The Stalking Gets Worse
1777 Words
The first email came at 9:03 AM on a Monday.
Subject: “Your performance review”
Sender: _HR@meridianlegal.com
It wasn’t from HR.
I knew that because Meridian Legal laid me off six months ago. The day after the rooftop incident. “Budget cuts,” they said. I knew it was because Mark called my boss and told him I was “unstable” and a “liability.”
The email had a PDF attached.
I opened it.
It was a fake performance review. Badly formatted, full of typos, claiming I’d harassed three clients, leaked confidential files, and shown up to work intoxicated. It ended with a termination letter dated last week.
At the bottom, in small font, a note:
“Told you I could ruin you. – M”
I deleted it. Then I called HR.
They’d gotten the same email. So had three of my former coworkers.
That was Day 1.
---
Day 3, my LinkedIn messages started filling up.
Messages from recruiters I’d never spoken to.
Messages saying, “We’ve been made aware of your recent conduct. We’re withdrawing your application.”
Messages saying, “Do you want to explain the video?”
There was no video.
Not a real one.
But when I searched my name, the third result was a deepfake.
Me, in a hotel room, saying things I’d never said.
Me, with a man who wasn’t Mark, doing things I’d never done.
It was 47 seconds long. It had 12,000 views.
The comments were worse.
“She’s unhinged.”
“No wonder he got a restraining order.”
“Lock her up.”
I reported it. LinkedIn took it down 11 hours later.
By then it had been reposted 6 times.
Lena found me sitting on her bathroom floor, phone in my hand, staring at the screen like it might reach out and strangle me.
“Turn it off,” she said softly. She knelt down and took the phone from me.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “If I don’t watch it, I don’t know what he’s saying about me.”
“That’s exactly what he wants,” Lena said. “He wants you to feel like you can’t escape it.”
I didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
---
Day 5, Lena’s car got keyed.
Not just scratched. The word LIAR was carved into the driver’s door, deep enough that it would need a full repaint.
The security camera in her building’s garage was “malfunctioning” again.
Just like it was the night of the break-in.
Jake came over that night, badge off, wearing jeans and a hoodie. He looked at the car, then at me, then at Lena.
“He’s escalating,” Jake said. “This isn’t just about you anymore, Aliya. He’s coming for everyone around you.”
Lena crossed her arms. “Then we file another report.”
Jake shook his head. “We did. It’s ‘vandalism, suspect unknown.’ Without footage, it’s a dead end.”
“What about the ankle monitor?” I asked. “Can’t you track him?”
“We can,” Jake said. “He was at his mother’s house all night. House arrest. He didn’t leave.”
Lena laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “So he’s doing this from his living room? Ordering deepfakes and fake emails from his couch?”
“Looks like it,” Jake said. “He’s using burner emails, crypto payments, VPNs. We’re trying to trace it, but it takes time.”
Time.
The one thing I didn’t have.
---
Day 7, I got fired.
Not from a job I had.
From a job I was about to start.
I’d been interviewing for a paralegal position at a small firm downtown. Three rounds. They loved me. The offer was supposed to come Friday.
Friday morning, I got a call.
“Aliya, I’m so sorry,” the hiring manager said. Her voice was tight, uncomfortable. “Something came up. We can’t move forward.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I’m not at liberty to say. But I’d recommend you… address whatever’s online about you before you apply again.”
I hung up and checked my email.
There it was.
An anonymous email sent to the firm at 2AM.
Subject: “Hiring Alert: Aliya Chen”
Body:
“Attached are court documents and media showing Aliya Chen’s history of violence and stalking. Hiring her would be a liability. Do not proceed.”
The attachments were the fake texts, the flipped photo, the edited audio.
All of it, repackaged to look official.
I sat on the floor of Lena’s apartment and stared at the ceiling.
He wasn’t just trying to scare me anymore.
He was trying to erase me.
---
Day 9, Lena got a package.
No return address.
Inside was a snow globe.
Inside the snow globe was a photo of her apartment window at night.
Taken from across the street.
Underneath, a note in block letters:
“I see you when you sleep, Lena. Tell Aliya to answer her phone.”
Lena didn’t sleep for 48 hours after that.
She started carrying pepper spray. She changed her route to work. She made me promise not to leave the apartment alone.
I promised.
I lied.
Because on Day 10, I got a text.
From an unknown number.
No photo.
No video.
Just one sentence:
“Jake’s at the coffee shop on 4th and Main. He’s not alone.”
My blood went cold.
I knew what he was doing.
He was trying to make me jealous.
He was trying to make me call him.
He was trying to make me break.
I didn’t call him.
I called Jake.
“Are you at 4th and Main?” I asked.
There was a pause.
“Yes,” Jake said. “How did you know?”
“Is someone with you?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “My sister. She’s in town for the weekend.”
Relief hit me like a wave.
Then anger.
“Mark knows you’re there,” I said. “He texted me.”
Jake was quiet for a second.
“Aliya, stay inside. Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming to you.”
He hung up.
I stood by the window, watching the street below.
Waiting.
---
Day 11, the final blow came.
I woke up to 47 missed calls.
All from my mother.
I called her back, hands shaking.
“Aliya,” my mom said, voice breaking. “Your father had a heart attack last night. He’s in ICU.”
The world tilted.
“What? Is he okay?” I asked.
“He’s stable,” my mom said. “But Aliya… there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Mark called the hospital,” she said. “He told them he was your husband. He said you were on your way and that you wanted no visitors except family.”
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
“He got my name put on the visitor ban list,” my mom continued. “I had to show them my marriage certificate to get them to remove it. Aliya, he knows where we are. He knows where your father is.”
I hung up without saying goodbye.
Lena found me 20 minutes later, packing a bag.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to the hospital,” I said. “He can’t keep me from my father.”
“Aliya, no,” Lena said. “If you go, he wins. He wants you to react. He wants you to break the restraining order so he can call the cops on you.”
“So what do I do?” I snapped. “Just sit here and let him destroy my life?”
Lena grabbed my shoulders. “You let us handle it. Jake’s already on his way to the hospital. He’ll make sure Mark doesn’t get near your dad. But you stay here. You stay safe.”
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to drive to the hospital and confront him myself.
But I knew she was right.
So I stayed.
And I hated myself for it.
---
That night, at 11:42 PM, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
No text.
Just a photo.
It was my father’s hospital room.
Taken from the hallway.
Through the glass window in the door.
My father was asleep in the bed.
And standing in the hallway, just out of frame, was a shadow.
A tall shadow.
With blonde hair.
The caption read:
_“I’m closer than you think, Aliya.
You can run, but you can’t hide.
Answer me, or the next photo won’t be from the hallway.”_
I stared at the photo until my eyes burned.
Then I looked at the time stamp.
11:40 PM.
Two minutes ago.
He was at the hospital.
Right now.
I jumped up, grabbed my keys, and ran for the door.
Lena’s voice followed me. “Aliya, no!”
I didn’t stop.
I had to see him.
I had to make him stop.
I burst out of the apartment, took the stairs two at a time, and ran to my car.
My hands shook so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition.
I pulled out of the parking garage, tires squealing.
The hospital was 12 minutes away.
I was going to be there in 10.
Halfway there, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Aliya,” Mark’s voice said, low and pleased. “I knew you’d come.”
“What do you want?” I said, my voice shaking with rage.
“I want you to stop running,” he said. “I want you to come back to me. And I want you to know… I’m not alone.”
The line went dead.
I turned onto the hospital access road.
And that’s when I saw it.
A black car parked by the emergency entrance.
Engine running.
Headlights off.
And standing next to it, leaning against the hood, was Mark.
He wasn’t alone.
Standing beside him was a woman.
Late 20s.
Long dark hair.
Eyes I recognized from somewhere.
She smiled at me as I pulled in.
Mark turned to her, said something I couldn’t hear.
She nodded.
Then she looked at me and raised her phone.
The screen flashed.
Another photo taken.
And in the background, behind her, I saw the emergency entrance doors slide open.
A gurney rolled out.
On it, a covered body.
My father’s room number was on the chart at the foot of the gurney.
---
- Writer
