THE CONFRONTATION HAD gone so wrong. So, so, so wrong. But it had also provided much-needed clarity. My troll is not the woman I thought she was. She may not be a woman at all. From my conversations with Janine and Chloe, and the online research I’ve done, it seems that the majority of trolls are young white men. Most of them are harmless, doing it for “lulz,” but a handful of them exhibit alarming traits: psychopathy, Machiavellianism, narcissism, and sadism. It’s the dark tetrad of personality I learned about in grad school. And it’s terrifying.
As I fell down the rabbit hole of online hate, I discovered more horrifying facts than I could have imagined. There are trolls who specifically target victims of rape or sexual assault, and RIP trolls who frequent the memorial pages of the deceased, especially victims of suicide. They make cruel comments, victim-blame, tell horrible lies—anything to elicit an emotional reaction from friends, family, and loved ones. Some trolls like to go after people on the autism spectrum or who have mental illness, hoping for a bigger response. Outrage, fear, and hurt are fuel for these trolls. They get a high from it.
And then I learned about the predator trolls who seek to destroy a specific person: a random stranger with views they disagree with; a high-profile individual they feel is misusing their platform; or the victim of a personal vendetta. These trolls work alone or in teams to destroy a person’s online reputation, to damage their mental health, to cause distress and emotional pain. In severe cases, the abuse may creep into real life.
Like mine.
I’m on the sofa, my laptop open on my lap. A cup of mint tea warms my hands as I stare at the home screen, formulate my strategy. The woman in Bellevue is the key to finding out who is harassing me. While I don’t know her name, I know where she works. Setting the tea down, I bring up the Purr Feline Clinic website. As with my last visit, I find little useful information, so I go to their Facebook page. It’s an active page, posting cat health tips, cute images, and photos and bios of their staff. The woman I encountered is about halfway down the page, her smile warm and compassionate. Her name is Megan Prince and she’s a veterinary technician. Her bio says she has a bachelor of applied science degree from Whatcom Community College. She and her partner love to cycle and kayak. The gray cat’s name is Gervais.
Next, I look up Megan Prince on Facebook. There are several profiles with that name, but none of them are her. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. I search for her Instagram page and finally find it: @megantheeprince_ss. It is indeed private, but the profile picture is definitely her. There is no way for me to see who follows her, to see if I recognize anyone, or to check if we have mutual followers. But one of those 207 people is using Megan’s identity to harass me.
Fuck.
I go back to the clinic’s Facebook page and peruse Megan’s colleagues. Surely she hangs out with some of the people she works with. There is another technician, Carolyn, who looks like friend material, and her profile page is public. Sifting through photos of a bachelorette party, a destination wedding, a Taylor Swift concert, I search for Megan. Finally, I spot her at a company barbecue, a red plastic cup in hand, arm around Carolyn and one of the veterinarians. Searching the background of the photo, I don’t see anyone familiar. I don’t see anyone from my past or present.
Just as I’m starting to feel like a stalker, an alert sounds on my phone. I’m meeting Navid from my old writing group for a happy-hour drink. I’d almost forgotten. Downing the lukewarm tea, I set my laptop aside and hurry to change.
Navid is a retired professor, in his early sixties with a salt-and-pepper beard and a shiny bald head. He is warm and kind, married to a lovely guy and father to a grown son. This gentle, soft-spoken man writes positively brutal horror fiction. He has secured an agent—a Herculean feat in its own right—but has yet to publish a book. I want this evening to be fun, light, a distraction from the negative side of my publishing experience. Unfortunately, Navid has other ideas.
“I’m sorry for all the shit you’re going through online,” he says when Aperol spritzes and a plate of calamari are in front of us.
“How did you know?”
“Rhea sent a link to your Readem page to the writing group.”
“Of course she did.”
“She’s so jealous.” He chuckles. “Last time I saw her, her skin had a greenish tinge.”
“She must love that I’m being bombarded with bad reviews.”
“She does.” Navid sips his drink. “She hides it, of course. Pretends to be sympathetic, even concerned for your safety. But she’s delighting in your misery.”
“Rhea wouldn’t…?” I trail off, the words too horrible to articulate. But Navid picks up the dropped thread.
“No,” he says quickly, but I see the possibility travel through his mind. “Rhea’s not a monster,” he continues. “I mean, she’s not a very nice person, either, but I don’t think she’s capable of the cruel things you’re experiencing.”
I feel less confident. I remember the way Rhea looked at me outside Sophia’s café, her eyes filled with derision, even hate.
“None of those accusations are true,” I say, dipping a squid ring in tzatziki. “I didn’t steal any stories from the kids I work with. I would never do that.”
“Of course not. No one who knows you would believe that.”
But the people who don’t know me might. And that’s the entire internet.
Two hours later, I return to my empty apartment. It’s not even eight; Liza is still out with friends, so I grab a bag of kettle chips and settle onto the sofa to wait for her. I turn on the TV, watch a few minutes of a show about people falling in love through a wall, but I’m exhausted. Rehashing the trolling with Navid was emotionally draining. Before long, I’m asleep on the sofa.
The sound of my phone wakes me from a hazy slumber. The apartment is dark now, except for the blue light of the TV. I fumble for my device in the clutter on the coffee table, in between the couch cushions. I have no idea what time it is, but I suspect the call is from Liza, asking to extend her curfew (Adrian lets her stay out as late as she wants, but at my house, I want her home by midnight). It could be Theo calling, checking in after he took a bachelor party on a Jet Ski trip to nearby Bowen Island.
Finally, I find the phone under the bag of chips and check the screen.
10:45 PM
No Caller ID.
Not again. I already blocked the last prank caller. This is someone new.
I answer and listen to the silence.