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THERE IS NOTHING menacing in the words themselves. If the text was from Liza or Theo, it would be welcomed. But it’s not from them… not unless one of them got a new phone number without telling me. And even if they did, neither one of them is eager to see me. I drive home through the soft gray light, a gentle spring rain smattering the windshield. The radio plays soothing yacht rock but none of this calms me. I tell myself that the anonymous text could be from a student, a harmless but mischievous kid playing a prank. Or perhaps a distant troll sent it, a person who has no way of knowing where I live. It’s common knowledge that I work at a high school, so guessing what time I head home from work is not difficult. But my nervous system senses danger. And my body is jittery with fear.

As I near my building, my breath is shallow, my hands slippery on the wheel. Instead of pulling into the underground garage, I circle the block looking for street parking. But even when I find a space, I pass it by, drive around the block again. I seem incapable of pulling over, of leaving the safety of my moving vehicle. I watch the people hurrying along the sidewalk, ducking into shops and cafés, waiting for the bus, hoods drawn against the drizzle. There is no one I recognize, no one who looks frightening.

“Hey, Siri, call Theo,” I say to my phone as I pass by my building.

I listen to it ring. And ring. And then his voicemail answers. I hang up without leaving a message. I know how this will sound—paranoid, even histrionic. Theo is tired of all the drama. I can feel him pulling away. Instead, I’ll call Martha. But as I’m about to instruct Siri to dial, I remember Martha’s friendship with Rhea. A dark feeling presses down on me at the thought of them together. Am I jealous? Insecure? Afraid Rhea could turn my oldest friend against me?

There are other people I could reach out to: Navid, Jody, Ramona from work. I have plenty of friends I could ask to meet me for a happy-hour drink. But calling them would mean admitting that I’m afraid to go home; it would mean dragging them deeper into all this nonsense. I’m embarrassed by it all, even ashamed. I could make up a lie, concoct some story to explain my need for spontaneous companionship, but the thought leaves me exhausted.

Fuck this troll. On a surge of anger, I yank the wheel, turn into the parking garage. I’m not going to allow some ridiculous text to scare me out of my own home. I’m in no real danger. No one is coming to get me. This isn’t some nineties slasher film. I park in my spot and get out of the car.

The underground parking lot is well lit and secure, but even in the best of times, I keep my wits about me. Maybe I’ve seen too many scary movies or heard too many news stories of women being attacked in these deserted spaces, but I’m always alert, I always move briskly. Now, though, with my nerves frayed, my fight-or-flight activated, I grip my keys between my knuckles like a weapon, survey the barren space, ears pricked for the slightest sound. It’s all quiet, safe, and deserted. At the elevator, I stab the call button, and practically dive inside when the car arrives.

But a peaceful stillness greets me as I enter my apartment. This is my respite and my refuge. I am safe here behind the locked door. There is nothing to fear. Dropping my bag in the entryway, I move into the living room, flick on a lamp. It’s still light out, but I want to combat the spring gloom. Then I shuffle toward my bedroom to change out of my work clothes and into my sweats.

Ping.

My phone is in my purse, still in the entryway, but I hear it. I could ignore it, but I’m trained to answer, powerless to stop myself. If it’s my daughter, I must respond. Digging the device from my bag, I look at it.

I’m outside your apartment. I’m here to shut you up once and for all.

I drop the phone like it’s hot, and it clatters on the hardwood. My pulse skitters, but I pick up the device and admonish myself. No one is out there. No one is coming to get me, to shut me up. Still, I go to the window and look outside. I have a limited view of the back alley thanks to the thick flora surrounding the unit. I love the greenery and the privacy, but now I feel isolated, slightly vulnerable as I peer through the leaves. There is no way for me to see the front of the building without going down to the lobby, no way to know if someone is lingering out front.

But they’re not. I’m being ridiculous. This is nothing but a prank. And even if someone were out there, I’m behind two locked doors. I’m safe.

Ping

I’m coming

Ping

I’m almost there. Get ready to die

Ping

Ur dead bitch

I text back.

Fuck off

But then I delete it because this might be one of my students. Instead, I write:

Grow up and leave me alone

I press send, hear the message swoosh into the ether. I’m about to turn my phone off when I hear it.

Ding-dong

It’s the ringtone I set to announce that someone is at the front door of my building. Someone is out there. Someone who wants to be let in.

My heart thuds in my chest. I won’t answer, obviously, so they can’t get inside. This kid or prankster is trying to scare me. When I don’t react, they’ll get bored and go away. I wait, my mouth dry and chalky.

Ding-dong

Sweat prickles under my arms and at the back of my neck. What if they don’t go away? What if they get inside the building? All the tenants have been told to be wary of strangers trying to gain access without a key fob, but it’s not impossible to slip inside unnoticed. Whoever is out there has threatened my life. I can’t just wait here like a sitting duck.

With a trembling digit, I dial 9-1-1, listen to the muted ring. The last time I called the police, they were condescending and dismissive, but this is different. This is an emergency. When the dispatcher answers, I try to sound composed. I fail.

“Someone is outside my building,” I blurt. “I got a bunch of anonymous texts threatening to kill me and now someone is at my front door.”

“Where is your building?” he asks, and his keyboard clicks as I give him my address. “And what’s the person at your front door doing?”

“Th-they keep buzzing to be let in,” I stammer. “But I haven’t answered.”

“Do you know who this person is?”

“No. I’ve been harassed online, but I don’t know who’s doing it.”

“Can you describe them?”

“I can’t see the front door from my apartment.”

“Okay. Do you have any protection orders or peace bonds against anyone?”

He thinks this is domestic. These situations usually are. “No,” I say, and my screen lights up with a waiting call. It’s coming from my front door.

“They’re calling again.” My voice sounds choked. “They’re trying to get in.”

“I’ll have a car come by as soon as possible. Stay in your apartment with the door locked. If this person gets into the building, call back.”

“Thank you.” I hang up.

Ding-dong

I stand frozen, my body rigid with terror. How long will the police take to get here? Most of the force is deployed to the high-crime neighborhoods, leaving only a few cars to patrol the city’s west side. It could be five minutes, ten, twenty, or more. And then, in an instant, I realize that this is my chance. My tormentor is outside right now. I can stay safe inside the building, hidden from sight, but I can finally find out who it is.

Phone in hand, I hurry out of the apartment and scuttle down the fire escape stairs. I’m in a pair of fluffy slippers, but I won’t leave the confines—the safety—of my building. At the fire door, I pause, heart hammering with fear. And something else… anticipation. I burst out into the hallway, past the mailboxes, and move toward the lobby. When I’m almost there, I stop, peek around the corner at the large glass entryway.

A man in a black jacket stands near the electronic intercom. He wears a cap over dark hair, his stubble visible though he’s angled away from me, gazing out toward the street. He’s not a harmless kid from the high school. He’s a full-grown man, a complete stranger. What the hell does he want with me?

And then he turns, and I see that he’s holding six large pizza boxes. I almost laugh with relief. It’s a pizza delivery guy with the wrong door code. I watch him punch in the numbers again, and my phone obediently alerts me.

I hustle out of sight before answering. “Hello?”

“Angelo’s Pizza,” the man says, his deep voice efficient.

“You’ve got the wrong apartment,” I say with a relieved sigh. “I didn’t order any pizzas.”

“Are you sure?” He reads my address back to me.

“There must be some mistake,” I say, but a picture is forming in my mind. A prank as old as time… or as old as pizza delivery.

“Look, lady, I have six cheese pizzas ordered to your apartment and they need to be paid for.”

“Fine,” I grumble. I don’t have the energy to fight with this man who is only trying to do his job. Moving toward the doors, I ask, “Can I pay with my phone?”