Four years ago, my girlfriend and I were studying in York. Late one evening, around half past ten, we went to meet a friend for dinner. Her house was just down the road from my girlfriend’s flat, so we decided to walk. Everything seemed normal—we chatted as we strolled along, taking our time. To get there, we had to turn left at the corner.
We were nearly there when, mid-conversation, my girlfriend whispered, asking if I saw that figure in the distance. I glanced over and spotted a silhouette moving toward us, about two streets away. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and walked oddly—hunched over, almost sideways. Even in the dim streetlight, it moved unnervingly fast, as if trying to catch up.
We thought little of it at first, assuming it might just be a local—perhaps a rough sleeper. We kept walking and turned the corner. Only a few houses remained when my girlfriend suddenly squeezed my hand. Her voice shook as she asked if I’d seen what was behind us. I spun around, and there it was—standing right at the corner we’d just passed.
There was no way it could’ve reached us that quickly. We’d seen it much farther away mere seconds ago. Fear gripped us, tightening when it lurched forward again—fast, almost straining, but closing the distance.
We bolted without thinking, finally reaching our friend’s door. We pounded desperately until she let us in, breathless and shaking. Her little terrier started barking madly toward the street, as if something—or someone—was still out there.
Seeing us so rattled, our friend thought we’d been mugged. Once we calmed slightly, we told her what happened. She and her parents checked outside, but the road was empty.
That night, we didn’t dare walk back. We stayed over, hearts still racing. To this day, neither of us knows what followed us. But we both agree—whatever it was, it didn’t feel human.
