I didn’t notice him the first night, or the second. It took time before I realised the shape behind me wasn’t coincidence.
Back in 2009, I was sixteen and worked a part-time job at a bakery in a small town in northern England. I’d finish close to seven, just after sunset in the colder months. My walk home wasn’t long—fifteen minutes past rows of brick houses, a small park, and then the narrow road leading to our cul-de-sac. I’d done it so often it felt automatic.
Nothing ever happened on that walk.
Until it did.
The first time I saw him, I was leaving the bakery. The streetlights flickered awake as I stepped outside, and that chilly, damp smell of early evening wrapped around me. I heard footsteps behind mine, slow and steady. When I turned, a man in a dark coat stood a few shops down. He wasn’t moving toward me. Just standing there, facing my direction.
I didn’t think much about it. People waited for buses there all the time. I walked home and forgot about him.
A week later, I saw him again. Same time. Same spot. Same coat.
This time, he wasn’t facing the road. He was angled toward me—only a bit—but enough to notice. I walked faster. When I turned the corner at the park, I felt the urge to look back.
He was walking now. Slow, like he wasn’t rushing. Like he knew there was no need.
The next few evenings were quiet. No sign of him. I tried to convince myself I’d imagined his stare.
Then he appeared again, farther along my route this time, near the park entrance. He stood just inside the gate, half shadowed by the branches. His posture was strange—upright, but leaning ever so slightly, like he was trying to see around something.
When he noticed me looking, he turned his head away too quickly, like he wasn’t supposed to be caught.
Cold slipped down my spine. I didn’t run, but my steps grew sharper. My breath came out in small clouds. I tried to listen for his steps, but the wind rustled through the trees, masking everything.
At home, I told myself not to overthink it. It was just a man walking in a public place. Nothing illegal about that. People stood in parks. People walked alone. Still, my hands shook when I locked the door.
The worst part was how normal the next few nights felt. It lulled me. Made me think I’d been foolish.
Then, one evening, the walk felt wrong again.
I was halfway home when I saw him standing across the road. He wasn’t pretending anymore. He was looking straight at me, no movement, no blinking. The orange glow from the streetlamp lit up the edges of his coat.
I quickened my pace. My shoes slapped the pavement. I could hear my heartbeat louder than my steps. When I passed the bend leading to my street, I risked another glance.
He wasn’t there.
But the feeling didn’t leave.
I hurried the last stretch and reached our driveway. My fingers fumbled with the keys. I stepped inside and leaned against the closed door, shaking.
The house felt safe. Warm. Familiar. But my mind replayed his stillness, his stare.
The next evening, I asked my manager if I could leave ten minutes early. She agreed.
I thought if I changed my routine, he’d be thrown off.
But when I reached the park, he was already there.
He stood next to the bench, watching the path. Watching me.
This time, I stopped walking.
His body didn’t move, but I saw one small thing—his hand tightened around the railing. Just a twitch. But it was enough to send fear rushing through me.
I crossed the road quickly. A car honked. I didn’t care. I wanted distance between us. I didn’t dare look back.
The second I made it home, I told my mum everything.
She didn’t brush it off. Her face tightened as soon as I mentioned the man in the coat. She called the local police station. They asked for a description and told us they would patrol the area for the next few evenings.
I felt safer that night. Safer than I had in weeks.
Until I woke at two in the morning to a sound outside my window.
A slow, steady crunch.
Footsteps on gravel.
I sat up, heart racing. Our house wasn’t directly on the pavement. We had a small front garden covered in tiny stones. No one walked through it unless they wanted to.
I held my breath.
Another crunch.
Then silence.
I was too scared to look. I closed my eyes tight and didn’t open them until morning.
At sunrise, Mum checked the front garden.
A line of footprints cut straight across the gravel. Too large to be hers. Too fresh to be old. They led from the gate to the part of the garden directly under my window.
The police came again. They searched around the street, knocked on doors, asked questions. People had seen a man matching the description walking near the bakery multiple times at dusk. No one had seen him clearly. No one knew his name.
For the next week, patrol cars circled the area. I didn’t take the evening shift anymore. I didn’t walk home alone.
Eventually, the sightings stopped. The man disappeared as quietly as he had appeared.
Sometimes I try to believe he moved away or got bored. But a small part of me thinks he wasn’t following my route.
He was learning it.
And on the nights I walk home now, even with friends beside me, I still feel a pair of eyes at the edge of the streetlights.
Watching. Waiting for the pattern to repeat.
