My neighbor Helen was beautiful, charismatic, and—at the time—completely unnerved. Over dinner at her flat, she confessed that she felt she was being stalked by a brief ex-boyfriend named Mark.
"I can feel his eyes on me from the park," she whispered, gesturing toward the dark expanse of Brennan Park that loomed outside her lounge window. I was skeptical. I’m a man of logic; I suggested it might be the wind or the stress of the breakup. When she pointed to a palm frond that had appeared on her mat—a symbol of significance in their relationship—I pointed to the nearby palm tree and the recent storm. "Maybe it’s just nature, Helen," I said.
A week later, we were back at her table. The air was thick with her anxiety. "He’s there," she whispered suddenly. "I can sense him now."
She marched to the window, staring into the pitch-black void of the park. "Mark, I can see you!" she yelled. I peered over her shoulder, seeing nothing but shadows and rustling leaves. I was halfway through a mental lecture on the power of suggestion when a dark figure detached itself from the trunk of a tree and stepped into the light of a streetlamp.
"And Helen," a deep, chilling voice shouted back, "I can see you. Who is that man with you!?"
The reality hit like a physical blow. Helen screamed about the police, the figure vanished back into the darkness, and the "illusion" was suddenly very, very real. Terrified, Helen spent the night on my couch.
The next morning, the sun was out, and the world felt rational again. We got up to walk back to her flat to make sure the coast was clear.
I opened my front door to step out, and my heart stopped. There, centered perfectly on my own front mat, was an enormous, fresh palm frond.
