I watched him through my basement window. He lit a cigarette and afterward spit on the ground . Pig.
I knew right away that it was him. He wasn't wearing the creepy black bomber jacket or wool cap, since the weather was warm now. This time it was a tacky grey suit , the bargain-basement kind. But the sleaze-ball in him was still there beneath it, along with the ugly walrus moustache that camoflauged his mouth. At first it startled me, seeing him. I remembered the words he'd said as he passed by me on the sidewalk that first time, a total stranger. ""You're going to gt it," he'd snarled. I didn't know who he was then or what the words meant. Now I understand. He's Stalker Number 7, and his name doesn't matter. None of the names matter. Number Seven took another drag from his cancer stick and peered over in the direction of my house with his beady eyes. I ducked down hoping he hadn't seen me ... but I had a feeling he already knew I was there. - from The Gangstalkers