This story was sent in by Brian K. from the Pacific Northwest.
I had just finished a late shift at the small hardware store where I work. It was one of those closing shifts that always feels longer than it actually is. By the time I locked up, it was close to 11:45 p.m. The sky had that washed-out, cloudy look that blocks out the moon, so everything felt dimmer than usual. I was tired, the kind of tired where your thoughts feel half a step behind your own footsteps.
My route home isn’t far—maybe a fifteen-minute walk—and I’ve done it so many times that it barely registers. The neighborhood is quiet at night, with wide, tree-lined streets and houses spaced far apart. I’m used to walking it alone. I even like the solitude most nights. It helps me unwind after dealing with customers all evening.
There was one small thing I noticed early on, though. About two blocks from the store, someone had left a pair of work boots sitting on the curb. Big, heavy ones. They were positioned neatly side by side, like someone had stepped out of them intentionally. I remember thinking it was odd, because nothing else was around—no bag, no car, no people. Just the boots under a streetlamp, dark and scuffed, pointed toward the direction I was heading. I almost took a picture, but I brushed it off as one of those random neighborhood mysteries.
Most of the walk was normal for the first few minutes. The streets were empty, no cars passing, no dogs barking. You’d think the quiet would be comforting, but sometimes it makes every little sound stand out too much.
About halfway home, I heard the footsteps.
They were behind me, not far off—slow, deliberate, crunching on the pavement in a rhythm that didn’t match my pace. I figured it was someone else heading home or taking a late walk. I tried not to let my imagination run away with the idea. People walk at night all the time.
I glanced over my shoulder. The street behind me was completely empty.
I slowed down slightly, just enough to see if the sound changed. The footsteps slowed too, perfectly in sync, like they were copying me.
That’s when the unease started to creep in. I told myself it was probably an echo bouncing off the houses or the trees. Sound does weird things in the neighborhood at night. But the longer I listened, the less that explanation made sense. These sounded close—too close.
I sped up. The footsteps followed.
My heart rate kicked up, and I could feel the adrenaline starting to buzz in my arms. I kept looking back, trying to catch any movement, a shadow, something. But there was nothing. Just the empty road, dim streetlamps, and the same steady crunch of footsteps behind me.
I crossed to the other side of the street, quick and sharp, trying to throw off whoever was there. The footsteps crossed too, a beat behind me. That was the moment my internal debate stopped being a debate at all. It wasn’t an echo. It wasn’t something normal. Someone was there—I just couldn’t see them.
I picked up my pace even more, basically speed-walking at that point. Part of me wanted to run, but running in an empty neighborhood late at night felt like announcing I was scared. I didn’t want to give whoever it was the satisfaction. Or maybe I didn’t want to risk tripping in the dark.
As I got closer to my street, the footsteps became less cautious. They grew quicker, louder, like whoever was behind me wasn’t trying to hide anymore. I thought about calling someone, but my hands were shaking and I didn’t want to stop moving long enough to dig my phone out of my pocket.
I cut across one more street, just a few houses from mine. For a second, I thought I saw movement near a hedge—a shape shifting slightly, like someone trying to stay just out of the light. I didn’t stick around to study it.
When I reached my yard, I didn’t bother being quiet. I practically sprinted up the walkway, got to the porch, fumbled with my keys, and threw the door open. I slammed it behind me and locked the deadbolt, then stepped back and listened.
The footsteps stopped.
Not gradually—just a clean, sudden stop somewhere near the corner of my street.
I stood there in the dark entryway, trying to breathe quietly, trying not to imagine someone standing just out of view. After maybe ten seconds, the footsteps started again, but now they were moving away. Slow, measured, fading until I couldn’t hear them anymore.
I peeked out through the small window next to my door. I didn’t see anyone. No figure, no movement, nothing. But under the nearest streetlamp, right at the corner, something caught my eye.
A single scuffed work boot.
Just one.
I didn’t go out to check for the other. I didn’t even move from the door until long after the neighborhood was silent again.
I ended up staying awake until sunrise that night, just listening for anything out of place. Nothing happened. No one knocked. No one circled back. But I never saw those boots again, and no neighbor ever mentioned losing a pair.
Since then, I don’t walk home after late shifts anymore. Even if it’s just a few blocks, I drive. I park directly under streetlights. And when I’m heading up my walkway, I always glance down the street to that same corner.
Just to make sure no one’s standing there, waiting for their footsteps to match mine again.