The Man Who Followed Me Home

Hey, can I tell you something that still gives me chills?

It happened last year, around late October. You know, when the days start getting shorter, the air smells like wet leaves, and everything feels just a little off. I had just moved to a new town—small, quiet, the kind of place where nothing big ever really happens. At least, that’s what I thought.

I lived alone in a tiny apartment on the second floor of an old brick building. It was cozy, but creaky. Every night, the wooden floor would groan like it had secrets. I didn’t mind it at first. I even liked the idea of living somewhere with a bit of character.

But one night, something changed. And after that, I was never the same.

The First Footsteps
It was a Tuesday night. I’d gone for a walk after dinner—just around the block, headphones in, a podcast playing about ghost stories (ironic, I know). The streets were nearly empty. Just me, a few rustling trees, and the occasional porch light flickering like it was trying to warn me.

When I got home, I locked the door, kicked off my shoes, and went to make tea. That’s when I heard it.

Creak.

From upstairs.

Which didn’t make sense… because I lived on the top floor.

I paused. Maybe it was the building settling. Or a neighbor moving something. Old places make weird sounds all the time, right?

I went back to making tea.

Creak… Creak.

Slower this time. Almost like… footsteps. One after another. And right above me.

I turned off the kettle and stood there, listening. My heart started to beat faster—not like I was scared, exactly, but like my body was trying to tell me something’s wrong.

There shouldn’t be anyone above me. The roof was just that—an empty roof. No attic. No upstairs apartment. Just me and the sky.

I slept with the lights on that night.

The Door That Wasn’t Locked
A couple nights later, I came home late from work. It was raining, and I was soaked. All I could think about was getting dry and warm.

But when I reached my apartment door, I saw something that made my stomach twist.

It was open.

Not all the way—just a crack. But I always locked my door. Always.

I pushed it open slowly. The lights were off. It was quiet. Too quiet.

I picked up the umbrella in my hand like a bat and whispered, “Hello?” like an idiot.

No answer. But the place felt… different. Like someone had been there.

I checked every room. Nothing was missing. Nothing was broken.

But something had changed.

There were muddy footprints. Not mine. Bigger. Barefoot. Leading from the door… to my bedroom.

And then they stopped.

Just vanished in the middle of the room. No trail out. No trail back.

Just… gone.

The Mirror Man
After that night, I kept every light on in my apartment. I even started sleeping on the couch so I could watch the front door. Nothing happened for a few days, and I started to think maybe I had imagined it all.

Then came the mirror.

It started with little things. Foggy shapes when I was brushing my teeth. Glimpses of movement in the corner of my eye.

Then one night, as I was drying my face with a towel, I looked up and saw him.

A man.

Standing behind me in the mirror.

Tall. Pale. Eyes too wide. No hair. No clothes. Just standing there, staring at me like he was waiting.

But when I turned around, no one was there.

I looked back at the mirror. Empty.

I wanted to run. I wanted to leave. But where would I go? Who would believe me?

I told myself maybe it was stress. Maybe I was tired. I stopped looking in mirrors after that.

I even covered them up with blankets.

The Voice in the Dark
About a week later, I woke up to the sound of whispering.

At first I thought it was a dream. But it didn’t stop.

It came from the hallway, just outside the living room.

I held my breath.

The whispering was low. Gravelly. Like someone trying to speak through a mouth full of dirt.

I couldn’t make out the words, but I knew—he was back.

I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. Slowly, I crept toward the hallway.

The light flickered.

The whispering stopped.

I peeked around the corner. Empty.

But then I saw it—on the wall.

A handprint.

Wet. Huge. Like it had been pressed into the wall just seconds ago.

I pressed my hand against it. Mine was half the size.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The Final Night
I decided I couldn’t stay there anymore. I packed a bag and planned to crash at a friend’s place until I could move.

But as I was packing, I heard something that froze me in place.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

From inside my closet.

My heart felt like it was about to explode.

I picked up a flashlight again, hand shaking. I walked to the closet door.

I reached out.

Grabbed the knob.

Took a deep breath…

And pulled it open.

Empty.

Just clothes and hangers.

But behind my coat, there was something else.

A trap door.

I had never seen it before. It was small, wooden, hidden behind the back panel of the closet.

Something had opened it.

I leaned closer.

There were stairs going down. Into the dark.

That’s when I heard him.

Whispering again.

But this time, I understood the words.

“Come down. I’ve been waiting.”

I slammed the door shut, threw on my backpack, and ran out of that apartment barefoot.

I never went back.

I’m Telling You This Because…
I saw that man again.

In the mirror at my new place. Just for a second. Just yesterday.

So if you ever hear footsteps where there shouldn’t be any…

Or see shapes in mirrors that vanish when you blink…

Please, promise me one thing:

Don’t follow the sound. Don’t open the door.

Because some things don’t want to hurt you right away.

Some things just want to follow you home.