Paranoia.

He was being followed. He knew it.
The noise of footsteps behind him were distinct and steady. They increased in pace when his own did. They decreased when his did.
He thought he had been rid of them when he stopped at the shop to buy gum, but moments later, as soon as he stepped off the main road and entered the small dark lanes, they continued.
Somehow he wished he hadn’t taken off his earphones.
If someone was following him in order to do something to him, he’d much rather not know about it till it happened.
Now, it was just a wait.
Whether or not they were going to get him depended entirely on him.
He still hadn’t looked back.
It was too late for people to be hanging around in a place like this. Plus, it had rained. It was windy. Everyone was probably indoors drying off the welcomed pour.
There was a chill in the air that seemed to foretell doom. Like the kind of chill one was supposed to feel when approached by Dementors, or the feeling of The Black Breath that one got when in the presence of a Nazgul for too long a span of time. Devoid of any thought. Robbed of any senses of warmth and comfort. Just a slow rattling unconscious feeling of nothingness. He hadn’t felt either before. How could he? He would have loved the experience though. This was close enough.

Somewhere in a place which he couldn’t access right then, somewhere deep at the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but compare his predicament.

Robert Graysmith. At least that’s what he recalled the name as. Although not exactly chased when down in a basement with a potential serial killer, he was spooked. A light went out and hid the face of the potential serial killer, just after he heard footsteps in the room above. He had been reassured that there was no one else in the house. What was he to believe? Potential serial killers can lie too you know. Although unintentionally, they too can creep you out. All potential serial killers look more like a serial killer than the actual serial killer. They’re supposed to creep you out even more than the actual serial killer. The potential serial killer is the one who’s footsteps you often hear behind you. But when the time comes for him to strike; for him to stick his hand out of the dark or emerge as a silhouette before stabbing you a dozen times; he simply walks past you. Just another man in a hurry.
Yes, Graysmith was indeed faced with one of those potential serial killers. He was ageing, had a glum and expressionless face. Morose to the extent of deadly. He eventually unlocked the door to let Graysmith out.
Graysmith was rattled. It was pouring that night.

It was a strange time for female breasts to come into mind, but they did. Mary Jane. In that scene from Spiderman. He sometimes wondered whether they actually wanted to shoot that scene with the girl without a bra on. She was followed by a bunch of goons. Peter Parker saw that. She was initially followed by shadows and hustled footsteps. By the time the goons had cornered her it was raining. She was wearing a jacket. They pulled it off her. They’re speech seemed to be replaced with the sound of dogs barking. She was wearing a pink top. It was pouring when Spiderman saved her. She was soaked. They kissed upside down, infamously. Strange.
Spiderman saved her though. There was no Spiderman here.

The footsteps were almost too audible to ignore. And he dare not turn back. He looked straight ahead and walked. He could almost feel someone creep up from behind and grab his shoulder.
Some rapist fond of young flesh. One who didn’t discriminate. Flesh meant flesh. No categories, no preferences. Just flesh. Damn.
Some thief. He was probably looking to make some money. He was probably under the illusion that this particular boy was loaded. What with his earphones and everything. One slash at his throat. Goodbye, Earphones. Damn.
Some monstrous creature. Teeth. Saliva. Damn.

The problem was that he needed a distraction. He was cautious whenever not distracted. The music helped. Like I said. As long as he had his earphones on and something was playing, he would probably be ok. There was a feeling of security in a distraction. Much like the feeling covering ones legs with a blanket when trying to sleep at night gave out.

There.
He had reached.
The front door.
Increase of pace.
Increase of footsteps behind.
More increase of pace.
More increase of footsteps behind.

There.
The door.
Keys.
Unlock.
Doorknob.
Open.
Enter.

He let out a sigh of relief, and slumped back onto the door, breathing heavily. He gave himself a moment to look out the eye hole. There was nobody outside.
Calm.

There was nobody home. The house was dark. He was able to retain his calm for only a few seconds. He was sure somebody had broken into the house.