This story was sent in by roadwatcher88 from Portland, Oregon.
I got off the bus a little after 1 a.m., later than I planned. I’d been hanging out with a couple friends in Southeast Portland, and even though we kept telling ourselves we’d call it a night, the conversation dragged on the way it usually does. By the time I actually boarded the last bus toward my neighborhood, the city had already slipped into that in‑between state where the streets are quiet but not completely empty. Portland has a way of feeling safe and eerie at the same time, especially on weeknights.
I remember feeling tired but comfortable. I do late nights more often than I should, so the walk home didn’t bother me. It was only about ten minutes through mostly residential streets—houses with dim porch lights, the occasional motion-activated light flicking on for no reason, a few parked cars lined up along the curbs. The air had that cold, slightly damp smell you only get in the Pacific Northwest after midnight.
A block from the bus stop, I noticed a guy walking on the opposite sidewalk. Hood up, hands deep in the pocket of a baggy sweatshirt, head down like he didn’t want to be seen. That alone didn’t register as strange—plenty of people keep to themselves at that hour. What I did notice, though, was this faint metallic jingling that came with every step he took. It reminded me of loose keys hitting against a metal carabiner, light but steady, like a rhythm I couldn’t ignore.
I told myself it was nothing. A lot of people clip their keys to their belt loops. But something about how soft and irregular the sound was stuck with me—like it wasn’t coming from a simple keychain. I remember thinking maybe it was just the acoustics of the empty street making it sound odd.
When I reached the corner where I normally turned toward my street, I glanced over casually. The guy changed direction at the same moment I did. Not immediately—just a beat after, like he wanted it to look natural. But he crossed the street and fell in behind me, keeping to my side of the road.
I didn’t jump to conclusions right away. It could’ve been coincidence. We were both just walking. People share the same routes all the time. I kept thinking of the most normal explanation, because that’s what I usually do when something makes me uneasy late at night. I’m not the type to assume danger first.
Still, I paid attention. My footsteps tapped lightly on the sidewalk, and a few seconds later, his sounded behind mine. And underneath them both was that metallic jingle—soft, repetitive, moving in time with him.
I slowed down. Not even dramatically, just enough to see if anything changed.
It did. His footsteps softened too, falling into a slower rhythm that matched mine exactly. The distance between us didn’t shrink or grow. It stayed perfectly calibrated.
That was the moment my stomach tightened. I sped up a little, like I was suddenly remembering something at home I needed to hurry for. After a few seconds, the jingling picked up again behind me, faster now, still matching my pace.
I kept walking, trying to look relaxed even though my brain was firing off warning signals. I remember thinking that maybe he just lived down the same street. Maybe he wasn’t even aware he was keeping pace with me. Maybe the sound wasn’t keys at all but some tool or something from work.
But deep down, I knew that wasn’t what this was. Not with how precisely he adjusted to everything I did.
About halfway down the block, there’s a narrow alley that cuts behind a row of older houses. Most people in the neighborhood don’t use it unless they live on that specific stretch, and even then, it’s not exactly welcoming. Just gravel, garbage bins, a flickering bulb above a garage door, and shadows that seem too wide. But in that moment, it looked like a place I could disappear for a minute.
I turned into the alley like I did it every night. I didn’t look back or hesitate. I just walked in calmly, making it seem like I lived in one of the houses back there.
About ten feet in, I stopped behind a tall recycling bin and carefully peeked toward the street.
He was standing right at the entrance of the alley.
Not coming in. Not calling out. Just standing there, facing the opening, his head tilted slightly downward the way it had been earlier. His hands were still in the front pocket of his hoodie. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell he wasn’t moving at all—not even shifting his weight.
The jingling had stopped.
We stayed like that for maybe five seconds, but it felt stretched out, like time widened between us. I didn’t know if he could see me from where I was crouched, but I didn’t dare breathe too loudly. I kept waiting for him to take a step in, or say something, or do anything besides stare into the alley.
But instead, after what felt like forever, he slowly backed away. No turning, no looking around. Just three or four steps backward, then he pivoted and continued down the road at the same steady pace he’d had before—this time without the rhythm of metal tapping along with him.
I stayed crouched behind that recycling bin for almost fifteen minutes. I kept listening for footsteps or the jingle of metal, but the street stayed completely silent. At one point I thought about calling someone, but I didn’t know what I’d even say.
When I finally walked the rest of the way home, I kept checking behind me every few yards. Even after I locked my door, I stood at the peephole longer than necessary, just making sure no shadow lingered out front.
I’ve never taken that late bus again. I don’t walk that stretch at night anymore either. Now I arrange a ride every time—no exceptions. And sometimes, even in the middle of the day, if I hear keys jingling behind me, it sends a cold ripple up my spine in a way I can’t shake.
