Four years ago, my sweetheart and I were studying in the quiet town of Whitby, Yorkshire. One evening, just past half ten, we set off to visit a friend for supper. Her cottage stood but a stone’s throw from my sweetheart’s lodgings, so we chose to walk. The night was unremarkable at first—our chatter light, our pace leisurely. To reach her door, we needed only to turn left at the next corner.
We were nearly there when, mid-conversation, my sweetheart clutched my arm and whispered, “What is that up ahead?” I glanced sidelong and saw it—a shadowy figure some two streets away, moving toward us. Tall and broad, it lumbered oddly, hunched and crooked. Though the lane was dim, the thing advanced with unsettling speed, as if driven to catch us.
We thought little of it at first—perhaps a local vagrant or drunkard. Steadying ourselves, we rounded the corner. Only a few houses remained when my sweetheart squeezed my hand tight. “Do you see it now?” she breathed. I turned, and there it stood, right at the bend we’d just passed.
Impossible. It had been far behind mere moments ago. Dread coiled in our chests as it lurched forward once more, staggering yet swift, closing the distance between us. Without a word, we bolted, sprinting to our friend’s doorstep. We hammered on the wood in panic, and she flung the door wide. Inside, we stood gasping, white as sheets. Her little terrier, Toby, erupted in furious barks toward the street, as though something—or someone—lingered just beyond.
Our friend, seeing us so shaken, feared we’d been robbed. When we found our breath, we told her what we’d seen. She and her parents stepped outside to look, but the lane lay empty. Not a soul stirred in the darkness.
That night, we dared not return home. We stayed, hearts still racing, sleep far from us. To this day, neither of us knows what pursued us. But we agree on one thing: whatever it was, it was not of this world.
