Followed
It was another typical Wednesday morning. Or so I thought. I was staying in Portland for the week to visit my dad’s side of the family. One day, while my dad and brother were in their beds snoring, I went to the hotel’s fitness center to work out. The elevator door was about to close when a hand reached in and stopped it. A man stepped inside. He was in his late twenties, had a thin black beard, and was covered in tattoos.
“What floor is the restaurant?”
“I think it’s on the first floor,” I said as I pressed that button for him, next to the already lit button that read “Basement.” I kept my eyes to the doors. The ride felt longer than usual. Like trudging through quicksand. Was the elevator always this small? The ride stopped. With a beep, the doors opened. I waited for the man to step out, but he didn’t.
“I actually have to go to the gym too,” he said, even though I didn’t ask. Weird. The door closed and before I could say anything, we were descending. Maybe I’m overreacting, I tried to convince myself. When we reached the basement I headed for the gym. I scanned the door and it clicked open. I tried to close it behind me, but he grabbed it.
“Thanks,” he said. I tried not to look at his face. I entered the darkness. The room lit up. Empty. We were all alone. I headed to the treadmill and placed my bag down. I was about to press start when I looked over my shoulder. The man wasn’t wearing any workout clothes. Just a black baseball cap and backpack. What was in the backpack? Instead of rolling out a mat or picking up some dumbbells he just stood there. Waiting, reading a magazine. My hand dropped. Something isn’t right. I grabbed my bag and threw it over my shoulder. I hopped off the treadmill.
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“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Yeah, I just forgot something in my room,” I said as I strode toward the exit. He followed. When we reached the elevator, I pulled out my phone and tried to hide it from the man’s sight. I clicked on Dad. I think someone is following me, I typed, worried that my hands would slip and my phone would fall out. I sent the message, unsure whether or not my dad was still asleep. The man in front of me wasn’t that big. He was scrawny and couldn’t have been taller than 5 feet 7. Even if he was intimidating, I took Krav Maga in fifth grade and went to a self-defense summer camp two years before that. However, despite the man not trying to grab me, I didn’t feel safe; I didn’t feel like I could protect myself. I felt trapped between the walls of the elevator.
The doors chimed. As soon as I was freed, I raced to the counter. Behind it was a young man with a name tag that read, Staff.
“I think someone is following me,” I said in a hushed voice. He looked behind me to see my stalker sitting on the lobby couch, reading another magazine.
“One moment,” he said as he went over to the man. I couldn’t hear the whole conversation from the counter. Yet, I remember him, as well as another employee, pointing to the door, telling the man to leave.
I’m lucky I got out of this situation alive. However, I know there are a lot of people, especially young girls, who fall victim to stalkers, rapists and even murderers every year. It’s unfair that we can’t go out alone without looking over our shoulder to see if we’re being followed. Yet it’s the reality we have to face every day. So next time you feel like something is off, listen to your gut. It’s better to be wrong and alive than right and dead.
