Four years ago, my girlfriend and I were studying in York. One evening, around half past ten, we stepped out to meet a friend for dinner. Her house was just a block away from my girlfriend’s flat, so we decided to walk. Everything seemed normal at first—we chatted as we strolled, unhurried. To get there, we had to turn left at the next corner.
We were nearly there when, mid-conversation, my girlfriend whispered sharply, asking what was moving in the distance. I glanced sideways and saw it—a figure, two streets away, lumbering toward us. Tall, hulking, it walked oddly, twisted to the side with a hunched posture. Though the street was dark, its speed was unmistakable, as if it were hurrying to reach us.
Strange, we thought, but perhaps just a local, maybe a drunk. We kept walking, turning the corner. Only a few houses from our friend’s place when my girlfriend’s grip tightened on my hand. Her voice trembled as she asked if I’d seen what was behind us. I spun around—and there it was, right at the corner we’d just passed.
It couldn’t have caught up that fast. It had been far behind moments ago. Fear coiled in our chests as it started moving again, lurching forward with unnatural speed, closing the gap between us.
We ran without thinking, slamming desperately on our friend’s door. She opened it at once, her face draining of colour as she took in our panic. We stumbled inside, breathless. Her terrier erupted into frantic barks, snarling at something—or someone—out in the street.
At first, our friend feared we’d been mugged. When we finally steadied ourselves enough to explain, she and her parents peered outside. Nothing. The road was empty.
That night, we didn’t dare go back to the flat. We stayed, hearts still pounding, unable to shake the dread. To this day, neither of us knows what followed us. But we agree on one thing. Whatever it was—it wasn’t human.
