I try to avoid walking down that side of the street, though sometimes I can’t escape it. Whenever I go past the abandoned lot hidden behind pealing paint and rusty nails, I get that feeling that someone is watching me. Like, If I turned around suddenly I’d see a wild-eyed face pressed against the weathered slats, gnarled hands reaching out trying to snag me in their grasp.
Some days I’m tempted peer through the filigree wicket, hoping to catch a glimpse of my stalker
Perhaps, one day, I’ll see who is waiting for me and wish that I hadn’t.