Someone Else’s Footsteps

RECOVERY LOG — AUTHOR UNKNOWN

I don’t know who will read this. I don’t know if anyone will. I’m writing because writing fixes things in place. It gives the room's edges.

If I stop, I think I’ll blur.

DAY 1

The rooms repeat.

Yellow walls. Wet carpet. Fluorescent hum like a headache you can’t escape. I walked until the halls started folding back into themselves.

That’s when I heard the footsteps.

Not loud. Not fast. Fourteen feet behind me.

I measured it by stopping suddenly and counting tiles when the sound froze. Always fourteen. Never thirteen. Never fifteen. I kept walking.

So did it.

DAY 3

I tried to trick it. I stopped mid-step, the footsteps stopped too—perfectly timed, like a mirror that only reflects movement.

Fourteen feet. I whispered, “Hello.”

Nothing answered.

But when I started walking again, the footsteps resumed before my second step hit the carpet.

DAY 6

Sleep is difficult. I wedge myself into corners with one wall behind me so it can’t stand there.

It still does.

Fourteen feet away.

I don’t hear breathing. I don’t hear clothing. Just footsteps.

The rhythm is wrong. Too even. Like a recording being played by something that doesn’t understand weight.

DAY 9

I tested the distance again. I dropped my shoe behind me while walking. It landed exactly where the footsteps should have been.

The sound moved around it. Fourteen feet adjusted.

It didn’t trip. It didn’t hesitate.

DAY 11

I’m being followed through rooms that didn’t exist yesterday. The footsteps know which turns I’ll take. They don’t echo. I do.

DAY 13

I ran today.

I don’t know why. Panic. Curiosity. Hope.

The footsteps ran too, same distance. Same gap. Fourteen feet like it was tied to me with invisible wire.

I sprinted until my lungs burned. The footsteps never changed pace. They matched me.

Perfectly.

DAY 15

I found a door that locked. Metal. Solid. Real enough to hurt my shoulder when I slammed it shut and held it closed and listened.

Silence. No footsteps.

I almost cried, then I realized why it was quiet. Because it had stopped moving. Right behind the door.

Fourteen feet on the other side. Waiting.

DAY 16

I stayed there for hours. I think. Time is slippery here. I didn’t hear it shift. Didn’t hear it lean. Didn’t hear it breathe.

But I felt pressure in the air—like something standing exactly where it always does. I opened the door just a crack. The hallway was empty, but the sound resumed immediately.

Fourteen feet back.

DAY 18

It’s not chasing me. It’s practicing. Matching my steps. My pauses. My breathing. Learning how long I take to rest, how long I hesitate before turning a corner.

I’m writing faster now. I can feel the timing tightening.

DAY 20

The footsteps started a fraction of a second before mine today.

Just once, I stopped. They stopped, but the distance felt… shorter.

I didn’t measure. I was afraid of the answer.

DAY 22

I can hear something else now.

Not footsteps.

A sound like someone preparing to move.

I don’t think fourteen feet is a rule.

I think it’s a lesson.

DAY 23

I don’t run anymore.

I don’t stop suddenly.

I move slowly, predictably, because unpredictability makes it eager.

I can feel it behind me even during the hum of the lights.

I’m not sure what happens when it reaches me.

But I’m sure of this—

It’s learning my timing.

And when it finishes…

There won’t be any distance left to measure.