 I'm not a religious person. I grew up with a mother that was forced to go to church and listen to sermons in Latin with her brother and sister. Her parents would drop her off at church, then drive away, leaving her with the responsibility of two younger siblings and acting like she had a clue what was going on. She'd laugh sometimes, telling me the stories of her youth and how she didn't have any idea of what was being said. The first few times she tried asking, the adults would shusher or glare, so she learned to just be quiet and mimic what was being done around her. The word amen being uttered, bow the head and repeat it. Everyone standing up and singing songs better get up and mouth words so that nobody thinks she and her siblings were rude little children that haven't been raised right. Once she had her own children, none of us went to church. Being in the Deep South, church was what all families did in our town. We were the exception. I think some of the neighbors found it weird, dressed in their Sunday best while we'd be playing around outside or piling into the car for breakfast. Not going to church again? They'd ask. My mom would laugh, keys jingling as she got into the car and cheerfully called to them. Nope, we're going to get pancakes. So I've never read the Bible. I had one. My grandfather insisted on it and put my name and birthday on the spine and shiny gold letters. Maybe I should read one though. It started off small. We got strangers sometimes. The town wasn't that tiny, a little less than 9,000 people. So when I went to the grocery store, it wasn't that weird to see people I didn't recognize. I didn't think much when I saw the first one, at least I think it was one. He wasn't dressed that oddly, but something about him stuck out. Maybe it was the way he was dressed, a two white button down shirt in the middle of summer or his long hair that most men wouldn't dare to try out. Either way, he caught my eye and was just staring at me. I stared back, trying to figure out if we knew each other from high school or from a friend of a friend. But he was a complete stranger. So I just smiled, waved and went on my way, grabbed my groceries, paid, loaded my stuff in the car and drove back to my apartment. I thought it was a one off, a guy that recognized me for some reason. But it kept happening, not just him, but others. People in clothes that didn't make sense for the heat of summer, pure white button downs, no wrinkles or signs of sweat. They had gloves too, and long pants that remind me of bell bottoms. But I couldn't even see their feet. I can understand if there was a new fashion trend or something, but long sleeves and covered head to toe in clothing doesn't seem like a good trend. Sounds like heat stroke. Still, I try to be polite, just wave at the strangers and be on my way. I thought that maybe there were a weird bunch of groupies following some indie band or a family that insisted on having similar clothes. I don't know. I mentioned it to my mom, curious if she'd seen them too, and she laughed it off. Just ignore it. Anytime you see them, just wave and be on your way. You don't need to be rude. So I took her advice until I finally got enough courage when I saw yet another one at the grocery store staring at me. And I wandered close enough to look at the apples he was standing next to. And I asked, so are you from here? I really don't know what I was expecting. But what I got in return was terribly underwhelming. He just stared at me, eyes wide and said nothing. So I tried again, stupidly, trying for any kind of response. If he was enjoying the weather, had he been around town for long, even asked if he liked apples. Nothing, just that same blank, unblinking stare that made me muster my best smile and tell him to have a good day. I should never have talked to him. Suddenly, they were everywhere, all the time, going to the gas station, one in the snack aisle staring at me, driving down my street, well, one standing at the street corner only moving its eyes. They never move, at least not at first, just their eyes. They didn't walk or turn their head or anything like that. Only ever the eyes fed up with it after a week. I went up to one that was in my way when I was trying to go for an evening walk and asked, who are you? Why are there so many of you? This one, a woman, stared at me like they always do. I think I was tired or maybe just sick of having random people in the same outfit everywhere, so I touched her shoulder. My fingers barely skimmed her white shirt before it was stained in red from blood. I don't recall my screaming or turning tail and running back to my apartment so I could drive to the hospital. I'm sure I was making a racket, but the thing that sticks out to me is that I finally got a response from one of them. She blinked and then smiled. It took 10 stitches to close up the cuts in my fingers, five for my index, three for my middle, and two for the ring finger. I don't know what happened. Trying to explain to the emergency room was difficult because they insisted whatever I'd done had gotten down to the bone. After that, things got worse. They actually moved, not like walk or, you know, be human. But glide across the floor to follow me. I still couldn't see their feet. Their knees didn't bend or do anything normal to even mimic a normal way of walking. The first time I saw it, I knocked over a display of cookies and had to apologize profusely to the poor bakery worker. When she asked what had me in such a fright, I gathered up the courage to say that man over there, he keeps staring at me. She looked in the direction I was looking brow furrowed. She didn't respond at first and instead asked if the man had walked away. I must have looked stupid mouth open because he was right there, but she didn't see him. All I could do was nod my hand, agree with her and then rush out of the store. After a week of getting used to them moving, they began changing. Small things at first, their shirts looking less white and more gray. They made a strange rattling sound sometimes, a hollow, creepy sound. Their faces became more expressive. Not much, but rather than just watching with their eyes, they turned their heads or flexed their fingers. Eventually, the gloves went away and I wish they hadn't because they have strange hands. Their fingers are far too long, curved unnaturally and have a sickly gray skin to them. The nails are all ripped off. Just three or so months ago, I thought there were a bunch of weird groupies that copied a band or maybe some strange cult. I wish I still believed that. It was when I saw strange shadows behind them that I finally broke down and told my mom everything over the phone, my hand being cut up. That wasn't an unfortunate cooking incident, it was from them. My jumpiness and sounding like I'm close to a nervous breakdown, yeah, I've been being followed for months now and I don't know what to do. She was quiet for a long time and I fully expected her to laugh at me. Tell me I was being ridiculous or dramatic, but instead she let out a long sigh and said, I told you, you should have just been polite. What the hell are they? I asked tears running down my face as I made sure that every curtain was shut. She was quiet, oddly so before she offered. I don't know. Your grandfather always called them angels. Those are not angels, I replied. So you haven't seen them fully yet. That's good. I remember choking out a weak noise, maybe a question, but she kept going. You should move somewhere nice and cold, far away from the south. Move. What? Just pack everything up, leave my job and apartment with no notice and go. Go where? It doesn't matter, far away, states and states away, maybe even countries. Everything was making sense and I managed to say as much, trying to demand for answers, but all I got in response was a sigh, a tired and sad sound before she pressed on talking like I hadn't been having a panic attack. You can try to wait it out. But I'm going to be packing up and going myself. If they're aware of you, then they'll soon be bothering me. I felt cold, throat dry, and I managed to croak out. What happens if I stay? She was silent again. This time it lasted far too long before she finally continued. Depends on them, I suppose. I don't know. But if they've already harmed you, I wouldn't be surprised if they'd like to do it again. They're strange like that. We got off the phone shortly after. She kept insisting she needed to pack and call my siblings, tell my brothers and sisters to be mindful of themselves. I wanted to try and stick it out. I didn't want to leave my home. So I tried keeping my distance from them. Any time they drifted too close with their wide unblinking eyes, I walked away, or in some cases ran. I thought that it wouldn't be too hard. They're slow after all. At least until one got too close, and I couldn't quite run away. I was trying to pump gas into my car. I saw it this time. Just managing to stumble back from the pump when the gasoline hose was cut and gas spilled all over the side of my car and onto the ground. Two wings stand on the shoulders of this angel. He stares at me, head cocked to the side like a bird as the wings twitched. But they were nothing like the feathery wings of cherub paintings I'd seen online. They were huge, far too big for its lanky body and anchored to the back by blackened bones. What should have been soft feathers were twisted and gnarled bones, different colors of white, black, red and pink. Some looking diseased, others looking freshly cut from an animal. I stared, mouth open, and then the wing sliced through the air and left me with a torn shirt and a bleeding stomach. I abandoned my car and ran. Someone picked me up and drove me to the hospital. The wound was superficial, the doctor said. They were cleaning it out and patching me up with bits of gauze and offering some painkillers. The moment I got home, I called my mom even though it was three in the morning. She listened to my jumbled account of what happened and I ended it with a sob of, can I come with you? No. She sounded so harsh and cold before she sighed and continued, no. You go one way, I go the other. I'm heading towards Washington State. Are you not going to tell me what state you stop in? It's not safe. Don't tell me where you end up either. I suggest you leave now or in a day or two and whatever you do, don't pray. You've never done so before so don't you dare start now. After that conversation, I still debated on staying, at least until I looked through my bedroom window to find them, not just one of them, but many, some standing on the street staring up into my apartment, others on the roofs and phone lines, the sight of some of them floating in the air with skeleton wings that look more like razor blades in the street light. That's what solidified my decision to leave. I guess I'm writing this as a warning. If you see some people that stick out, just be polite. Don't talk to them. Just wave and smile and be on your way. I still don't know what they are, angels. I don't know a single angel that has razors on their backs. But sure, maybe, either way, I'm packing up and I'm leaving. Mom says that that's the only way to run as far away as fast as I can and don't pray. Praying will guarantee they find me sooner.