I work the closing shift at Tesco Metro on Holloway Road. It’s not a bad job, honestly—I’m twenty-two, saving up for a flat, and the pay’s decent enough. Most nights are pretty quiet. We close at eleven, and I’m usually out by half past, walking the fifteen minutes back to my bedsit. I’ve done it hundreds of times.
I should have known something was off that Tuesday.
It was mid-November, proper cold, and the street was empty except for the occasional night bus rumbling past. I’d just locked up and was checking my phone when I heard it—this shuffling sound coming from the alley beside the shop. We’ve got these massive industrial bins back there, and sometimes you get foxes or rough sleepers, you know? I didn’t think much of it.
But then I heard it again. A deliberate scraping noise, like someone moving something heavy.
I told myself it was nothing. Maybe just the wind. I mean, I didn’t want to seem paranoid or anything. So I started walking, pulling my jacket tighter against the cold.
That’s when I felt it—that horrible sensation of being watched. You know that feeling, right? When the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your stomach drops? I glanced over my shoulder, but the street was empty. Just the orange glow of the streetlights and my own shadow stretching out behind me.
About five minutes into my walk, I heard footsteps.
They matched my pace exactly. When I sped up, they sped up. When I slowed down, they slowed down. I stopped at a crossing, pretending to check my phone, and the footsteps stopped too. My heart was absolutely pounding. I turned around slowly, trying to be casual about it.
There was a man standing about twenty meters behind me. Just standing there under a streetlight, completely still, staring directly at me.
I felt my heart drop into my stomach.
He was wearing this dirty grey tracksuit and a black beanie pulled low over his forehead. But it was his face that made my blood run cold—his eyes were opened wider than they should be, barely blinking, and he had this weird smile. Not a friendly smile. The kind that doesn’t reach the eyes.
“Alright?” I called out, trying to sound confident. My voice cracked.
He didn’t respond. Just kept staring with that awful smile.
I turned and walked faster, practically jogging now. The footsteps behind me quickened too. I could hear them clearly—the slap of trainers on pavement, getting closer. I risked another glance back.
He was running.
I bolted. Proper sprinting now, my bag banging against my side, my breath coming in short gasps. I could hear him behind me, his breathing ragged and loud. I turned down Pemberton Gardens, hoping to lose him in the residential streets.
Looking back, I realize how stupid that was. The streets were darker there, more isolated.
I ducked behind a parked van, crouching down low, my whole body shaking. My phone was in my hand, finger hovering over 999, but I was too terrified to make a sound. The footsteps slowed, then stopped.
Silence.
I held my breath, listening. Maybe I’d lost him. Maybe he’d given up. I was just starting to relax when I heard something that made my blood freeze.
Humming.
He was humming some tune, walking slowly down the pavement, checking between the cars. Getting closer. I could see his trainers now, stopping just meters away from where I was hiding.
“I know you’re here,” he said quietly. His voice was conversational, almost friendly. “I saw you go down this street.”
My hand was trembling so badly I nearly dropped my phone. I pressed myself against the cold metal of the van, trying to become invisible.
His feet moved closer. Then closer still.
Suddenly, a dog started barking from one of the houses. Loud, aggressive barking. A light came on in an upstairs window.
“Oi! What’s going on out there?” someone shouted.
The man’s feet moved quickly away. I heard him running back toward Holloway Road, his footsteps fading into the distance. I waited there for what felt like forever, my whole body shaking, before I finally called the police.
They came, took a statement, had a quick look around. They were nice enough, but I could tell they thought I’d overreacted. “Probably just some drunk bloke,” one of them said. “You did the right thing calling us, though.”
But I know what I saw. That man wasn’t drunk. He was waiting. He knew exactly what he was doing.
I handed in my notice the next day. Couldn’t face that walk anymore, you know? I moved back in with my parents in Brighton three weeks later. I still work retail, but only day shifts now, and I never walk anywhere alone after dark.
To this day, I still check over my shoulder constantly. Sometimes, when I’m walking home from the shops or getting off the train, I get this horrible feeling that someone’s watching me from the shadows. And I remember those eyes, opened too wide, and that smile that didn’t quite look human.
I’ll never forget the sound of his voice saying, “I know you’re here.”
Sometimes I wonder if he’s still there, waiting behind that dumpster on Holloway Road, looking for someone else walking home alone. I hope not. But honestly? I think he is.
