They told me that telling someone about my experience might help me. That writing about it would somehow trigger deeper rooted memories that might make sense of the things that I experienced that night. I think that most of the fields of psychology is just guessing, like a stage magician and hoping to wow an unattached audience. So, yeah, here’s what I came up with. Forgive me for embellishing, I found it helped me get down the parts I remembered. Like a bad dream in a journal.

It had been raining, hard. I could hear the babbling sound as the rain fell against the cobblestone streets. I hurried past shops, all dark windows. I pulled the collar of my coat up tighter. There was a chill in the air that didn’t feel like it had anything to do with the damp and the dark. I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that night itself felt like a predator. Heh, listen to me waxing on poetically about how the night feels. Writing like this was never really my strong suit. Just ask my English teachers from high school. They probably used my creative writing assignments as examples of what not to submit.

When I moved to this part of town, I did so largely because I was attracted to the charming, quaint, and outdated vibe the whole place had. It was like time came, saw, and walked past without leaving a mark. They still even had functional gas lamps that lit the streets. Greatly improved over the old ones, of course, but still…it was easy to feel like I had stepped out of my office and right into the Victorian era.

I…remember having the distinct impression that someone had moved behind me, in the dark. I turned and there was nobody there. This alone did not surprise me. It was a busy part of the town, and at night. It would be rather arrogant to think that I was the only poor schmuck out in the rain, trying to hurry home before it ruined my shoes.

I only needed to cross three more streets, and an intersection and I would be home, shaking the water off my clothes and trying to convince my cat that I do actually still love him, despite abandoning him with a half-full food dish. I crossed the first of the three streets and this time, I heard it. Behind me. A gentle -plop- in the water on the street. I paused, uncertain if I should turn and look or if in doing so I would make an ass of myself in front of someone. Maybe even someone I knew. I heard nothing but the cold water slithering over the cobblestones and the soft roar it made as it flowed heavily into the drains that lined the streets.

There was a man, I remember that much distinctly. I…can’t tell you what the rest of him looked like, just his…eyes. They were flickering strangely in the gas lamp light, almost like they burned from within. They were the most unusual and unnatural shade of blue that I have ever seen in my entire life. He crossed the space that separated us in what must have just been seconds, but I could not account for his movement. He was just there.

“Can I help you?” I asked him. He said nothing, just stared at me. His eyes burning into me with a look that I couldn’t quite place but I still felt like I knew. I guess the closest expression that I can think of was hungry. He looked at me the way that a hungry person looks at the waiter when he’s bringing food. A look of feral anticipation.

“Hey, I don’t know what you want, man, but I really don’t have any cash or anything on me. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be heading home, alright? Try to get out of this mess. It’s pissing out here.” I hoped that he would agree to reason, but he just stared and inched closer. I certainly wasn’t looking for any advances, if you know what I mean.

This is the part where things get strange. I just remember locking my eyes with his. Those burning, swirling blue pools of light just seemed to sweep me off my feet and carry me away. I have no idea what happened after that, but I guess he must have attacked me or something because when I came around I was lying on the sidewalk, a little old lady with an umbrella was telling me that she had phoned for emergency services and I could hear the sirens approaching in the distance.

They told me that I had no physical trauma, my doctor referred me to a psychologist who seemed to ask me questions about every detail of my life from my favorite goldfish’s name to questions that seemed determined to reveal that I had secret hatred for my parents but nothing came of it. I was given a clean bill of health on all accounts, I just for the life of me cannot remember what happened. I was prompted to write this because I had just heard that I’m also not the only one now. Another person had the strange situation happen to them to, right down to the man’s blue eyes.

I…know something is missing. Something more than just my memory of that night. You ever go from one room to another and in that instant moment of movement lose track of what you were doing? Just sort of stand there looking around the room like it might reveal something important? That’s me. Only this time I just can’t figure it out.

I wish I knew who this beautiful woman is in all of these pictures in my house with me. I can’t remember who she is, and I have no idea where she’s gone.