Our amazing writing group just gets better and better.  Today with Halloween hanging ominously over us I expected tales of ghouls and things that went bump in the night! But our group came up with a few alternatives that triggered emotional response from us.

Our choice for this month’s story, however, tempted us back to the chilling tales that this time of year is known for.  We hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

The Walk by Ann Smith

It was a dark, cold, misty winter night – the kind that wraps itself around you like a damp blanket and makes everything feel a little more silent than usual. I remember it clearly. It was a typical Saturday night, sometime around midnight. I was fifteen years old.

The streets were empty, the only light coming from the dull, flickering glow of the street lamps. Their orange shimmer spilled through the mist, casting long, ghostly shadows on the pavement. The silence was so deep, I could hear the echo of my own footsteps. I pulled the collar of my coat tighter around my neck, trying to block out the biting chill of the air.

I had just finished babysitting for my sister. She lived in a small flat in a tall block of high-rise accommodation. She had two young children, and every weekend, she and her husband would go out together — it had become a routine. I was always the one they asked to look after the little ones, and I didn’t mind. I was used to it by then.

But something felt different that night.  

The walk home was only about ten minutes, and I usually didn’t think much of it. We lived right next to the police station — a small comfort, knowing help was nearby if anything ever went wrong. This was back in 1962, when police stations still had the classic blue lamp outside, glowing softly like a beacon. The word “POLICE” was printed in bold letters on the wall. I always passed it on my way home.

As I walked, I became aware of something – or someone – behind me.  Footsteps.  Soft at first, then unmistakably real. They weren’t mine.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to. I just kept walking, my pace quickening. My heart began to pound. I could feel it in my chest, in my throat, even in my ears. The street was still deserted. Not a soul in sight. But I knew – I knew – there was someone there.

I told myself, just get to the police station. If he means harm, maybe the sight of it will scare him off. But as I approached it, I saw that it was dark inside. Closed. No sign of life. The comfort I usually felt seeing the blue lamp faded quickly.

Still, I kept going. My building was just ahead.

When I reached it, I hesitated. I could either take the lift to the second floor, or climb the stairs. But the idea of being trapped in a small metal box with whoever was behind me made my stomach twist. So, I took the stairs, moving quickly but trying not to seem panicked. I could hear his steps behind me, steady, deliberate, matching mine.

Up one flight. Then the second.

As I reached the door of our flat and fumbled with the key, he was right there – only a step or two behind me. I turned around, bracing myself for……… I didn’t know what.

And then, to my utter shock, he leaned in, kissed me quickly on the cheek, and said softly, “Don’t tell your mother.”

Before I could react, he turned and walked away into the mist.

I stood frozen, heart pounding, my mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. Relief washed over me, followed by confusion, then a strange kind of gratitude – not because of what he did, but because it could have been so much worse.

I let myself into the flat, locked the door behind me, and sat down for a long while, just trying to calm down. I didn’t sleep much that night.

Even now, all these years later, I remember that night clearly – the damp mist, the silence, the footsteps, the fear, the kiss. It was a long walk