Shadow #4

Max was an old man who disliked sleeping at night. Insomnia had followed him for years, but he never complained. Instead, he found solace in nightly walks through the quiet, deserted streets of his village. He loved how the moonlight illuminated rooftops, trees, and paths, casting long shadows that danced in the wind.

One evening, he walked his usual route leading to the old park on the edge of the village. The place was quiet, abandoned, with benches that had long lost their shine. Max loved sitting there, listening to the sounds of the night. That evening, as he walked, he noticed something strange—his shadow, which always followed his steps, seemed... different. It was somehow taller, more elongated.

Max stopped, and the shadow did too. "Old eyes play tricks," he muttered to himself, shaking his head, and continued walking. But every time he glanced at the ground, it seemed as if the shadow was no longer just his own. It appeared to be taking another shape—a figure with thin arms, hunched shoulders, and a head tilted toward him.

When he reached the bench in the park, Max sat down, inhaling the fresh night air. But he couldn’t relax. The streetlights cast light onto the ground, and the shadows of the trees seemed livelier than usual. Occasionally, it felt as though they moved, even though there was no wind.

As he watched, one of the shadows, long and upright, detached itself from a tree. Max blinked, thinking his eyes were deceiving him. But the shadow moved toward him, silently, without a sound. It stopped a few steps from his bench, remaining on the edge of the light.

Max felt a chill that didn’t come from the night air. "Who are you?" he asked, trying to sound firm, but his voice was only a whisper. The shadow didn’t reply. It just stood there, bent and leaning toward him, as if watching.

Moments later, the shadow slipped back into the darkness, disappearing among the trees. Max quickly stood up and headed home. He tried to convince himself it was all in his imagination, a trick of the light and his old age. But as he walked home, the feeling of being followed never left him. Every time he turned around, he only saw his shadow—but it seemed to have company now.

When he reached his house, he closed the door and stayed awake until morning, staring out the window. On every night that followed, Max continued his walks, but he avoided the park. Still, the shadow that followed him that night never entirely left. It always seemed a step behind him, longer than it should be, and occasionally it would pause, as if waiting for something.

Over time, Max’s nightly walks became shorter. He avoided dimly lit areas and stuck to streets with working lamps. Yet, the presence of the shadow lingered. No matter how brightly lit the path was, he could feel its unnatural length stretching behind him, just out of sight when he turned to look.

One particularly quiet night, Max dared to glance over his shoulder again. For the briefest moment, he thought he saw not just his shadow but another one standing still, tall and hunched, as if it were observing him. When he blinked, it was gone, merging seamlessly with his own.

As days turned into weeks, Max noticed other small, unsettling signs. Objects in his home—an old chair, a hat stand—cast shadows that seemed too large, too distorted. When he opened his curtains to let in the morning sun, the shadows didn’t fade away as quickly as they should. They lingered for a moment longer, as if reluctant to leave.

One night, as Max was about to lock his front door, he heard a faint whisper behind him. The sound wasn’t coming from the street or his house but from the shadows pooling near his feet. The words were indistinct, like leaves rustling in the wind, but he felt they were meant for him.

"Not yet," he murmured to himself, more a plea than a statement, and he quickly shut the door.

Max began sleeping during the day and avoiding the night altogether. Yet even in the daylight, the shadows seemed darker, heavier. He stopped looking at them altogether, but deep down, he knew they were always there—watching, waiting. One evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Max felt a cold, heavy presence fill the room. His own shadow stretched across the wall, impossibly long, and then began to ripple, as if it were alive.

For the first time in years, Max didn’t feel like going outside.