Sorry this is kind of long and creepy but the fog today reminded me of it

Fog is what I woke up to on the morning when I thought I was going to die. Keep in mind, the fog wasn't very reassuring on the walk to school at 9 am, which is more than an hour after the first bell rings. And the fact that I was sick with the flu and my mom let me sleep was not my near-death.

A man on a bike.

That's how it started.

~

A man riding a bike rounded the corner in the same direction I was headed, as if he were about to go up the hill.

But he slowed down across the street.

I thought nothing of it.

My school lies on the very corner of a main intersection, anyway. Most people who live around here drive by it every day.

"Good morning."

I was so startled I almost screamed.

Wait--reader, pause for a second and ask yourself this: if a man on a bike drove casually past you, said "good morning" and left, would you be as scared as I was?

Probably not.

But, firstly, this man on a bike did not drive casually past me.

Secondly, he did not say "good morning" like a normal human being.

Thirdly, he absolutely did not leave.

At least, not until later.

Because I wouldn't be writing this if I was dead.

A simple,

"H-hi..." is all I can choke out.

I didn't want to seem rude. I didn't want to let him on.

"Hi" was the only way to go.

The man was dressed in all or mostly black. I remember seeing red, yellow, black and green stripes like the Pan-African colors. (I only know this now because I just googled it.)

It might have been a bandana sticking out from beneath his dark hat, or a keychain dangling from his black jeans. I don't remember.

But he had a backpack--it was all black (no surprise) and stuffed to the gills with who knows what. Still I was getting some ideas about what was in it.

The bike was, you guessed it, black, although it had a spray-paint tint to it, suggesting an easy steal from an unsuspecting commuter.

He was white, face reddened from the cold, and a thick red-brown beard peeked out above his scarf. It looked like he could've been up to no good.

Why don't we pause again and picture me?

I was a seventh-grade girl. Skinny as a witch's broomstick and probably too short for half of those kiddie rides at amusement parks.

There was no way I could defend myself, wearing an innocent purple sweatshirt with strings, and leggings with no skirt.

I didn't like the way this guy was looking at me.

"You're very pretty, you know."

He said it in a tone that sent chills down my spine, like a horror movie.

I said nothing, only mentally filed the word "creep" when I thought of him.

It was only a block uphill to school. If I ran I knew I could probably make it.

(Let me just explain my paranoia for a second. I had literally just finished reading "Girl, Stolen" by April Henry. If you've ever heard of it, you likely know where I'm coming from.)

Instead I shrunk into the shadows and picked up the pace, slowly. Only half the hill to go.

He swerved the bike back and forth carelessly on the street. My nerves spread all the way to my heart, making it hammer unrelentingly in my chest.

Suddenly a pack of special-needs kids and teachers came past the turnoff to the field and headed uphill. I hadn't been so grateful, probably ever.

With my mind set on blending in, I broke into a crouch and ran past the Biker.

"Have a nice day," he sneered.