Dr. Stratfield. After all, I had been pretty sleep-deprived as of late. Not to mention the stress of everything weighing on my mind during the day.
Still, I walked faster. Just in case there was a ghost or something. Just in case. But maybe it was a friendly ghost? Or it could be a masked killer with a big knife. Or a bear? Although I didn’t think that bears were supposed to be that sneaky.
By the time the neon flicker of the diner’s sign came into view, I was sweating under my hoodie despite the chill in the air. I paused at the back door that led from a parking lot into the small kitchen, turning once more to glance behind me.
Empty.
Just the distant sound of a city bus rumbling by and the soft buzz of a streetlamp overhead.
I exhaled shakily, promising myself that I’d try extra hard to sleep well after work, and pushed open the door to the diner.
Mae turned from her spot behind the counter, peeking through the pass-through window to look at me. “There you are, baby.” Her voice was warm and weathered. “Thought you might’ve skipped out on me tonight,” she joked, a toothy grin spread across her face.
“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, Mae,” I called, forcing a smile as I slid behind the counter to grab my apron, the smell of coffee soothing me.
I tied the apron around my waist and clocked in, trying to push the weird feeling out of my head. It was probably nothing.
The bell on the front door chimed, a twinkling sound.
I turned, automatically greeting the customer with a friendly smile. “Welcome in, sit down anywhere you’d like.”
But for a half-second, my smile faltered.
The man who walked in was tall and spindly, his sweaty skin a yellowish, sickly hue, and his eyes beady. He looked greasy. There was a fairly significant homeless population in Morgantown, but I got the gut feeling that he wasn’t just someone down on their luck. There was something that feltwrongabout him.
I hated judging people based on their appearances or situations, as I had grown up homeless until my grandparents found out and took me in. And even then, when I was safe and looked after, I never had any money to spare. We lived frugally on my grandparents’ Social Security payments.
The man paused just inside the door, eyes sweeping slowly over the room. He chose a booth by the window, sitting with an unnerving kind of stillness. He didn’t even glance at the menu, just stared out the window with eyes that didn’t seem to blink. I tried to shake off the unease crawling up my spine and approached with my order pad in hand.
“Hi there, sir,” I said, keeping my voice unwavering and sweet. “Can I get you something to drink while you decide on your meal?”
He turned his head and fixed his gaze on me. His eyes were a washed-out gray, bloodshot. “Black coffee,” he grumbled before looking back out the window.
“Sure thing.” I scribbled it down, though I didn’t need to. “I’ll be right back with that.”
As I walked away, I felt his eyes on me. I held back a shudder.
Mae caught my expression as I passed the counter. She raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “Creep?”
“Just a little off, it’s fine,” I murmured, pouring the coffee.
“Hmm,” she hummed. “I can take his table if you’d like, dear.”
“No, but thank you for offering. You know I’d probably burn the place down if I took over cooking.”
The man didn’t end up eating anything, just grunted and shook his head when I asked if he’d like to order any food—just sat there nursing his coffee, sipping it without ever showing a change in expression. No smile. No acknowledgment. His coat stayed on. He didn’t touch his napkin. Didn’t look at his phone.
The longer he stayed, the more I couldn’t help wondering if I hadn’t imagined those footsteps earlier, and if they belonged to him.
It was probably a coincidence. He wasn’t technically doing anything wrong. Still, I made sure not to turn my back on him too often.
