The Echoing Footsteps

Maya Clarkson had always walked the same route home after work. It was a peaceful walk, down a quiet street lined with trees, and it helped her unwind after a long day at the office. But one night, something changed.

As she walked, she noticed a sound behind her—footsteps. They were faint at first, like someone was walking just a few steps behind her. Maya thought little of it. After all, it was a busy street, and there were always people walking at the same time. But as she turned a corner, the footsteps grew louder, closer.

Maya quickened her pace, but so did the footsteps. She glanced over her shoulder. No one was there. The street was empty. Yet, the sound of footsteps continued.

Her heart began to race. She walked faster, the sound of footsteps echoing in her mind, matching her every movement. She turned another corner, but the footsteps never stopped.

Maya started to run, her breath shallow, her pulse pounding. She glanced back again, but still, there was no one. The street was still empty, but the footsteps were unmistakable.

She reached her apartment building, her hands shaking as she fumbled for her keys. As she stepped inside, the footsteps stopped. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

The next night, it happened again. And the night after that. Every time she walked home, the footsteps followed. Maya began to fear for her safety. She tried walking at different times, taking different routes, but the footsteps always found her.

One night, as she walked down a deserted alleyway, she heard the footsteps again. But this time, they were louder, closer, almost as if the person was right behind her. She whipped around, but there was nothing there.

Suddenly, she felt something cold on the back of her neck—a hand, a presence. She spun around again, but still, no one was there.

That’s when she realized—the footsteps weren’t human.

She ran the rest of the way home, but the footsteps continued to echo in her mind. And when she reached her door, she found fresh footprints on the doormat—damp and cold, as if someone had been standing there all night.

Maya never walked home the same way again.