The Constant Companion

I was sixteen when I first felt it—a presence just behind my left shoulder, like a breath on my neck that never came. It wasn’t scary then, just a curiosity. I’d be walking home from school, and I’d sense it, patient as a stone. I told myself it was my imagination, a trick of the light. But as I grew older, it never left. It was there when I moved to the city, there in my tiny apartment, there when I fell in love with Marcus.

We lived in a cramped flat on Willow Street, where the pipes groaned and the heating clicked at odd hours. I’d noticed the air conditioner turning on by itself when Marcus was away—a whirring hum in the dead of night. I laughed it off as faulty wiring. One evening, as we sat in the living room, I mentioned it. Marcus, ever the skeptic, said, ‘You’re just stressing, babe. It’s an old unit.’

No sooner had he spoken than the air grew thick and cold. The bathroom door swung open, and the faucet twisted on, water blasting into the sink. We both leapt up, staring at the empty doorway. The water ran for a full minute before cutting off, the silence ringing in our ears. Marcus’s face was pale. ‘Okay,’ he whispered, ‘maybe it’s a draft.’ But we both knew better. Our relationship deteriorated after that night—the constant sense of being watched wore on us. I moved to a quieter neighborhood, a brick building on Alder Avenue, hoping for a fresh start.

I met Daniel six months later. He was kind, grounded, and he thought my stories of a ‘follower’ were charmingly odd. I told him about the ghost that had shadowed me for years, but he just smiled and said, ‘I’ll protect you from any ghosts, babe.’ I laughed, but part of me felt a pang of dread.

One Tuesday, I was at my retail job, folding sweaters, when Daniel burst through the door, wild-eyed. ‘Elena!’ he gasped, ‘Something’s wrong at the apartment.’ I rushed home with him. The lights were flickering on and off as we climbed the stairs, and from our open door came the sound of gospel music—a choir singing ‘Amazing Grace’ at full volume. The stereo was unplugged, cords lying on the floor. Daniel grabbed the cord and yanked it from the wall, but the music continued, feathered and faint, as if coming from the walls themselves.

We stood in the center of the room, breathing hard. The air was cold, our breath fogging. ‘You see?’ I said, my voice shaking. Daniel just stared at the stereo. ‘I believe you now,’ he said. But even as he spoke, the music cut off, replaced by a low, guttural whisper that seemed to come from all around us: ‘Finally.’

We turned to see the bathroom door slowly creaking open. Inside, the mirror fogged with condensation, words appearing in the mist: ‘You can’t leave me.’ I grabbed Daniel’s arm and pulled him out of the apartment, down the stairs, into the street. We drove to his mother’s house and stayed there for a week. But when we returned, the apartment was suffocatingly still. The air was warm, the lights steady, the stereo silent. I thought maybe it was over. But then, late that night, I felt it again—the familiar pressure just behind my shoulder, the sense of a patient presence. I turned, and in the dim light from the street, I saw him: a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes, standing in the corner, his mouth moving as if singing a song I couldn’t hear.

He’s always been with me, and I know now he always will be. Some companions never let go.