It started with whispers. A quiet town, the kind that looks too peaceful to ever hide something dark. Kids still rode their bikes down the main street, old women still watered their gardens, but lately, no one liked walking home alone after dark. Someone had been seen — or maybe imagined — a figure in a black cloak, a white mask glinting beneath the streetlights. No one knew what he wanted. No one even knew if he was real.

You’d been pretending not to care. You worked your usual shifts, kept your headphones in, and told yourself people loved to scare themselves when life got boring. The story only became real the day you met him.

It was stupidly normal — just a Tuesday morning at the coffee shop near the edge of town. The bell rang as you pushed the door open, and there he was, standing behind the counter with a mop in one hand and a crooked grin. “Hey,” he said, voice calm, easy. “You new around here?” You shook your head. “Lived here my whole life. You?” “Moved here a few months ago,” he said. “Lando.” The name stuck in your head longer than you wanted it to. The kind of boy who looked too good to belong to a town like this — sharp eyes, a small scar on his nose, the kind of smile that looked like a secret.

You left with your coffee and a faint feeling that you’d seen him before. Maybe at the gas station. Maybe somewhere else. Maybe under the wrong kind of light.

That night, the air was colder. Your parents had driven out of town for the weekend, and the house felt too quiet. You’d showered, made popcorn, and curled up on the couch with a blanket and some half-watched horror movie when your phone started ringing. Unknown number.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over decline, but curiosity won. “Hello?” For a second, nothing. Just breathing. Then a low voice, smooth but distorted. “Hey.” You frowned. “Who’s this?” “Just calling to check in,” the voice said, teasing. “You sound bored.” You laughed nervously. “You must have the wrong number.” “I don’t think so.” The way he said it made you still.

He kept talking — small questions at first, like he knew exactly how to keep you from hanging up. What you were watching. Whether you liked scary movies. Whether you ever got lonely in that big house. You tried to play along, matching his tone, pretending you weren’t looking around the room just to make sure you were still alone.

Then his voice dropped. “So…” he said slowly, “you got a boyfriend?” You smirked, half to hide the shake in your voice. “Why? You wanna ask me out?” “Maybe,” he said. “Do you?” “Mm… no.” The silence that followed felt too long. “You never told me your name,” he said. You frowned. “Why do you wanna know my name?” A pause. “Because I wanna know who I’m looking at.”

You froze — breath caught, blood rushing loud in your ears. The TV flickered blue against the window. And somewhere, faintly, behind the glass… movement.