The Footsteps
I stared at the blinking red light. It was watching me, recording me. But how long had it been there?
I reached for the device, my fingers shaking, when I heard it—the soft crunch of wet shoes on my living room floor.
Footsteps.
I froze. The sound was coming from the other side of the room, slow and deliberate, as if whoever it was wanted me to hear them.
“Who’s there?” My voice cracked.
Silence.
Then a man’s voice—the same voice I had heard outside—spoke, low and calm: “You shouldn’t have gone to the bridge that night, Aisha.”
The bridge.
My chest tightened. He did know.
I spun around, but the room was empty, just shadows dancing from the lightning outside.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a photo. It was of me, standing on Third Mainland Bridge… from three years ago. And in the background, blurry but clear enough, was a man in a black raincoat.
The caption under the photo read: “You left me there.”
Before I could react, the front door slammed shut on its own.
