he said he’d been watching my dog for weeks

last summer i was living in a little one-bedroom near main street in a small ohio town. nothing exciting ever happens here. after my shifts at the grocery store, i always walked my dog, roscoe, along a short trail behind the old train depot. it’s quiet, lined with chain-link fences and picnic tables no one uses anymore.

one sticky july evening around 6:30, i saw a man sitting on one of those tables. mid-40s, greasy baseball cap, faded camo shirt. a plastic grocery bag at his feet. he wasn’t scrolling a phone or anything — just hunched over, staring at the gravel. i only glanced, but roscoe stopped dead, fur standing up, low growl rumbling in his chest. he never does that.

i tugged his leash to pass. as i walked by, the man said, without looking up, “he’s gotten bigger since last week.” i froze. i didn’t know him.

i tried to laugh it off. “uh… yeah, he’s growing fast.” kept moving. he called after me: “i told you last time he’d get big.” there was no last time.

my heart was pounding. i hurried around the curve of the trail until we reached the street. when i risked a glance back, he was standing now, bag slung over his shoulder, head tilted. i couldn’t see his face but i felt him staring.

the next evening i took a different route home, down main street. i figured there’d be more people. as i turned onto my block, there he was at the corner by the laundromat. same hat, same bag. he looked straight at me and smiled. i ducked into the convenience store and hid until he walked away.

that night i locked every window. roscoe wouldn’t leave my side.

the third day i got home to find a folded piece of notebook paper slid under my door. in messy handwriting: “he likes beef jerky. bring some next time.”

my stomach flipped. no name, no number, nothing.

i called my friend jess crying. she told me to call the cops. two officers came, took the note, looked around. without an actual threat, they couldn’t do much.

that night i barely slept. around 2 a.m. i heard leaves crunching outside my bedroom window (i’m on the ground floor). i didn’t move. roscoe was rigid, staring at the glass. then a whisper, long and slow: “roscoe…”

i grabbed my phone with shaking hands and called 911. by the time cops arrived, no one was there. just footprints in the damp soil under the window.

i stayed with jess for the next week. two days later police found the same man loitering near the trail. in his bag they found a leash, beef jerky, and a folding knife. they only issued a trespassing warning. “he hasn’t done anything yet,” they said.

i broke my lease and moved to columbus a month later.

the part that still makes my skin crawl: before leaving, my landlord let me into the basement to grab boxes from my storage locker. on the inside of my locker door, in black marker, was a crude drawing of a floppy-eared dog. under it: “roscoe :)”

i never put that there. my landlord swore no one else had a key.

to the man with the hat and the bag: let’s not meet. ever.