You don't see it. Not really.
You hear it... raking behind your thoughts.

They say The Rake-Whisperer doesn't come with footsteps or shadows. It comes with the sound — the dry, metallic drag of a garden rake pulled across concrete. You'll hear it in your sleep, in your attic, in your bones. A scrape behind your eyes. A whisper behind your name.

It doesn't chase you. It waits.

It learns what you're afraid of. It chews on your secrets, digs through your shame like fingers raking a sandbox, hunting for bones. It takes the shape of the thing you swore never happened. The thing you didn't tell anyone about. The thing you buried.

And once it knows what you are underneath the skin, that's when it becomes you.