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She leaned towards the lamppost and read the note again, then recoiled, shaking her head. Mary took a step in her direction, ready to ask if she was OK, but the young woman reached behind her head and pulled her hood on, settling it low over her eyes. At a pace close to a run, she left, moving towards Mary, her gaze down at the floor.

As she passed, she glanced up and Mary caught her eyes. Mary started, shocked at what she had seen.

The young woman’s expression was worse than shock. Her face was frozen in terror.

Looking Up

Mary was not sure she had ever seen someone so frightened. The woman hurried past her; what was odd, Mary realized, was that she was not looking around her. She was looking up.

She was looking at the highest windows of the buildings that lined the street. But for what? What would be up there?

Mary turned to the lamppost, intrigued to find out. There were a number of posters stuck to it, but there was one, undirtied and brand new, right where the woman had been looking. That had to be the one.

What was it? A photo maybe? Some horrific, disgusting photo. Perhaps anti-abortion, or anti-animal testing, activists had stuck something up. No – that would provoke disgust, not fear.

Not fear of high windows, for sure.

It was an interesting puzzle. Mary moved closer and saw immediately there was no photo, only words. It was just a note. Nothing other than words on a piece of paper stuck to a pole. How bad could it be, really?

Mary walked up to the lamppost. The paper was about A5, stuck to the pole by a piece of black electrical tape on each side. She reached into her bag for her reading glasses. At some point since she had reached her mid-forties her eyes had deteriorated; she could no longer read anything without glasses. It wasn’t the only thing that had gotten worse. She used to love running, love heading out on the trails around Barrow, trails that led through quiet woods and past picturesque farms all the way out to the beaches of the Casco Bay, love losing herself in the feeling of putting one foot in front of another. It was a kind of meditation; at least, it used to be. Now she was brought back sharply to reality by a pain in a knee or an ankle, or worse, the fear that her back was one false step away from an agonizing spasm. It wasn’t an unreasonable fear; it had happened once before. She had been left lying on the forest floor, unable to do much more than roll from side to side. Thankfully she’d had her phone with her, and had been able to call Ryan to come and help her.

As she put on her glasses, she hesitated. Did she really want to look? Whatever this was it was none of her business. She pictured the woman’s face, remembered her terror. Whatever had caused that she didn’t need in her life.

It was OK; it was only words. She could read it quickly and walk away. After all, what harm could it do?

She peered at the note and began to read. The words were written in an unusual, highly stylized sloping font.

If you are reading this, it said, I am watching you.

You are now part of my collection.

You are many, but soon, I will choose one of you.

You will be mine, and your life will never be the same again.

Do not think this is a joke: your life has changed.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, then Mary frowned. She felt the crawling sensation of being watched between her shoulder blades.

She glanced around, and then, instinctively – just like the woman, she thought – she looked up, wondering where a watcher could be.

There were many options. Windows, rooftops, trees.

They could be anywhere, she thought. Who is it? Maybe a sniper, holding me in their crosshairs.

She shook her head. All around her people were going about their business. This was Barrow, a small town in Maine. There were no assassins hiding in treetops. It was ridiculous.

It was a joke, a stupid prank designed to scare people. Well, she was not scared.

There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all.

Her Client, Mack Stapleton

When Mary reached her office she pushed the note from her thoughts. Her mind was on her afternoon meeting with an old and valued client; as she had entered the main door she saw, from reception, that he was already in her office.

She was handed a file by Nathan, a recent graduate who had come highly recommended, but who seemed a bit too scattered to be an effective attorney. It was going to be a headache for her unless he managed to find a way to become more focused on the tasks, tedious as some of them were, that made up his job.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, and walked into her office. She slipped out her notes. They were handwritten on yellow legal paper – yellow, according to a senior partner, Norman, who was now semi-retired, so that lawyers’ notes stood out in piles of other notes. Mary was sceptical, but it made little difference nowadays. Most of the information on a case was digital; she was one of the few who still made notes by hand and kept them in paper files.