A Story

Do you ever get the feeling that you are being stalked? I don't mean in that creepy Facebook sort of way, but rather like your being hunted. Like feeling a continuous tingling along your spine, and you know that somewhere, somehow, a pair of eyes is watching you, waiting; the finger just itching to pull the trigger, to let the arrow fly... He had had that feeling all day today.

He was in a mall. He hates malls. He was in the King of Prussia mall to be precise, which is the biggest, most horrible experience of "mall" that I have ever encountered. It's so big that it is actually two malls, which are connected by a land bridge so that foot traffic can avoid the real traffic on the street below. I'm sure it's lovely for most people, but for people who don't like malls it is a frightening mass of brick and mortar and cement and polished tiles. Especially when you have the constant feeling of being watched.

All he needed to do was go to Brookstone, get a barbecue light so his mom would have something to give to his dad for his birthday, and get out. Though he would never have dreamed of spending $50 for what boiled down to a clip-on light bulb, it seemed like a relatively simple mission. Fifteen minutes of consumerism, and he'd be free. (Well, free to drive south for 45 minutes on the turnpike, but there were no perfume counters or mall directories in the car, so it was a step in the right direction). Okay, really more like 25 minutes of consumerism, when you factor in the sheer size of this damned place. But simple. Straightforward.

He parked the car on the ground level of the garage and stepped out onto the concrete. The sound of the locks clicking echoed across the low ceilings. Somehow, despite the bright daylight not 15 feet away, this place was full of shadows. A shiver ran up his spine, and he glanced over his shoulders in response. No movement anywhere. No signs of life. He composed himself and trudged across the roadway, (Speed Limit: 5 MPH), to the sidewalk.

He took a deep breath, held it tight, and pushed through the glass doors.

Bloomingdale's greeted him with its cheery atmosphere and giant posters of attractive yet forgettable men and women. The pale pink flourescent lights made everything glow with false warmth. As predicted, he had entered directly into the department store's perfume section -- why does that always happen? It's a conspiracy of some kind, I swear -- and despite having held his breath he could still taste it floating in the air, each scented particle waiting patiently by his nostrils until he was forced to inhale. He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and took a sharp breath. Nope, no good. He could still taste it.

He pushed on, winding around the center display, through a row of women's handbags and large-brimmed hats, until finally he saw the blueish light spilling in from the mall proper. He stepped through the large entranceway and breathed again.

Directly in front of him stood a tall, triangular billboard. It screamed "Mall Directory," although he was currently staring at the silhouette of a man against a washed-out brick wall advertising some sort of cologne. Only the name of the product -- Mistique -- was printed. The mystique for which the advertisers clearly were striving here failed to find its mark; his eyes glazed over, and he looked instead at the only other person in view. A woman was sitting on a bench against a large tiled planter, a small, leafy tree looming over her. Only in a place like this would one require a tree to provide them with shade while they were indoors. The woman was reading a magazine, her purse plopped unceremoniously down next to her, a cane leaning on the armrest. She must be waiting for someone to finish their shopping, he thought. He also imagined she might the sort of person who came to the mall to sit in the indoor shade and read because she found it pleasant. He hoped not.

He turned his attention back to the advertisement. There must be a map of this hellish place on that thing somewhere, he thought, so he went around it to the right. Another advertisement greeted him, this time in the form of a "Hannah Montana In Concert!" poster. He sighed, and completed his lap around the triangular billboard only find yet another advertisement. He glared at the happy-looking woman with the pouty red lips displaying the finest that Maybelline had to offer. He had been fooled, duped, led astray. There was no directory here.

It was then he felt it again: a tingle along his spine. It was so subtle, like a ghost running its finger down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, as if the only reason he could detect it was the slight shift in air pressure causing his hairs to sway ever so slightly. It was more of an awareness than a physical feeling, an awareness of being watched.

He peered over his shoulders down the length of the hall. An older couple was walking away from him, the wife on her cell phone, the husband rifling through a white shopping bag. To his left, a planter with shrubbery. To his right, the entranceway to Bloomingdales. No one in sight. This was, perhaps, even stranger than the alternative. Where was everyone? He shifted slightly and looked past the billboard; the woman still sat on the bench, reading her magazine. She had not felt it, clearly. He looked up towards the balconies, where a group of teenagers were being obnoxious in Hot Topic. Fitting, he thought.

...TBC