Rain slicked the pavement, turning the city’s neon signs into trembling puddles of color.

Mara pulled her jacket tight and checked her phone again — 12:47 a.m. No new messages. The bar had emptied an hour ago, and her friends were already in cabs, their goodbyes quick and hazy. She told them she’d walk. It was only ten blocks.

Halfway home, the streetlights started flickering — first one, then another. The sound of her boots echoed too loudly in the silence, and she began to match her pace to the rhythm, pretending it was just a song in her head.

Then came a second set of footsteps.

She slowed. The sound slowed. She sped up. It followed.

Her heart began to race — that ancient, animal instinct clawing up from her ribs. She turned, half expecting to see no one. But at the far end of the block, beneath a dying streetlight, a shadow stood still. Watching.

Mara ducked into the convenience store on the corner, trying to breathe casually as she grabbed a bottle of water.

The clerk looked up, startled.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, glancing back through the window — the street was empty again.

When she stepped out a few minutes later, the rain had stopped. Her reflection stared back at her from every dark window. She kept her eyes forward and walked faster, her key clenched between her fingers.

By the time she reached her building, her pulse had settled. She laughed under her breath, half in relief, half in disbelief. “I really need to stop watching horror movies,” she muttered.

She pushed open her door, flicked on the light —

and saw wet footprints trailing across the floor.

Rain slicked the pavement, turning the city’s neon signs into trembling puddles of color.

Mara pulled her jacket tight and checked her phone again — 12:47 a.m. No new messages. The bar had emptied an hour ago, and her friends were already in cabs, their goodbyes quick and hazy. She told them she’d walk. It was only ten blocks.

Halfway home, the streetlights started flickering — first one, then another. The sound of her boots echoed too loudly in the silence, and she began to match her pace to the rhythm, pretending it was just a song in her head.

Then came a second set of footsteps.

She slowed. The sound slowed. She sped up. It followed.

Her heart began to race — that ancient, animal instinct clawing up from her ribs. She turned, half expecting to see no one. But at the far end of the block, beneath a dying streetlight, a shadow stood still. Watching.

Mara ducked into the convenience store on the corner, trying to breathe casually as she grabbed a bottle of water.

The clerk looked up, startled.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, glancing back through the window — the street was empty again.

When she stepped out a few minutes later, the rain had stopped. Her reflection stared back at her from every dark window. She kept her eyes forward and walked faster, her key clenched between her fingers.

By the time she reached her building, her pulse had settled. She laughed under her breath, half in relief, half in disbelief. “I really need to stop watching horror movies,” she muttered.

She pushed open her door, flicked on the light —

and saw wet footprints trailing across the floor.