Level B3

I hadn’t been back to the Westfield garage in three years. Not since the police took my statement on Level B2, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while I tried to explain how someone had followed me down four levels of concrete and steel. How they’d matched my pace. How they’d known exactly which car was mine.

But my usual garage was full today, and muscle memory pulled me into the familiar spiral descent. Left turn, right turn, down and down until the daylight disappeared entirely. The same smell hit me immediately—motor oil and exhaust fumes mixed with something else. Something stale and patient.

Level B1 was packed. B2 had a few spots, but I kept driving. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I descended toward B3. The level where it happened. The level where I’d learned that being followed isn’t about footsteps—it’s about the space between your shoulder blades going cold. It’s about your peripheral vision catching movement that shouldn’t be there.

I found a spot near the elevator, the same general area where I’d parked that Tuesday evening. Different space, same corner. The engine ticked as it cooled, and I sat there listening to the familiar sounds. Cars starting up somewhere in the distance. The mechanical groan of the elevator shaft. The whisper of tires on concrete above.

I got out of the car and locked it, muscle memory taking over. But my eyes were already scanning. Checking the sightlines between the concrete pillars. Noting which cars had tinted windows. Cataloguing the shadows cast by the overhead lights. Three years ago, I’d walked through this garage like everyone else—focused on my phone, keys jangling, completely unaware. Now I moved like prey that had survived one hunt.

The elevator was exactly where I remembered it. Same scuffed metal doors, same button worn smooth by thousands of fingers. I pressed the call button and heard the familiar mechanical wheeze as the car descended. While I waited, I turned to face the garage. From here, I could see the path I’d taken that night. Past the blue Honda. Around the concrete pillar. Between two SUVs where the overhead light had been burned out.

That’s when I’d first felt it. Not heard it—felt it. The presence of someone else moving through the same spaces, maintaining the same distance. When I’d stopped to dig for my keys, they’d stopped too. When I’d walked faster, their pace had quickened. By the time I’d reached my car, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the lock.

You never saw them,

the detective had said

No faces, no clear description. Just… someone. Always just out of direct sight.

my response

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, watching the garage disappear as the doors closed. But I could still feel it—that crawling sensation between my shoulder blades. The knowledge that in spaces like this, you’re never really alone.

Three years later, and I still check my rearview mirror more than I should. Still listen for footsteps that match my rhythm. Still feel my pulse quicken in parking garages and empty stairwells. They never caught whoever followed me that night. Maybe they moved on to someone else. Maybe they were never really there at all.

Glossary