Walking at night during the spring is something I have always loved. The fog is thick, so thick that you can feel it in your lungs. It’s cool, too. And you hear every sound; every chirp from the crickets and cicadas, every whistle of the wind as it strokes the trees with its breezy fingers. It’s a reflective experience, almost ethereal, like you are closer to the secrets of the universe.
I know this path like the back of my hand - all the turns and twists, all the sounds and smells that come with it. I’m walking home from debate club, currently, and although it was a productive day I’m a bit tired. My eyelids are growing heavy and my pace slows down. I close my eyes for a moment, breathe in everything, feel the moon on my skin and the slight chill in the air as the wind plays with my hair.
Wait, what’s that sound? It’s getting closer, speaking over the bugs and rustling leaves. It sounds like...footprints? But they come fast, and powerful. I can feel the force in every step. Should I run? But it’s too late. I feel a large, clammy hand clap over my mouth. Is it someone from school? I’ve never seen anyone use this path before. But I begin to struggle - and the person holds me tighter, constricting my breathing. My vision grows dim, the faint faraway glow of the streetlights now but a memory. What’s happening? Who is there? What’s wrong? Then I feel a blow to my head, and the questions fade away into deep, dark dreams.