THE MAN WHO WALKED IN THE DARK

There are things that happen to you on the road at night — small things, strange things — that your mind explains away as tricks of headlights or exhaustion.
But what happened to me on that stretch of highway… that wasn’t a trick.

It was the night the road watched me back.

I’ve tried to forget it.
I’ve tried to tell myself it wasn’t real.
But every time I close my eyes, I see him walking toward me again — steady, silent, patient — as if he’s still on that same road, waiting for me to come back.

---

The Man Under the Shelter**

It began a few months ago, on a quiet drive home after a late dinner with friends. The highway was empty, the kind of empty that makes you lower the radio without realizing it, as if the dark deserves respect.

That’s when we saw the shelter.

A small concrete structure on the side of the road, barely big enough for two people. Someone was sitting under it — a man — hunched forward, his face hidden in shadow.

As our headlights passed over him, he lifted his head.

And smiled.

Not a friendly smile.
Not a smile of relief, like someone glad a car finally showed up.
No… this was the kind of smile a predator gives when it recognizes prey.

I remember my friend whispering:

“Bro… he’s sitting alone?
At this time?”

We drove past without slowing.
But the unease followed us all the way home.

---

“Let’s Go Back.”**

Curiosity is a dangerous thing.
My friends had too much of it.

The next night they said, “Let’s go back. Just to see if he’s there again.”

I should’ve refused.
I should’ve stayed home.
But I didn’t.

When we reached the shelter, the place was empty.
Silent.
As if the man had never existed.

That’s when we saw him again — not sitting this time.

Walking.

A lonely silhouette moving along the roadside, headed toward the small neighborhood up ahead.

We watched him from the bike.

No matter what direction we turned from, we always saw him ahead of us — walking, walking, walking endlessly.

It made no sense.
It was as if the road bent around him.

We went home unsettled, but not yet afraid.

That came later.

---

The Night I Should Have Stayed Home**

Two nights later, I had to visit my cousin.
He lived past that same shelter — the same cursed stretch of road.

My instinct said not to go.

But obligation pushed me forward.

The ride was strangely quiet. Even the crickets seemed to avoid the area. When I reached his house, the dread faded, and we joked, laughed, talked like nothing was wrong.

For a while, I forgot.

Until we had to return.

“Don’t Stop the Bike.”**

We were nearing the shelter again — the exact spot where we’d seen the man. My cousin suddenly grabbed my arm hard enough to hurt.

“Don’t stop here,” he said sharply.

I didn’t understand.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Just keep going.”

But curiosity is a disease, and I turned my head toward the shelter.

A shadow was standing there.

A tall, thin silhouette, its head bowed, its arms hanging unnaturally low.

Before I could react, my cousin whispered:

“He comes here every night.”

And then the figure started walking.

Right toward us.

The Moment the World Went Silent**

Everything slowed.

I couldn’t hear the engine.
I couldn’t hear my cousin.
I couldn’t hear anything at all.

All I heard was the rhythm of the man’s footsteps — soft, controlled, impossibly steady — even though he walked on gravel.

I didn’t stop.
I didn’t even breathe.

He came closer.

Closer.

I caught a glimpse of his face under the flickering streetlight.

And my blood turned cold.

His eyes were black — not dark, but black like deep water.
His lips were stretched too thin, as if his mouth wasn’t used to forming human expressions.
And that same predator’s smile pulled at the corners.

He looked straight at me.

As if he recognized me.

As if he had been waiting.

My Cousin’s Truth

We raced back to my cousin’s house, nearly crashing twice.
Once inside, I grabbed him.

“What was that? Tell me everything.”

My cousin hesitated.

Then, in a shaken voice, he said:

“He’s not alive, cousin. He hasn’t been for years.”

I felt the room tilt.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s seen by different people. At different times. In different places. But always walking toward the neighborhood. Always the same face. And if someone stops near him…”
He swallowed hard.
“He comes to them.”

I asked him if he had ever stopped.

He looked away.

“I didn’t even see him move. One moment he was far away… the next he was inches from my bike.”

---

** Returning to the Road**

I don’t know why we went back that night.
Maybe stupidity.
Maybe denial.

The road was darker than usual, as if the sky had lowered itself over the asphalt.

We drove past the shelter.

Nothing.

We almost turned around.

But then we saw him.

Standing in the middle of the road only a few meters ahead.

Waiting.

Facing us.

No movement.
No breathing.
Just that horrible, stretched smile.

It felt like the entire world exhaled at once when we passed him.

We didn’t speak the whole way home.

We didn’t sleep, either.

---

** The Thing I Can Never Forget**

I’ve seen many things on the road — accidents, drunk drivers, stray animals.

But nothing compares to that man.

He is still out there.
Walking the same path.
Repeating the same steps.

And every night, someone on that road sees him.

Sometimes standing.
Sometimes smiling.
Sometimes walking behind them.

My cousin once told me:

“He isn’t walking to someplace.
He’s walking away from something.”

I think about that a lot.

If he’s walking away…

What is he running from?

And what if one night…
it decides to follow us instead?