Page 10 of Don’t Watch Alone

Chapter eight

Blaiz

The phone’s loud ringing feels like a slap in the face. It’s my day off, the one morning I’d planned to stay buried beneath my blankets until the sun was high and my guilt was low. I shove my face deeper into the pillow, praying it’ll stop, but of course it doesn’t. It’s Greg.

“Blaiz, thank god you picked up. Mary didn’t show up for work. I need you to come in,” he whines.

“Greg, it’s my day off,” I mutter, trying not to sound as pissed off as I feel.

“I know, I know, but we’re already short. You know how it is… nobody wants to fucking work anymore.”

He’s not wrong, not about that. No one does want to work there. We’re barely scraping by with four people, and he runs the place like a cracked whip .

“Fine. I’ll come in,” I say with a sigh, already kicking myself for caving in. “But I’ve got errands to run, so it will be a bit.”

“Just get here as soon as you can.”

I hang up, roll my eyes, and stare at the ceiling for a long good minute. I should quit. I think this every damn day. Maybe I mean it this time.

I drag myself out of bed, I trip on the tangled sheets and curse under my breath.

The cold floor nips at my feet as I walk to the bathroom.

Just as I pass the front door, a heavy thump echoes from the other side.

It’s muffled but clear. I stop dead in my tracks.

I wait. Nothing. After a few seconds, I peek through the peephole—just the hallway, empty and still.

I shrug it off. Probably someone being an asshole or dropping something on their way past my door.

I make my way to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, gargle, and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like hell. Whatever. I apply some makeup, just to hide the most noticeable flaws, and pull on jeans and a sweater that don’t require much thought. Greg doesn’t deserve anything more.

When I open the door, something small and pale catches my eye.

A piece of paper, folded tight, taped dead center to the painted door.

I glance down the hall—still empty. No sound, no shadows, just the quiet noise of a weekday morning.

I rip the note off and shove it in my pocket without reading it, not willing to stand out here like bait.

Once I’m in my car, I start the engine and sit there, letting the car warm up. I think of the note, so I unfold it. The handwriting is too neat. Too careful.

Blaiz, I have been watching you. I just want to tell you that you are beautiful. Love, your secret admirer.

It feels like a blow to the chest. Not sweet.

Not flattering. Just fucked up. My breath catches in my throat and I grip the paper tighter than I mean to.

A secret admirer? Bullshit. This isn’t some high school note passed between friends.

This is someone watching me. Someone close enough to know where I live. Someone who left this while I slept.

And then it clicks. Andy. That freak said something almost like that word for word to me last night. I thought that would be the end of it. Apparently not. Apparently, he’s still lurking.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, my voice sharp in the closed air of the car. He’s watching me. This note proves it.

My fingers tremble, the heat from the vents doing nothing to calm the chill crawling up my spine. So now I have to go in, deal with Greg’s whining, fake a smile for customers, and all the while wonder if Andy’s going to show up again.

My day off is well and truly fucked.

***

I step into Electric Avenue, the familiar sound of the fluorescent lights above doing nothing to improve my mood. Greg doesn’t waste a second.

“Blaiz, I’m gonna need you to stay and close tonight,” he says, already halfway to his office, his voice trailing like it can’t be bothered to stick around.

“Haven’t heard from Mary, and she’s all I had scheduled.

We really need to hire more people. I’ll be in my office going through applications if you need me. ”

Just like that, he vanishes.

I already know this shift’s going to be shit. If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll head home early. At least the floor looks dead, which gives me a little hope.

I wander over to a table stacked with shirts and start straightening them, bright fabrics practically glowing under the overhead lights. That’s when a couple of teenagers come bouncing in, their laughter a little too loud for the empty store.

I walk over to them, slipping into customer service mode. “Need help finding anything?”

“I’m looking for a bitchin’ outfit,” one of the girls says, grinning as she elbows her friend. “Bright colors. Shoulder pads are a must.”

A grin plays on my lips. “Oh, I’ve got a gnarly one for you.”

This is the part of the job I actually enjoy. I lead them to a mannequin—a neon pink blazer with shoulder pads that could double as armor, a blazing yellow crop top, and acid-wash jeans hugged by a thick studded belt.

The girl gasps. “This is totally radical. I’ll take it.”

I head over to the racks to grab the pieces, but the sizes are off. Not even close to hers. My gut drops, but then I remember—we dressed that mannequin using the last of the size runs. I spin back toward it.

“I’ll undress the mannequin and sell you these,” I say, already moving.

She hesitates. “I don’t want to make you go through all that.”

“It’s no trouble. It’s time this display got a new look, anyway.”

I start unbuttoning the blazer, folding each item carefully, making sure the shoulders don’t cave in. That’s when someone else enters and I glance up to see Janice walking in. I feel a surge of excitement—she’s supposed to tell me how her date went .

“I’ll be right with you, Janice,” I call, giving her a wave. She smiles, a little awkward, and waits by the counter.

Once I ring up the teenager, who nearly drifts out of the store, clutching the outfit like it’s made of gold, I make my way over to Janice. I lean against the counter, already smiling.

“Sooo… how’d it go?” I ask, voice low like we’re sharing secrets in a high school hallway.

She shrugs with a soft smile. “He was polite. Dinner, movie, then back to his place for a drink. He was a real gentleman.”

Something plays in her expression, though—hesitation. She picks at a loose thread on her sleeve.

“But…” she says. “When we got to his place, I noticed something weird. He had pictures of you. In his bedroom.”

The words hit me. I feel a twisting in my stomach. “What?! What was his name?”

She blinks. “His name’s Andrew. That’s what he told me.”

My whole body goes cold.

No. No way .

I feel my jaw drop. “Andy?” I whisper.

Her eyes widen. “Yeah… he said his friends call him Andy. Do you know him?”

I stare at her, trying to process what she just said. Andy. The same Andy who’s been hovering around this store. The one who won’t stop showing up. Watching me.

My voice comes out tight. “How well did you know him before this date?”

“It was a blind date,” she says quietly.

I’m dizzy, the pieces clicking into place with a sick twist. No wonder she didn’t recognize him in the store that night—it was a blind date, so she didn’t know what he looked like. That son of a bitch wasn’t there to shop. He was there for me. He has to be the one that put that note on my door too.

What started as an annoying shift has now twisted into something far worse. A fucking nightmare.

The clock crawls toward nine, each tick wearing on my nerves and echoing through the emptiness of the mall.

Janice left hours ago, her voice still clinging to the air, lingering through my thoughts as I replay the details she shared about her blind date.

Andrew, or was it Andy? The guy with pictures.

Of me. Spread across his bedroom like some fucked-up display.

“Almost there, almost there,” I mutter, the words barely more than breath in the quiet store.

The mall after hours is a dead thing—every shop closed, every sound drawn out and eerie.

I yank the front gates down, and the metal screams in protest, the noise unpleasant and far too loud in the quiet.

The overhead lights begin to shut off one by one, each click sending another part of the store into darkness, until only the glow of exit signs and security lights.

Mary still hasn’t shown. Typical. Maybe she’s finally had enough of Greg’s bullshit, and honestly, who could blame her?

The man hovers like a fucking vulture, always two seconds away from leaving another passive-aggressive sticky note or giving some half-assed lecture about folding jeans with more consideration.

I try calling her. It rings three times before going to her answering machine.

Maybe she’s curled up in bed right now, unaware of how the air in this place is turning thick and unsettling around me.

Or maybe she just decided she had better shit to do tonight than babysit a dead mall and Greg’s enormous ego.

I hate closing alone. Always have. Every creak in the ceiling, every gust of air through the vents feels heavy, like something is lurking just out of sight.

Janice’s story keeps playing in my mind.

Who had pictures of me? And then the note I found this morning, taped to my fucking door: Blaiz, I have been watching you.

I just want to tell you that you are beautiful.

Love, your secret admirer. A joke? A threat? Both?

“Just get it done,” I snap at myself. There’s a mountain of returns waiting, begging to be rehung.

I turn the corner and there it is—the naked mannequin, pale and hollow-eyed, standing there like it’s waiting for me.

I’ll give it something to wear, maybe shake this creeping feeling off for a minute.

I head back out. I hover near the rack of new arrivals, fingers grazing the fabric, looking for something obnoxious enough to cut through the gloom.

A fluorescent pink sweater catches my eye, and I yank it free.

Add a yellow tank top, a faded denim skirt, and, because fuck it, a pair of striped leg warmers, striped pink and yellow.

Back in the stockroom, I dress the mannequin like a kid playing with a Barbie, hands fumbling over stiff limbs, plastic fingers catching in fabric.

When it’s done, I step back. The colors are well put together.

But I feel steadier somehow, standing in front of it.

I reach for the handle to haul it out front.

It doesn’t turn.

I pause and try again, this time with more force.

Still nothing.

I jiggle the handle, rattle it, throw my shoulder into it. Locked. From the outside. No fucking way.

My breath catches in my throat. “Hello?” I shout. “Gus? Gus, you out there?” He’s old, mostly deaf, but he’s usually here. Doing rounds. Eating vending machine peanuts. Something .

I slam my fists against the door, each blow sending a jolt up my arms. “Gus! Open the fucking door! I’m locked in!

” My voice starts cracking, panic creeping in.

I hit the metal again and again, fists aching, throat burning, until the only thing I hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the frantic beating of my heart.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No keys jangling. No Gus.

Just silence.

I slide to the floor, the cold tiles pressing through my jeans, and I press my forehead against my knees. I’m going to be in here all night. Alone. No way out. Trapped with a pile of fucking clothes and a mannequin.

My thoughts spiral. Janice. Andrew. Andy. It has to be the same guy. How did he get pictures of me? How did he know where I lived? That note wasn’t a coincidence—it was a message. It all fits, a puzzle snapping together with a cold, final click.

My eyes flick up to the mannequin.

Still as ever. Plastic smile frozen. Neon bright. A fucking joke standing in for my sanity.

He’s out there.

And he is watching me.