To kick things off I want to apologize in advance. I’m not much of a writer besides occasionally whipping up the odd shitpost or throwing out heated paragraphs in Youtube comment sections. Honestly, I don’t really care about wicked detailing or anything like that; I just wanted to share my experiences in a place where I feel that people will care to read them and find enjoyment in the horror of it, as sick as that sounds. Well, at least it’s better than being brushed off. I feel a little bit less afraid knowing others can understand a fraction of the terror I’ve endured through me retelling my own story, do you know what I mean?
I’m a twenty-year-old Canadian guy in my second year of college. Sadly, I don’t have much else to say about my achievements in life so far, but nobody comes here to read about that stuff anyway. I’m fortunate enough to have my own one-room apartment that my parents help pay for. It’s located relatively close to my campus and it’s in a fairly decent neighborhood- but after last night I’m kind of considering moving back in with my mom and dad. Not that it would serve to change much.
When I was about five or six years old (I can’t remember exactly) I began to go through an ordeal terrifying enough to cause me major setbacks in reaching my ‘developmental milestones’ as more than one counselor described. The event (as one such counselor would refer to it) would happen completely at random, sometimes twice a week for months on end, and other times it might come about once in an entire year if I happened to be so lucky.
There was one constant though; it always occurred during the dead of night, between midnight and three in the morning. For whatever reason, this incident only ever played out when everyone else in my house was sound asleep. It was always the same thing; I’d be laying in bed in my room- sometimes asleep, sometimes not- and then out of nowhere I’d hear it: The heavy footsteps of wet, bare feet stomping across the hardwood floor, originating from somewhere downstairs.
Whoever it was didn’t seem to want to be subtle or sneaky, instead always sprinting all the way up my stairs at top speed, then down the hallway before stopping directly in front of my door. Whoever it was, they were fast as fuck, and I hardly ever had a chance to scream before they had reached the outside of my bedroom door. Now, my door has always been closed so back then I have never had a clear view of whoever was lurking outside, but strangely- and thankfully- they have never really tried to actually enter my room. There was no lock on the door either, so whoever was out there was content in just standing around until they decided to go away… though I’d never actually heard the leaving part in all my years of suffering through this.
No footsteps trailing away, the person in question just didn’t happen to be there when morning came. On rare occasions, they would knock on the door, other times they would jiggle the doorknob but otherwise, they never spoke to me. It was absolutely mortifying when it happened the very first time, and all I could do was cower beneath my sheets and sob, too afraid to even call out for my parents in fear that some escaped convict or serial killer was waiting for me to make my presence known before making a move.
After that first harrowing experience, I would of course let my parents know what happened, and judging by how shaken up I was they believed me wholeheartedly without many questions. At first, they blamed each other, throwing out accusations of cruel jokes to try and scare me into getting to sleep earlier, but after it happened a few more times within the very same year they began to grow just as terrified as I was, even though they had never been awake to hear it. It was the same ordeal every time it happened; the sound of sticky, wet skin against hardwood making a mad dash for my bedroom, sprinting up the stairs and towards the door with the speed and desperation of someone trying to escape a raging fire.
Obviously, because of this I couldn’t get to sleep at night and often arrived at school in a sleep-deprived daze, hardly getting any of my work finished. My nights were spent laying awake for hours beneath the covers, my chest tight in anticipation of hearing that awful person rush towards what should have been my safe haven as a kid. Most nights were silent, but the few where this intruder chose to torment me were enough to keep the cycle of sleeplessness alive.
Eventually, my parents remedied this by allowing me to sleep in their room where I felt much safer between them, two fronts of the sturdiest defense a child could know lying on either side of me. This arrangement had me sleeping soundly again for about a year without incident, and I was finally getting some rest under the direct protection of my parents (even if I had to suffer through my dad flattening me as he rolled around in his sleep). Even my grades and health were bouncing back to where they were before all this had started. The fear had begun to gradually seep out from my nights as I had believed my parents were the ultimate defense against my tormentor… until it happened again.
I was sandwiched between my mom and dad, as usual, both of whom were sound asleep. I was finally drifting off when I heard that all too familiar sound of hurried pounding up the stairs. My heart was caught in my throat, and for a few seconds, I forgot how to breathe. Whoever it was had come back after a year of nothing, and I was utterly paralyzed with fear all over again. Thankfully, this time after reaching the top of the staircase their destination remained the same as always.
The footsteps were growing distant rather than approaching me as I had been oh so used to, moving towards the bedroom that I hadn’t occupied for some time now. I remembered feeling awfully sick when I heard my bedroom door creak open down the hall- they had actually ventured inside this time! I can’t remember if I left the door slightly ajar since I hadn’t slept in it for months or if whoever it was simply decided it was time to enter that night, but that was the first and last time it happened. I thanked my lucky stars I was down the hall in the safe embrace of my parents.
For whatever reason this stranger had broken his or her code of conduct that night, and I still shudder to think of what may have happened if I had still been sleeping within my old room. Of course, by the time I had shaken my folks awake, everything was silent once more, the whole ordeal lasting no more than thirty seconds. They even got up to check out my room but of course, nothing was lurking within.
We tried getting help from the police, setting up security cameras (which showed nothing, lucky me), and at one point they even resorted to hauling me off to a shrink just in case it was all in my head, but nothing seemed to work. It still happened from time to time, and it never really got any less scary especially since I was getting too old to stay in my parents’ room forever. When I was eventually forced back into my old room, I made sure that my door was locked (yes, I finally convinced my dad to put a lock on it since I wasn’t going back in otherwise) and barricaded each and every night without failure. Even when I grew into my preteens, every time it happened I still trembled beneath my covers, fearing that at some point whoever it was that was so eager to get to my door might eventually try to bust in and hurt me.
I did try shouting at the stranger a few times as I got older n’ bolder over the years, demanding them to state what they wanted from me and why they kept this up for so long, but never once did I get an answer. What I was never bold enough to do was open my door and check things out no matter how curious I was, no matter how badly I had to use the bathroom or get a cup of water. I sat my ass in my bed until I heard my parents wake up and perform their daily morning routine downstairs before I was convinced I was safe enough to exit. The bastard was sneaky though; sometimes I left the hall light on so I could see the shadows of their feet through the thin crack between the bottom of my door and the floor. They would sometimes stand there for hours, even stepping away for a few minutes before returning, as if to trick me.
The worst part of the whole thing was that it didn’t seem to be exclusive to my house or room as I had originally thought; whoever was doing this was after ME specifically. There were times it had happened during sleepovers at friends’ houses (who I insisted keep the door shut at night), hotel stays, at grandma’s, and even during summer camp. Nowhere was a safe haven from who by this time I had dubbed ‘the runner’, a childish name but somehow the most fitting. It only ever struck when everyone else was asleep or away, not once had anyone else heard their thunderous charge. I felt truly and utterly alone, those who used to believe and sympathize with me had either started doubting me or were growing tired of my antics.
Even my parents and numerous counselors had distanced themselves from the whole thing. It was during one of these occasions when I was away at a cousin’s house for a few nights that I finally caught a glimpse of the thing that tormented me for over a decade at the time. I was around sixteen then, staying in a small guest room that had a door fitted with a large, frosted glass window taking up most of the center so that one could see the blurry outline of anyone standing on the other side. Odd choice for a bedroom door, I know, but I didn’t pick it out.
That night I heard those all too familiar footsteps rush towards the door, originating from somewhere deep within the house. (As a side note, I’ve never actually heard it enter any building where I was staying, it seemed to just… manifest?) By this point in my life- though I was still very much afraid- I was hardly surprised when it showed up on the regular. This time around, however, I was super anxious because knew that I might actually get the chance to see what the runner really looked like without having to risk opening my door. I wish I hadn’t. After working myself up for a minute or so, I dared to take a peek at the glass from the safety of my blankets. I can say with confidence that my heart stopped for a few seconds. It was just barely illuminated by the light I had left on outside out of habit, revealing the blurred outline of the THING that had been torturing me for so long.
For some reason, I was surprised that the runner was no man. It was unnaturally tall and skinny, its arms disproportionally short and stubby for its disgustingly lanky frame. It was so tall that it had to bend over just to peer through the glass into the darkness of my room. But its face was the worst part… oh god it’s face. It had pressed its face against the glass to peer inside and what I saw horrified me to no end. Guys, it’s super hard to explain what exactly it looked like (especially since the glass kept everything blurry) but its head was so long it drooped down to its fucking feet, taking up nearly the whole length of the window while also being alarmingly gaunt just like the rest of its body.
It was as if its face were stretched out like a giant wad of chewed-up gum, stretched near to the breaking point. The runner’s open mouth was a tiny gaping hole in the very bottom of its face, which I could only make out because it kept opening and closing over and over again much like a dying fish left out of water. I couldn’t make out the thing’s eyes through the frosted glass, but by how adamant it was to try and find me in the darkness I was curled up within, I’m sure they existed somewhere on that fucked up face.
What I had originally thought was perhaps some pedophile or creepy homeless guy that had taken a liking to me turned out to be far from human, and it only pulled away and left after I had understandably screamed at the top of my lungs. Besides the horrid creature itself, I remember noticing something odd: before my lungs had resumed working to allow me to scream, it kept wrenching its head back to look toward the hall behind it. It kept doing this on repeat for that long minute or so that it stared into my room. It was as if it was checking to see if anyone was coming. Of course, my cousins and aunt who already knew of this very strange story growing up thought I was just cooking up another chapter to my wild tale, but still graciously allowed me to switch rooms for the rest of my stay.
I can’t say putting a face to my problem helped me at all, and even now I feel as if I were five again; unable to sleep and often resorting to medicine so I’m able to calm down enough to catch a few zs. Knowing the horrendous sight that those footsteps belonged to had me nearly shitting myself every time it made that very same mad dash toward my room. I feel like I haven’t gotten used to it at all despite having grown up hearing its footsteps rapidly encroaching on my room in the dark of night again and again. I have no idea what the runner’s motive behind all of this is, nor if it has one in the first place. I have no idea WHAT it is. Its routine has hardly changed at all over the years, yet it’s impossible not to be terrified by the idea that one day this thing might just get tired of waiting at my door and end up bursting into my room- and then what?
What if I go to bed one night and forget to shut my door all the way, or I end up staying with someone who accidentally leaves it open? What if I wake up one night to see its elongated face dangling over me? I just want it to stop, I don’t know what it wants and I’m certainly not keen on greeting it because nothing that looks like THAT could want the best for me. It doesn’t speak and it doesn’t have a schedule- it. just. runs. I can only assume it’s doing all this to taunt me in some sick way, shape, or form and I haven’t the slightest idea as to why it chose me.
I’m writing this out now because it happened again last night. It’s been the first time the runner has shown up in the two years since I moved into this apartment. This has been the longest that it’s gone without making an appearance since it began its antics when I was just a child, and I was beginning to believe that perhaps I was finally safe despite living alone on the second floor. The apartment has an exterior staircase that leads up to my room along with the floors above me, and since it’s been getting colder here, there was a light snowfall from last night up until this morning.
It was just another Wednesday, and I was up late studying for my upcoming test when I heard that heavy thumping of feet- slightly muffled due to the snow caking the concrete- rushing up the stairs and towards my door. At first, I had thought that it was simply one of my neighbors returning home, but the sheer speed of its ascent and the fact that it stopped at my floor was all I needed to realize just what was lurking on the other side. My heart began to race, but it skipped a few beats after what I heard next: There was silence for about a minute or two, but then I heard the sound of glass shattering against the concrete just outside my door, and I swear at that moment I jumped so high that my head practically touched the ceiling.
Needless to say, I stayed up for the rest of the night frozen in place at my desk, too deep in my utter terror to even think about making a movement. Of course, I didn’t manage to get an ounce of sleep or anymore studying in. I couldn’t do a thing while not knowing if it was still out there, waiting in silence.
I only found the courage to investigate when the light of the morning came and cars began pulling out of the small lot. Almost immediately, I found the source of the violent sound of breaking glass from last night. The small light attached to the wall outside of my room had been smashed and broken, now resting on the snow below. Surprisingly, this wasn’t even the strangest thing that was left behind; there were footprints left in the snow!
The footprints were unsurprisingly not belonging to any boot I’ve ever known. They were very long, taking up the entire length of each step, occasionally skipping two whole stairs at a time. They lacked any sort of toe marking, grooves, or heel- they just appeared to be perfectly smoothed lines cut out into the snow, stopping just in front of my doorway. I shuddered, hardly forgetting the appearance of the abomination they belonged to. Looking further down the stairs I noticed another set of prints that were equally as inhuman, yet vastly different from the other.
They stopped just around the middle portion of the staircase for whatever reason, not continuing up further than this. They were also quite large yet perfectly round, almost reminding me of what an elephant’s foot might leave behind if one were ever to step foot in the snow. Set within the middle of each of these circles was a large spiral drawn out into the snow. I have more questions than answers after last night.
What does the runner want from me? Was there something else out there last night? Is it ever going to stop?