I’m twenty-three, work at a call centre in Manchester, and I thought the worst part of my weekend would be sitting through my mate’s wedding in the Lake District. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I was happy for Dave—but I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the three-hour drive back to Manchester afterward. My girlfriend Sarah offered to split the driving, so obviously I said yes.
We left the reception around half-ten, maybe eleven. The roads were mostly empty, which was nice, actually. Sarah was driving first while I messed about on my phone, trying to find a decent playlist. That’s when I noticed we had no signal. Not even one bar.
“That’s weird,” I said.
Sarah glanced at her phone in the holder. “Mine’s dead too. Must be the area.”
I should have known something was off then. We were on the A591, not some forgotten backroad. There should’ve been signal.
About twenty minutes later, the car started making this grinding noise. Sarah’s face went pale in the dashboard light.
“Please don’t,” she whispered to the car, like it would listen.
It didn’t.
The engine died completely, and she managed to coast us onto a narrow lay-by before everything went dark. And I mean dark. No streetlights, no houses, nothing. Just trees pressing in on both sides of the road, thick and endless.
“Brilliant,” I muttered, popping the bonnet. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I’m not a car person, you know? I can check the oil and that’s about it. I stood there with my phone torch, staring at the engine like I had any clue what I was looking for. Sarah joined me, hugging herself against the cold.
“See anything?”
“Yeah, loads of stuff I don’t understand.”
She laughed, but it came out shaky. “Should we try calling someone?”
“No signal, remember?”
“Right. Maybe if we walk a bit?”
Looking back, I realize we should have stayed with the car. That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? But we were young and stupid, so we started walking up the road, phones held high like idiots trying to catch a single bar.
That’s when I noticed how quiet it was.
I felt my heart sink a bit. Not like, terrified yet—just uncomfortable. No wind. No birds. No rustling in the trees. Nothing. Forests aren’t supposed to be that silent. There’s always something.
“This is creepy,” Sarah said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Don’t,” I said. “You’ll freak me out.”
“I’m already freaked out.”
We walked for maybe ten minutes. The road curved through the trees, and our car disappeared behind us. Still no signal. I was about to suggest turning back when Sarah grabbed my arm.
“Did you hear that?”
I stopped. “Hear what?”
“I thought I heard… I don’t know. Footsteps?”
“Sarah—”
“No, listen.”
We stood there in the darkness, barely breathing. At first, I heard nothing. Then—there it was. Footsteps. Not on the road. In the trees. Deliberate. Steady. Keeping pace with us.
“Maybe it’s a deer,” I said, but my voice cracked.
“Deer don’t walk like that.”
She was right. Whatever was moving through those trees was walking on two legs. I could hear branches snapping, leaves crunching. It wasn’t trying to be quiet.
“We should go back to the car,” Sarah said.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”
We turned around and started walking faster. The footsteps in the trees continued, matching our speed. I wanted to run, but something told me that would be worse. Like we’d trigger some kind of chase instinct.
“Don’t look,” I whispered. “Just keep walking.”
But Sarah looked. I saw her head turn toward the treeline, and I watched her face change. Her eyes went wide—wider than I thought possible—and all the colour drained from her skin.
“What?” I grabbed her. “What did you see?”
“Someone’s standing there. Just… standing. Watching us.”
I didn’t want to look. I wish I had trusted my instincts and kept walking. But I looked.
There was a figure about ten metres into the trees. Tall. Completely still. I couldn’t make out details, but I could see the shape of it, darker than the darkness around it. And I swear I could feel it staring.
We ran.
I felt my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. Sarah was faster than me, and I could hear her breathing, panicked and sharp. Behind us, the footsteps in the forest started running too. Branches crashing. Something moving fast through the undergrowth.
“The car!” Sarah screamed.
It came into view around the bend. We practically threw ourselves at it, yanking the doors open. I fumbled with the keys—dropped them—picked them up—
The footsteps reached the edge of the road.
I jammed the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
“Come on come on come on—”
The engine caught. I didn’t even wait for Sarah to close her door properly before I floored it. The car lurched forward, and I didn’t care that it was making that grinding noise again. We shot down that forest road doing seventy, maybe eighty.
Sarah was crying. I was shaking so badly I could barely hold the wheel.
“Did you see it?” she kept saying. “Did you see its face?”
“No,” I lied.
I had seen it. Just for a second, when the headlights swept across the treeline as we pulled away. A face that wasn’t quite right. Too long. Eyes too far apart. Mouth open in something that might have been a smile.
We drove until we found signal. Until we found a petrol station with lights and people. We sat in the car park for an hour before we could even speak properly.
To this day, I still don’t drive through the Lake District. Sarah and I broke up a few months later—we couldn’t even look at each other without remembering. I moved to Leeds, changed jobs, basically started over.
But sometimes, late at night, I’ll be walking home from somewhere, and I’ll realize how quiet it is. No birds. No wind. Just silence. And I’ll remember those footsteps, matching my pace, watching from the darkness.
I never stop to look anymore. I just run.
