When she woke up, there were 17 voicemails from a stranger.


How did she know he was a stranger?


Because he told her so, that's how. 


Each and every one of those messages - all of which had been left on her phone over the span of that single night, as she lay sleeping in her apartment - began exactly the same way: "Hi, you don't know me, but..."


The first two or three messages, she thought, were actually kind of cute. One talked about how he had seen her walking past his table one day the week before, while he was having lunch as that quaint little sidewalk cafe in the middle of town, and decided that he would have to try and contact her at some point if the opportunity ever presented itself.


Another mentioned how he’d seen her again from a distance just a few days later, walking across the parking lot of the local Shakey's Pizza as he drove past - after lunch, he suspected, and in the company of a slightly older woman he assumed to be either a friend or co-worker. He muttered something at the end of the call about being sorry that he’d missed her again, and how he still hoped to touch base with at some point. 


And the third... well, it seemed like it might almost be a half-hearted attempt to try and ask her out on a date. She couldn’t be certain if that had been his intent or not, as it quickly became obvious the longer he spoke that the poor fellow was losing his nerve with each new word that managed to stutter out of his mouth before he finally gave up and said he’d try and call back again some time. She'd almost felt sorry for him at the end of that one... until it suddenly dawned on her that there was one thing he had at no time mentioned at all during any of those first three calls.


How, exactly, did he get her name - let alone her phone number?


Curious now - and, she had to admit, more than just a little bit concerned - she listened to calls 4 through 17, and found that none of them provided an answer to that particular question. Or, for that matter, the identity of the caller himself. What she DID find was that each call after those first few seemed to become just a little less cute... and just a little more creepy.


By the time she'd finally finished listening to Voicemail Number 17 - during which the caller's increasingly awkward attempts at making one-sided conversation were punctuated by so many nervous coughs that she began to wonder whether he might actually be carrying something contagious - she could no longer deny one simple fact.


Yep, she’d gone and gotten herself a stalker.


And not a particularly adept one, at that.


Her curiosity piqued, she decided to take a trip back to the days of her childhood and play Nancy Drew. The calls had all come from a number with a local area code, but it wasn't one she recognized. She Googled it, but all she found was a generic "No Name" listed. The lack of information only served to fuel her concern. Her thumb hovered over the number for a moment before she took a deep breath and dialed the police station. It was time to report this unsettling situation.


The officer on the other end of the line was calm and professional, taking down the details of the voicemails. She tried to keep her voice steady, but it wavered as she described the stranger's increasing obsession. The police promised to trace the number and assured her they would take the matter seriously, though she couldn't shake the feeling that they didn't fully grasp the gravity of the situation.


With no immediate solution in sight, she turned her attention to her daily routine, trying to spot any signs that she was being watched. She varied her routes to work and took extra care to lock her doors and windows. The calls stopped for a few days, and she began to hope that perhaps she had been wrong, that maybe it was all a weird misunderstanding. Possibly a wrong number, even.


But deep down, she knew better.


And then one day, as she was leaving her office after work and heading home for the evening, she saw somebody that she thought might be him, his eyes locked onto hers as he stood in front of the old mom-and-pop toy store there just across the street. Under ordinary circumstances she most likely never would have noticed him at all, much less given him a second look, he was so nondescript in every way - average height, average build, average face, average clothes. Even the eyeglasses he wore could best be described only as… well, average.


And, frankly, there was something about the way he looked at her that seemed in the least bit threatening or untoward… but that did nothing to prevent the chill she felt suddenly race down her spine. 


“No doubt about it - he has to be my stalker," she thought to herself. "Either that, or else I've somehow picked up a second one."


Caught off guard, and uncertain as to how she should react, she did the only thing that came to mind: she took out her cell phone and pointed its camera lens in his direction, pretending to take his picture. The man's expression didn't change - but he did slowly turn and walk away, vanishing into the afternoon crowd.


Well, at least now she had a face to go along with the voice - or at least she hoped so. She called the police again, this time with a clearer description; the officer she spoke to promised to TRY and increase patrols around her neighborhood and workplace, but beyond that there wasn't really a whole lot they could do. Yet. Although he didn't say so explicitly, she got the distinct impression that what she was really being told was that the police could do nothing until the stalker actually tried to do something - at which point, she argued, it might be too late, but that little tidbit of concern seemed to fly right over the officer’s head.


She made a mental note to bring that up the next time the department sent one of its officers around the neighborhood, trying to sell tickets to the Policeman’s Ball…


Several days passed, and then a full week, without any further sign of or sound from him. Whoever he was. Even so, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was still there somewhere, watching her from the shadows. She'd come to believe that her stalker was playing a game, and she had unwittingly become the star player. The anticipation of his next move was unbearable....


The whole thing started to feel like one of those old movies she’d enjoyed on the local television station’s overnight movie show ever since she was a teenager, when she used to stay up late and watch them with her mother. But unlike the heroines in those movies, she wasn't about to wait around to be saved by some gallant detective or a roguish stranger with a heart of gold. 


No, she was going to have to take control of this narrative - and it looked like she would have to do it all by herself.


Her first move was to change her number, but that only provided temporary relief - somehow he’d managed to get her new number, and after only a few days the calls had starting coming again. By the time another week of more voicemails had come and gone, she'd grown less worried and more cheesed off. She didn't who this guy was, or just why he'd set his sights on her - but she was getting pretty sick and tired of fretting and losing sleep over it.


And that's when she came up with The Plan. 


Capital "T," capital "P." 


Which she decided she’d put to use the very next time he called.


She didn’t have to wait long. The next Monday morning, before she’d even poured her first cup of coffee and sat down at her computer, he called again - only this time she actually answered, rather than letting it go directly to voicemail. The call started off very much like all those earlier voicemails: "Hi, it's me again. I know you're busy, but I just wanted to ask you if…”


But she interrupted before he could finish the sentence. "Look, buddy," she said, "I don't know who you are, but I think it's time we meet face-to-face and put an end to all this."


There was a brief pause on the other end of the phone before he spoke again. "Ummm... okay. Should I come to your office, or do you want to come here?"


"Neither," she answered. "Let's meet someplace neutral. Someplace public. I'll be damned if I'm going to let you get me alone someplace, and take a chance at my not ever being seen again." 


She could tell from the sound of his voice that he hadn't exactly expected that kind of a response. "Well, okay, if that's what you want," he told her. "Where would you like to meet?"


Caught off-guard by his willingness to accept her terms, she thought for a moment before finally suggesting that sidewalk cafe he'd mentioned in that first voicemail he'd left. He agreed and said he'd meet her there at noon for lunch...


A few hours later she grabbed her purse and headed to the cafe, where she sat silently drinking a cup of hot tea and trying to think of just what she'd say to the creep when he arrived - assuming, of course, that he did arrive. 


He did, eventually - she immediately recognized him as the fellow she'd seen staring at her after work from across the street that afternoon a week or two before - and shot him the fiercest glare she could muster when he sauntered up to her table. "Oh, hi!" he said as he pulled out the chair across from hers and sat down.


"'Oh, hi?'" she repeated, incredulous at the way he tried to make it sound as if they were old friends bumping into each other on the street. "Look," she began, voice firm but shaking slightly, "I don't know who you are, but you need to stop calling me. This isn't funny, and it's not going to get you anywhere."


A confused look spread across the fellow's features. "I don't understand," he said. "Wasn't this meeting your idea?"


"Yes, it was," she snapped. "But only so I could tell you once and for all to leave me alone and quit stalking me, before I go to the police and ask to press charges!"


"Stalking? Charges?" He sat there for a moment, seemingly dazed by the accusation she had made - and then it dawned on him what had actually happened. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," he told her. "I haven't been trying to stalk you. I've just been hoping to talk to you about putting me in touch with the office manager where you work, since I never seem to have any luck contacting him directly."


Now it was her turn to look and sound confused. "My office manager?"


"Yes," he said - then proceeded to explain how he worked for one of the local internet companies and was trying to talk to her boss about changing their Google business listing. Her boss never returned any of his calls, and had refused to see him the one time he stopped by hoping to meet with him in person. That was when he'd noticed her the first time, sitting at her desk talking pleasantly on the phone with someone, and thought that maybe she could help set up the meeting with her boss he’d been unable to secure himself - then figured it was a stupid idea and forgot all about it, until that day he saw her while he was here at the cafe having lunch and decided that maybe it was worth a try after all. 


"So I asked around for your name and was able to track down your number," he concluded. "And, well, I guess you know the rest from there."


His words trailed off as he took in her expression, the truth suddenly hitting her like a slapstick gag in a silent film. She'd been chasing shadows, thinking she was the star of a suspenseful thriller, when in reality, she was just another number in some telemarketer's cold call list. "My God, you're not interested in me at all," she said, trying to keep the incredulity out of her voice. "You just want us to change our office listing."


He nodded, hoping his smile didn't look as idiotic as it felt. "Yeah, that's all it was," he acknowledged. "I'm sorry if I scared you - it never even occurred to me that you might have that kind of reaction. It's just that no one ever answers the office phone, and I really need to get someone to switch to our services. One of my co-workers said a more personal touch might work... I guess I got a little more personal than I'd intended."


The absurdity of the situation washed over her, and she couldn't help but burst into laughter. The man looked at her, bewildered, as her words came out between gasps, "You're no stalker," she guffawed. “You're just terrible at your job!"


He blinked, and his shoulders sagged - stung less by what she’d actually said than by the realization that she was absolutely right to have said it. "I guess so,” he muttered. “More than I even realized myself, apparently,” He rose to his feet then and turned to go - but paused and turned back long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out a business card, which he then handed to her. 


"Look,” he said in a dejected tone, “if you can ever talk your boss into at least asking about an upgrade, just give me a call. Better yet, I guess, have him do it. Either way, I'll leave you alone from now on. I promise."


Then he turned again and walked away, and as she watched him leave she couldn't help but feel a sense of both relief and annoyance. This whole stupid ordeal had been nothing more than a product of her overworked imagination, a game of leap-frog straight out of reality and into the jaws of a perceived worst-case scenario - and all because of some ill-conceived tactic on the part of an overzealous salesman with little experience, and less talent, for the job. 


Well, hopefully this would be the end of THAT - although she did tell herself that she'd have to try and remember to double-check her voicemail more often from now on.


And to stay up late watching old mystery movies on TV less often…


She finished off her tea and tossed the cup into a nearby trash, and for a moment considered throwing the business card away along with it - then stopped short as she thought better of it, suddenly considering the possibility that it might actually be worth her while to call him at some point, just as he had asked. 


Not so much to talk about a new internet service plan for the office, necessarily, but maybe - just maybe - to ask him out for coffee some time. And possibliy ask him how he felt about staying up and watching old black-and-white movies on late night TV.


“After all,” she heard herself whispering as she slid the card into her blouse pocket, “he IS kinda cute…”


(Column copyright © 2025 by John A. Small)