The Tallyman’s Notice

The first time I saw it was on a Tuesday, the kind of overcast morning that makes the world look like a faded photograph. I was stopped at the intersection of Marrow and Finch, a junction I’d taken a thousand times on my way to the mill. The light turned green, but my foot hovered over the brake. Something was off. On the far corner, near the abandoned gas station with its boarded windows and peeling signs, stood a figure. At first, my brain registered a scarecrow – farmers were still using them out past the bypass – but this was wrong. It was thin, impossibly thin, like a shadow that had been stretched and pinned to the air. It wore a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled up, but there was nothing beneath it – no pale oval, no glint of eyes, just a void. The arms ended in tapers, no hands, just dark wisps that swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. The legs were sticks, the same charcoal black as the rest, but they shimmered, like heat rising off asphalt, but cold. I blinked, shook my head, and when I looked again, it was still there. A car behind me honked, and I drove through the intersection, but I pulled over at the curb and looked back. It hadn’t moved. It faced me, I think. I couldn’t tell for sure, but the hood seemed tilted, watching. I left, telling myself it was a prank, a mannequin, a trick of the light. But as I drove, I felt a weight in my stomach, like I’d swallowed a stone. That was weeks ago, and I almost managed to forget. Then, last night at dusk, I went to the twenty-four-hour market on the edge of town to pick up milk and a jar of pickles. The sky was bleeding orange and purple, and the streetlights were just starting to hum. I parked under a flickering sodium lamp, the one that always buzzed, and as I got out, I saw it again. Same figure, same impossible thinness, but this time it stood near the entrance, under the awning, half-hidden in the deepening shadows. I froze, keys digging into my palm. A woman walked past it, her shopping bag swinging, and didn’t so much as glance its way. The figure didn’t move. It just stood there, patient, like it was waiting for something. I forced my legs to move, went inside, bought my things, and when I came out, it was gone. But as I drove home, I saw it again in my rearview mirror, standing in the middle of the empty lot behind the store, still as stone. And that’s when I realized: each time I saw it, it was closer. The first time, across the street. The second, right at the store. And now, tonight, I’m sitting in my living room, the curtains drawn, the lights blazing, and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s out there. Not across the street. Not in the lot. But at the edge of my property, just beyond the reach of the porch light. And it’s not moving. It’s just waiting. I’ve seen it twice now. Twice too many. Because I know what it is. It’s the tallyman. And he’s here to collect.