The Silent Watcher

Typing Indicator I need to get this off my chest before they find me, because the police

won’t believe how it started: with my phone helping. Last month my keyboard began finishing

sentences I hadn’t typed. Not autocorrect—full, specific lines. “Don’t take Elm

Street. The van is there.” I deleted it, laughed, took Elm anyway.

A white van sat idling at the only working streetlight, like it was waiting for a cue.

Then my calendar filled itself. “2:17 AM — CHECK THE FRONT DOOR.” I ignored it.

At 2:17 there was a soft, patient knock, followed by three taps on the doorframe—exactly

the rhythm my father used when he came home drunk. I haven’t heard that sound in fifteen