“The Shadow That Follows”

The Shadow That Follows

(A chilling story about an unseen presence)

By [Ali Rehman ]

It started on a night that smelled of rain and something older — something that didn’t belong.

I was walking home from work, the streets slick and glimmering beneath the flicker of half-dead streetlights. My umbrella had broken hours ago, so I let the rain soak me. I didn’t mind. It was easier to blame the chill on the weather than on the unease that had been clinging to me for weeks.

I don’t know when I first noticed the shadow. Maybe it had been there longer than I realized. Maybe it had always been there. But that night, I saw it — not quite where it should’ve been.

My own shadow stretched ahead of me, cast by the dim orange light of a lamp. But another one lingered behind — slightly out of sync, just a fraction slower, like it was following rather than belonging.

I turned around. No one. Just empty pavement and the whisper of the rain.

I told myself I was tired. Overworked. That shadows don’t move on their own.

But they do.

The next morning, I woke up to find my bedroom darker than usual. The curtains were open, the sun was bright — but the corners of the room refused to glow. The shadow pooled there, heavy and thick, as if light itself avoided that space.

I blinked. It didn’t move. But somehow, it felt like it was watching.

When I stood up, the darkness shifted — slowly, subtly — as though mimicking me. I waved my hand. The shape on the wall waved back, a half-second late.

I froze.

The air around me felt heavy, pressing down against my chest.

That was when I noticed the sound.

A faint breathing.

Not mine.

It came from the wall — from that dark corner — soft, measured, as if something was pretending to be alive.

I backed out of the room and slammed the door.

Over the next few days, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was just tricks of light, or my mind cracking under exhaustion. But every night, when the lights went out, I could feel it — a presence stretching behind me, perfectly shaped like me, but not me.

I began sleeping with the lamp on. I kept mirrors covered, curtains shut. Still, the shadow found ways to remind me it was there.

When I brushed my teeth, I saw it behind me in the mirror — its reflection delayed. When I left for work, I saw it sliding around corners faster than I could turn. When I lay in bed, I felt the edge of the mattress dip, as if something invisible was settling beside me.

The whispering began soon after.

At first, it was indistinct — a low murmur, like someone talking through a wall. Then, words started to take shape.

“Don’t leave me.”

“We are the same.”

“You forgot.”

Each night, the voice grew clearer, closer.

One evening, desperate for answers, I searched the house — every wall, every creak, every vent. That was when I found it.

Behind an old wardrobe, the wallpaper had peeled away, revealing something scrawled beneath — dark, smudged writing etched into the plaster.

“I’m still here.”

My blood ran cold.

The handwriting looked familiar. It looked like mine.

I stumbled back, heart pounding, as the light bulb above me flickered violently. When it steadied, the shadow was there — not behind me this time, but in front.

It stood tall against the opposite wall, still shaped like me — but wrong. The shoulders were sharper, the outline darker, the head tilted at an unnatural angle.

And it was smiling.

That night, I barely slept. When I finally drifted off near dawn, I dreamed of darkness — endless, suffocating. In the dream, I was digging in wet soil, trying to uncover something buried. My hands were black with mud. My shadow was digging beside me.

When I finally reached what was buried, it wasn’t a body. It was a mirror.

I woke up gasping.

There was dirt under my nails.

By then, I stopped pretending I wasn’t afraid. I moved through the house like a trespasser in my own life — careful not to look too long into corners, careful not to stand between light and wall.

But the shadow was patient. It followed me to work, to stores, even to the train station. Always just behind me, just late enough for me to notice.

One evening, when I could bear it no longer, I shouted into the dark:

“What do you want from me?”

The silence that followed was worse than any answer.

Then, a whisper:

“To be remembered.”

That was when I remembered.

The accident. The crash. The blood. The night I walked away from a mangled car — alive — while another person didn’t.

I’d buried it deep, convinced myself it wasn’t my fault.

But guilt has a shape. And mine had found me.

The shadow stepped closer, its edges flickering like smoke.

“You left me,” it said.

I fell to my knees, tears mixing with the cold air. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to forget.”

For the first time, the shadow didn’t move. It simply stood still, then began to fade — slowly, gently — like a breath released into the night.

When it was gone, the room felt lighter.

But even now, when I walk in the dark, I see it — sometimes — a flicker just behind me.

Not haunting. Just watching.

A reminder that some shadows never truly disappear.

They simply wait for us to remember.