Four years ago, my girlfriend and I were studying in Norwich, Norfolk. One evening, around half ten, we headed out to meet a friend for supper. Her house was just a short stroll from my girlfriend’s flat, so we decided to walk. Everything seemed normal at first—we were chatting, 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 what was moving in the distance. I glanced sideways and spotted a figure about two streets away, coming toward us. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and walked oddly, almost sideways, hunched over. Even in the dim streetlight, it was clear it was moving fast, like it was trying to catch up.
We thought it strange but guessed it might just be a local, perhaps a rough sleeper. We kept walking and turned the corner. Only a few houses from our friend’s place, my girlfriend squeezed my hand tight. She asked, voice trembling, if I’d noticed it following us. I spun around—and there it was, right at the corner we’d just passed.
There was no way it could’ve closed the gap so quickly. Seconds earlier, it had been far behind. Fear took hold, worse when it started moving again—fast, almost lurching, but gaining ground.
We bolted without thinking and reached our friend’s door. We hammered on it, desperate, and she let us in straight away. Pale and breathless, we stumbled inside. Her little spaniel went mad, barking fiercely at the street like something was out there.
Seeing us shaken, our friend assumed we’d been mugged. Once we’d caught our breath, we explained. She and her parents went to look but found no one. The road was utterly empty.
We stayed the night, too rattled to go back. Even now, we’ve no idea what that thing was. But we agree on one thing: whatever it was, it didn’t feel human.
Some fears don’t need explanations—just a reminder to trust your gut.
