This story was sent in by Aaron from Cleveland, Ohio.
I used to work evenings at a little print shop on the west side, one of those places stuck between a laundromat and a chiropractor’s office in a strip mall that always felt a little too empty after ten at night. My shift usually ran late, and on busy days I wouldn’t lock up until around 12:30 in the morning. By that point I was tired in that dull, buzzing way where everything feels slowed down. I’d be thinking more about what leftovers I had at home than anything happening around me.
It was early spring, still cold enough for my breath to fog when I walked outside. The parking lot wasn’t big—maybe twenty spaces—but only a couple of the lights worked. The rest flickered or stayed dead, leaving long stretches of darkness where the asphalt just disappeared. I always parked under one of the working lights, partly out of habit and partly because I’d had my catalytic converter stolen the year before and wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.
That night, I stepped out with my backpack over one shoulder and my keys already in my hand. Everything seemed normal at first. The laundromat was dark. The chiropractor’s office was dark. My car sat where I left it, a little silver hatchback under a patch of yellowish light.
But off to the far corner, well outside the lit area, I noticed an old sedan parked by itself. It wasn’t unusual for cars to be left overnight—the laundromat had a few regulars who’d crash in their vehicles—but something about this one made me slow down.
The driver’s door was cracked open just an inch. Not enough to swing on its own, but just wide enough to keep it from clicking shut.
It was such a specific detail that my brain registered it before I really thought about it. Like someone had opened the door to get out, then changed their mind at the last second.
I told myself it was nothing. Maybe the latch was broken. Maybe someone had gone inside one of the closed shops for some reason. Maybe I was just tired and noticing things that didn’t matter.
I started walking across the lot, my boots making sharp little taps on the pavement.
Then the door creaked. Almost silently, but loud enough in the stillness that I froze mid-step.
It eased open another few inches.
A man stepped halfway out.
He didn’t straighten all the way; he stayed hunched, head low, like he’d been curled up inside and was unfolding himself just enough to look around. His face was shadowed, but I could make out the shape of him—thin, maybe late thirties, wearing a jacket that looked too bulky for his frame.
He didn’t say a word. He just watched me.
One foot came out onto the pavement. He shifted his weight like he was about to move, maybe stand up fully, maybe take a step in my direction. I couldn’t tell. It was one of those moments where your brain jumps between explanations—maybe he needs help, maybe he’s confused, maybe he’s just another person killing time in their car.
But the way he leaned forward, just slightly, reminded me of someone poised at the start of a sprint.
I forced myself to keep walking, trying not to speed up but definitely not moving casually anymore. My palms were sweating around my keys. I kept glancing over without fully turning my head.
He stayed halfway out of the car, still staring. Still hunched.
When I reached my hatchback, the feeling got sharper, like pressure building behind my ribs. I unlocked the door with a beep that sounded way too loud, and the moment it chirped, the man suddenly moved.
He ducked back into his sedan and pulled the door shut with a soft but deliberate thud.
For a second the lot was silent again.
Then the engine of the sedan rumbled to life.
But the headlights didn’t turn on.
I got into my car fast and locked the doors. My hands were shaking just enough that I almost dropped the keys. When I started backing out, I saw movement in my rearview mirror—the sedan creeping forward in the dark, matching my slow reverse like we were tethered together.
I tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was leaving at the same time. Maybe he was nervous too. Maybe I’d made him uncomfortable by staring.
But every time I adjusted my angle, he adjusted his. When I braked, he braked. When I inched back again, so did he.
The headlights staying off was the part that finally shut down the whole internal debate. Nobody pulls out of a dark lot after midnight with their lights off unless they’re trying not to be seen.
I felt this jolt of panic, sharp and cold. Instinct took over. Instead of backing out the rest of the way, I cranked the wheel hard and pulled forward, cutting across two empty spots toward the exit lane.
The sedan kept coming for a few feet, like he was going to follow, then stopped abruptly. No flash of headlights, no attempt to turn. Just stillness.
I didn’t wait to see anything else. I drove straight out of the lot and didn’t slow down until I hit the main road, the one with streetlights and cars still passing even that late. Only then did I check my mirrors.
Nothing behind me.
I kept expecting to see the sedan slipping in from a side street, but it never happened. I drove home with my shoulders tight and my jaw locked, and even after I parked in my apartment’s lot, I sat there for a full minute making sure no headlights appeared.
I didn’t call the police. I didn’t have a plate, or a description beyond a dark sedan and a man I barely saw. It felt pointless.
But something changed for me that night.
Ever since, I can’t cross a dark parking lot without scanning for cracked doors or cars sitting too quietly in the shadows. I check for movement behind windshields. I look for silhouettes that shouldn’t be there.
It’s a habit I can’t break, because now I know how easy it is to walk past someone who’s been waiting in the dark, door cracked open just an inch, listening for footsteps like yours.