17 Aug Night Walk

I’ve always been a night walker. Some people drink, some people binge Netflix, some people smoke. Me? I put my sneakers on after dark and walk until the buzzing in my head dies down.

That night had been especially heavy. The rain had started before dawn and kept hammering the town all day. By the time it let up in the evening, the gutters were swollen and water still dripped from rooftops in steady ticks. I told myself I’d just take a short walk, just enough to clear the slate before bed.

The neighborhood looked different after a storm. The asphalt gleamed, slick black with patches of silver where the waning moon broke through. Streetlights hummed and sputtered, some casting warm circles, others flickering as though the rain had soaked right into their wiring. Puddles had collected in dips along the curbs, and each one shimmered faintly, reflecting warped images of the houses around them.

I slipped my AirPods in, thumbed through my phone, and put on a podcast. Something light—banter about old horror movies. The hosts’ voices filled my head, a buffer against the emptiness of the streets. I was the only one out there, my footsteps crunching against grit left behind by the storm.

The storm had driven people inside. Curtains were drawn tight. Porch lights, the ones usually glowing even at this hour, were dark. I passed one house where a plastic tricycle lay overturned in the yard, the wheels still wet and glinting. Another had a string of windchimes that swayed gently in the breeze, the metal tubes clinking just faintly enough that I thought at first it was in my head.

It was while I was glancing at the chimes that I first noticed the shadows. I couldn’t tell you why I looked down at the pavement between streetlights, but I did, and something about the shadows didn’t sit right. I was moving north along the block, light on my left from a lamppost, and yet the shape trailing near my feet was… off. Too long, maybe. The head didn’t look like mine.

I laughed quietly, shaking it off. The puddles, the inconsistent lighting, my tired brain—any of it could explain what I thought I saw. But after a few more steps, I glanced sideways again, and there it was: another shape, just a half-second too slow in lining up with my stride.

I stopped.

And the shadow stopped, too.

“Okay,” I muttered under my breath, half amused, half unsettled. I tugged one AirPod out, suddenly craving the sound of the real world. The podcast hosts kept jabbering in the other ear, their laughter jarring against the hush of the street.

I stood there for a few moments, listening. I detected no other footsteps. In fact, all I could hear was the pitter-patter of remnant raindrops and dripping sounds from nearby rooftops and trees.

I walked on, this time slower, watching the houses as they passed. I observed nothing unusual, just wood siding, brickwork, and wet lawns. But when I let my eyes drift toward the asphalt, I could swear the second shape was still there. It was slimmer than mine, with longer arms and more sharply defined shoulders.

I shook my head and pushed the second AirPod out. The podcast ended mid-sentence as I shoved them both into my jacket pocket. Whatever I was dealing with now demanded my full attention.

Every ten paces, I peeked at the ground again, and every time, my stomach tightened. The shadow wasn’t always right next to me; it shifted, slipping out of alignment, stretching or shrinking like someone was pacing me just far enough behind to avoid detection.

Each time I turned my head to look directly, it dissolved into ordinary darkness.

I swallowed hard, telling myself it was the rainwater, the poor lighting, or the lingering tension from the storm. But even as I said it, I could feel the hairs on my arms rise. That was when I realized I’d walked farther than I’d meant to. My house was a good ten minutes behind me now, swallowed by the curve of the street. Ahead lay another row of dim lamps, each casting its cone of pale light onto the road.

I considered turning back, but for some reason the thought of retracing my steps made my chest tighten. It felt like whatever I’d seen—whatever I’d half-seen—was waiting for me to do just that. So I kept walking forward, eyes glued to the glow of the next streetlight, telling myself if I just made it to the brighter stretch, I’d feel fine again. But the farther I went, the more I knew something had changed. This walk wasn’t about clearing my head anymore. It was about proving to myself I wasn’t being followed.

And I already knew I was losing that argument.

* * * * * *

By the time I hit the next intersection, the drizzle had started again, just a faint mist floating down, enough to bead on my jacket. The sound of it should have been comforting, the soft patter of water on leaves and shingles, but it only made the quiet seem sharper.

I jammed my hands into my pockets and kept moving. I wanted to believe that what I’d seen was nothing, little more than tricks of the streetlamps, rain distortion, and nerves. The logical explanations were all there, waiting for me to grab hold of them.

But logic doesn’t do much when you feel like prey.

I slowed at the corner and glanced down at the asphalt. For a second, everything looked fine. It was only me, cast by the orange glare of the nearest light. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught it again—an extra length of arm where there shouldn’t have been, the faint suggestion of a head that didn’t tilt quite like mine.

I froze. And the thing froze, too.

My throat tightened. I forced myself to turn my head, quickly, snapping my gaze right to the spot. And just like before, the street was empty. Behind me, to the side, was an ordinary, tidy yard, a mailbox dripping with rain, and a row of hedges trimmed to perfection.

There was no one there. But my gut twisted all the same.

I reached up, touched my ears out of reflex, and remembered the AirPods were in my pocket. That was the strange part—without them, my surroundings should have been full of noise. Even at that hour, the sounds of distant cars, a dog barking two blocks over, and the hum of power lines should have filled the air. Instead, it felt like the whole street knew something I didn’t, and knew better than to draw attention to itself.

I walked on, faster now. My sneakers slapped the wet pavement, echoing louder than they should have. And when I slowed my pace and listened, I could almost—almost—convince myself that I heard something just a fraction behind, out of rhythm with me.

I spun around. Once again, there was nothing. But the moment I turned forward again, I saw it: the elongated shadow slipping into step with mine, closer this time. Too close.

My stomach lurched. I kept my eyes forward this time, refusing to meet it head-on, because that was when I realized the trick. If I looked straight at it, it melted away, becoming all but invisible. But if I let my vision go soft, catching it only in the edge of my sight, it was there, clearer than ever. And though it sounds contradictory, I did not want to see what was following me. It was as if some part of me suspected that if I couldn’t see it, it couldn’t see me.  If I just ignored it, I hoped it would go away.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

The thing behind me was moving more quickly now. Worse still, the outline didn’t just follow—it crept. A jerky, half-lurching gait, shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm that didn’t match any human stride I’d ever seen. Whenever I sped up, it kept pace with me. Whenever I slowed, it drifted just enough to remind me it was still there, always advancing in the corner of my vision. Always retreating the instant I looked too closely.

I felt sweat prick at my scalp, sliding down my neck despite the cool night air. My hands trembled inside my pockets, uselessly clenching. I stopped under a lamppost, bathing myself in its pale circle of light, my chest heaving. I forced myself to stare hard at the ground, daring it to show itself in the open glow, but all I saw was my own outline—solid, ordinary, and human. And yet, when I blinked, I could see its tall, thin form faintly, hovering just outside the light’s reach.

The longer I stood there, the more certain I became that it wasn’t just following out of curiosity. There was intent behind it, like a cat drawing out the chase. I couldn’t explain why, but I could feel it—this terrible, animal certainty deep in my bones. It wanted me.

The thought came uninvited, so clear it was as if someone were whispering it into my ear. It wanted me, and it wasn’t going to stop.

My breathing grew shallow. I stepped backward, still keeping my gaze locked ahead, pretending not to notice how the shape shifted and coiled when I moved. It kept close to the edges of my sightline, just enough to let me know it could take me anytime it liked.

Another ten steps forward. Another pause. The thing leaned closer.

I bit down on a whimper, the sound clawing up my throat. It was no trick of the lights; it was not my imagination. Something was stalking me through the streets, and it was getting bolder with every block.

* * * * * *

I don’t know how long I stood frozen beneath that lamppost. The air was wet and heavy with mist, the circle of light around me almost too thin to feel safe in. Every instinct screamed at me to keep moving, but I couldn’t figure out which way to go. Back toward home meant retracing steps, and I couldn’t bear the idea of turning my back to it. But forward meant deeper into the quiet, deeper into the dark. Neither option was pleasant.

My hand brushed against my chest as though I could slow my heart by force. I muttered, “It’s not real, it’s not real,” but every fiber of me rejected it.

I forced myself to test it.

I stepped forward, just once, out of the safety of the light and into the dimness between streetlamps. I kept my eyes forward, but in my peripheral vision, I caught the flicker of movement. The shadow was there, closer than ever.

I stopped. It stopped.

I walked again, faster this time, sneakers slapping waterlogged pavement. My breath hissed out in ragged bursts. And at the edge of my sight, the thing kept pace.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose, my body tightening as if bracing for an impact that never came.

I spun around suddenly, as fast as I could, trying to catch it off guard, but again found the street empty. My shadow lay where it should, stretching thin in the lamplight behind me.

As always, no one was there. But once again, my gut still told me otherwise. So I tried something else. I started walking backward.

It was awkward at first, my legs stumbling, arms out a little to balance, but I kept my gaze fixed down the street ahead. I wasn’t going to give it the chance to sneak closer when I wasn’t looking. My eyes strained, flicking between the cone of light behind me and the darker stretch ahead.

That was when I saw it most clearly. Not directly—never directly. But in the space just off to the side of my vision, I caught the silhouette sliding into the road. It was skeletally thin and lanky, jerking in unnatural rhythms. Its limbs bent wrong, like its joints weren’t fixed. When I slowed, it leaned forward. When I stopped, it swayed on invisible legs, seemingly in anticipation.

A sour taste flooded my mouth. My palms were slick with sweat. I whispered, “Stay back.” My voice sounded strange in the silence, swallowed instantly, like even the air didn’t want to carry it.

The shadow twitched.

At that moment, something inside me gave out. I broke into a run, backpedaling, nearly tripping as my sneakers splashed through puddles. My eyes burned from the strain of keeping it in view.

It followed, always a step behind, always threatening to close the gap, only retreating when my gaze brushed near its outline. It wanted me distracted. It wanted me blind.

The thought came unbidden, clear and merciless: It’s hunting me. And in some instinctive, primal place, I knew what it wanted. Not simply to scare me, or to torment me—it wanted to eat me.

That word—eat—slammed into my head like my animal instincts had known all along and had been waiting for my logical mind to catch up. My whole body trembled with the certainty. I could almost feel it in my bones, a vibration that radiated out of the dark. Hunger.

My legs screamed with the effort of backpedaling, but I couldn’t stop. I could feel its attention locked on me like a spotlight, drilling into me. My eyes watered, and my lungs were on fire, but I couldn’t break contact, not completely.

And then, for the first time, I felt it. Its presence brushed against me, like the heat of someone standing too close. A sickly warmth crawled over my skin, and my stomach rolled.

It was measuring me, deliberating, debating its next move. I was running out of time.

Sweat slid into my eyes, stinging, but I didn’t dare wipe it away. If I blinked too long, if I let my gaze slip, I knew it would seize the opportunity and pounce.

My feet hit a crack in the sidewalk, and I stumbled hard. My arms pinwheeled, balance collapsing for a second. My gaze darted off instinctively, and in that fraction of a moment, the thing lunged closer. I felt it—a rush of pressure in the air, the weight of its attention so crushing I nearly collapsed.

I scrambled back into step, panting, heart racing. I couldn’t do this forever. My legs were failing, my lungs burning. The lights stretched on and on ahead of me, seemingly endlessly, each pool of dim orange glow separated by long shadows where the thing waited.

I had no plan, only the sick certainty that if I let down my guard, if I turned my back, it would devour me. And God help me, I couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like—its teeth tearing into my flesh, my body shredded in the dark with no one to hear.

* * * * * *

I can’t recall how long I kept up that backward shuffle, lungs aching, legs stiff as boards. Every muscle screamed at me to turn and run normally, to give in to the panic. But I couldn’t. I knew if I turned my back, even for a heartbeat, it would be on me.

Then I saw it—a house. Two stories, lit up brighter than anything else on the block. Its porch light was blazing, its living room glowing with the warm flicker of a television—a patch of sanity in the hollow dark.

Relief hit me like a drug. I broke into a sprint, this time forward, damn the risk. I barreled up the walkway, boots slapping against wet cement, and pounded on the front door with both fists.

“Help! Please—open up!”

The porch light above hummed and buzzed, casting my wild shadow across the siding. Behind me, I could still sense it, the presence pressing in close, hot, hungry, and increasingly impatient.

I hammered on the door harder. My voice cracked. “There’s something out here! Please! You have to let me in!”

Curtains rustled. A figure appeared in the lit window—a man, middle-aged and wary. He didn’t unlock the door. He didn’t even come close. He just frowned at me through the glass like I was some vagrant raving on his stoop.

“Sir, I’m begging you!” I shouted, palms flat against the wood. “There’s something following me! It’s right there! Please, just for a minute!”

His lips moved. Through the glass, I caught muffled words: “Leave now, or I’m calling the cops.”

I slammed my fist against the door. “Don’t you get it? It’s gonna kill me!”

There was movement behind him—his wife, maybe, pulling at his arm, eyes wide with unease. He shook his head and pointed at me with sharp jabs, voice rising. I caught only fragments: crazy, dangerous, get off my property.

“I’m not—” I stammered. “Please, just listen to me!” My voice cracked again, plagued with desperation. I pressed my forehead to their front door, breathing hard, tears burning hot in the corners of my eyes.

That was when I felt something brushing my back.

A wave of heat washed across me, sour and moist, like the pant of an animal too close.

I spun around, and saw nothing. The street was darker than ever. But I knew in my gut the thing was right there, just out of sight, stretching itself toward me like it could already taste me. It has to be toying with me now, I thought. Why doesn’t it do it already? 

I backed against the door, pounding with my heel now, slamming my shoulder into it. “Please!” I shouted. “For the love of God, please!”

From inside came the bark of the man’s voice again, louder this time. “Get out of here!”

I hit the door so hard my knuckles split. Pain flared, but I barely felt it. My whole body shook with the nearness of the presence. It pressed at me from all sides, invisible jaws waiting to snap shut.

I sobbed without meaning to, slamming my palms against the wood until my arms ached and my blood coated the couple of inches of solid oak separating me from safety.

The porch light above me flickered once, dimming briefly.

I knew if that light went out, I was done.

* * * * * *

The porch light sputtered above me, humming as if straining against a short. I pressed my back against the door so hard it rattled in the frame. My fists thudded against it, knuckles raw, my voice hoarse from screaming.

The warmth at my back grew stronger. My scalp prickled, every nerve screaming that something was leaning close enough to bite, if it wanted to.

And then, headlights.

Twin beams swept across the street, cutting through the dark. A car pulled up to the curb, tires crunching over gravel washed out by the storm. A familiar lit-up sign perched on top of the roof: pizza delivery. I almost laughed in relief, hysteria bubbling in my throat.

The car idled for a moment, engine low and steady, headlights blazing straight across the street. And in that split second of illumination, I saw the shadow peel itself from the ground like oil rising to the surface of water. A shape hunched low at first, then unfolding, taller than any man. Its torso stretched wrong, ribs bending beneath slick, tar-like skin. From the place where arms should’ve been, tendrils spilled out, each tipped with dozens of teeth. Hundreds, maybe. A grotesque bouquet of gnashing maws, opening and closing soundlessly.

Its head was an oval tapering into nothing, with a mouth that widened across where its chest should have been. Rows upon rows of jagged teeth gleamed wet, twitching hungrily. And its legs—God, the legs—they were long, human-shaped at first glance, but bending too many times, like a spider caught pretending to be a man.

It stood there, caught in the wash of the headlights, all detail exposed for a single terrible instant. Then the lights shifted as the delivery car rolled forward, and it dissolved back into shadow, leaving nothing but the echo of that image burned into my mind.

I screamed. I don’t remember deciding to, but my throat tore with it, raw and broken.

The driver’s door opened. A young man hopped out, baseball cap tilted back, insulated bag in hand. He had no idea. He was humming, for God’s sake. Humming.

I stumbled down from the porch, half falling into him. “Get back in the car!” I yelled, clawing at his jacket. “Don’t—don’t move!”

He jerked away, confused. “Whoa, man, relax—”

The thing slid closer. I felt it in the air before I saw anything—the heat, the hunger, pressing in on us both. The delivery man froze, eyes widening as something caught his attention. He didn’t scream at first. He only went slack, as if his body had recognized the predator before his brain did.

I didn’t think. I acted. I wrenched the keys out of his hand and shoved him hard toward the porch. He stumbled, dropped the pizza, and cursed, but I was already throwing myself into his car.

The headlights flared across the street again as I twisted the ignition. For another sliver of a second, the monster loomed there, tendrils flaring, teeth snapping in a grotesque ripple across its body. Then I slammed the gearshift and peeled away from the curb.

In the rearview mirror, I saw the delivery man scream. Tendrils wrapped him, pulled him off his feet as easily as if he were made of paper. He shrieked for help, voice cutting through the glass, high and animalistic. For one heartbeat, I thought about stopping, to help him. For one heartbeat, I imagined trying.

But I didn’t.

I pressed harder on the gas until the engine roared, and I didn’t look back again.

The tires screamed as I tore down the street, water spraying up from the gutters in glittering arcs. The wheel jerked in my hands, slick with sweat, and I nearly lost control before wrenching it straight again. My chest heaved against the seatbelt, lungs raw, every nerve in my body lit with terror.

I couldn’t stop seeing it.

Even as the road opened ahead of me in wet ribbons, the image burned behind my eyes: teeth sprouting from tendrils, that torso bending and stretching wrong, the gleam of its wet skin as though it was born out of the storm itself.

The sound was worse.

I hadn’t heard its voice, not really, but I’d heard the delivery man. His scream echoed in my skull, muffled by distance and glass, cut short by a wet tearing noise I didn’t want to name. I saw him in my mind’s eye, thrust into that shifting mass of teeth and limbs, shredded before he could even understand what had hold of him.

I should have stopped. I should have tried. But I didn’t.

I drove—faster, harder, tires fishtailing as I cut corner after corner. Every headlight I passed felt like it could reveal it again, looming in the road. Every shadow that stretched across the pavement seemed to twitch.

The insulated pizza bag still lay on the passenger seat, forgotten. I shoved it onto the floor like it might somehow attract the thing, some offering I hadn’t meant to carry with me.

The neighborhood blurred past—lawns, fences, darkened houses. I didn’t know where I was going until the road curved toward the main street. The highway signs shone faintly in the distance. I realized then I couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not while I could still feel it breathing down my neck.

But adrenaline only lasts so long. By the time I hit the highway turnoff, my arms trembled too hard to grip the wheel. My vision swam. I pulled the car to the shoulder, engine idling, and stumbled out into the night air.

The world tilted beneath me. I half-ran, half-fell into the ditch, doubled over, and retched until my throat was raw.

When I straightened again, gasping, I realized the air was empty and quiet. The suffocating heat of its presence was gone. For the first time in what felt like hours, I was alone.

I left the car there, not even bothering to shut the door. I just ran, feet pounding dirt, lungs burning, until the highway lights gave way to the familiar back roads that would eventually lead me home.

By dawn, I collapsed into bed, fully clothed, sweat cooling against my skin. I don’t remember dreaming.

* * * * * * *

The police report came two days later.

They found the young man’s vehicle abandoned on the shoulder, with blood in the street nearby. There was no sign of the driver. The delivery boy’s remains were discovered later in a drainage ditch almost a mile from where I’d left the car. They didn’t say much else in the paper, only that the wounds were “consistent with a wild animal attack.” Coyotes, probably. Or a big dog.

The family from the house gave their statement, too. They told officers they’d seen a crazed man pounding on their door, screaming about something chasing him. They hadn’t gotten a good look. The storm had made it too dark, the windows too fogged. They couldn’t have identified me if they tried.

No charges were ever filed. To everyone in the neighborhood, the incident was just another tragedy in a city grown accustomed to them.

But I knew the truth, and months later, it still keeps me up at night.

I shouldn’t be telling this. Every part of me says to stay quiet, to bury that night and never let the words out where anyone else can see them. Words make it real. Words invite it back. But I can’t keep it inside anymore.

It’s been weeks since the storm. On the surface, my life looks the same. I still go to work, still nod at neighbors, still stand in line at the grocery store like nothing happened. Nobody knows I stole a car that night. Nobody knows I ran while someone else was torn apart in my stead, right before my eyes. Nobody knows how close I came to being next.

I haven’t slept right since. I hear it in the quiet. Not every night, but often enough. When the neighborhood goes still, when the last porch lights click off, when the hum of cars dies down on the highway. I’ll be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and I’ll feel it—that heat in the air, sour and wet, brushing across me like a foul breath.

I don’t need to see it to know it’s there. The police can call it an animal attack all they want. Coyotes don’t cast shadows that move out of sync with you. Dogs don’t stand up like men, stretch into the street, and wait until you’re alone and helpless to strike.

Most frightening is the fact that it’s still out there, and it’s only a matter of time before it finds me.

I know this—because it sniffed me.

That was the moment I can’t shake, the one detail I can’t explain away. Standing on that porch, back against the door, it leaned in. I felt its mouth right at my ear and heard it inhale, long and slow, like a dog taking in a trail. It memorized me.

Now I live in fear that it will return. That some night, when the moon is thin and the lights flicker, it’ll step back out of the dark, following the scent it marked in me.

I’ve taken precautions. I douse myself in cologne throughout the day. Strong, sharp scents, never the same brand twice in a row. My laundry and apartment reek of it. My coworkers joke that I must’ve fallen into a perfume counter, and ask if I’m getting paid on commission as a walking advertisement, but I don’t laugh.

They don’t know it’s the only thing I can think to do, masking my trail to scramble the path I left that night.

Because if it can track me, if it really does hunt by memory, then it already knows where I live.

And if that’s true, there’s no escape. I’m just delaying the inevitable.  But I’ll be damned if I don’t hold it off as long as possible, even if that means offending everyone around me. The alternative is worse.

I tell myself the delivery man bought me time, that the thing feasted enough to keep it satisfied for now. But satisfaction doesn’t last. Hunger always comes back.

I don’t take night walks anymore, not even to the mailbox after sundown. When the sky dims and the first streetlight buzzes on, I shut the curtains tight and wait out the dark.

And I’ll never see streetlights the same way again, because I know that, sooner or later—

It’ll step out of the shadows between them.