The Constant at Mile 4

Marta had always been a night owl, but her doctor had recently advised her to get more exercise. Her apartment complex had a walking track that looped around a small, man-made lake, and she’d started doing laps after sunset, when the lights along the path cast long, distorted reflections on the water. It was peaceful, and the rhythmic sound of her footsteps helped clear her mind.

One evening, about a month into her routine, she noticed a figure standing at the far end of the track, near the old willow tree. It was tall, unnaturally so, and utterly still. Marta squinted, thinking it might be a jogger stretching or someone admiring the moon, but there was something off about the way it held itself, like a statue carved from darkness. She slowed her pace, her heart giving a tentative thump, but she continued forward, curiosity overriding caution.

As she approached, the figure didn’t move. It was a man, she guessed, dressed in a long, dark coat that seemed to absorb the light around it. His face was in shadow, and she couldn’t make out any features. She stopped about twenty feet away, her breath fogging in the cool air. They stood there for what felt like minutes, the silence broken only by the distant hum of traffic. Then, without a sound, the figure turned and walked into the trees, vanishing into the darkness. Marta walked to the spot where it had been, but there was nothing there, not even footprints in the soft earth.

She didn’t sleep well that night, and the next evening she decided to stay in. But the following night, she felt restless, and the pull of the track was strong. She told herself she was being silly, that it was probably just a shadow cast by the lights. But when she reached the willow tree, the figure was there again, in the same spot, as if it had never left. This time, she didn’t stop. She turned and walked briskly back to her apartment, her neck prickling with the sensation of being watched, but when she glanced over her shoulder, the figure was still there, motionless.

Over the next few weeks, Marta saw the figure every time she walked, always at the same place near the willow. She began to plot her walks to avoid that section, but it was unavoidable if she wanted to do a full loop. She tried walking at different times, but the figure was always there, a silent sentinel. Oddly, she never felt threatened, only curious. It was as if the figure was guarding the path, or waiting for something.

One night, she mustered the courage to walk directly toward it. She was close enough to see that it was over six feet tall, thin, and wore a hat that cast a deep shadow over its face. It didn’t move as she approached, and when she was just a few feet away, she felt a sudden warmth, like a hand on her shoulder, but there was no one there. She looked up and saw that the figure was pointing toward the lake. She turned and noticed a child’s toy floating near the edge, a small red boat that would have been easy to miss in the dark. She fished it out and set it on the bench nearby.

That night, she dreamed of the willow tree, its branches reaching like arms, and the figure standing beneath it, nodding. The next day, she read in the local news that a child had gone missing near the lake three weeks ago, and that the search had been called off. The toy had belonged to that child. Marta felt a chill run down her spine. She hadn’t seen any news about it, but she knew, with a certainty that scared her, that the figure had led her to that toy for a reason.

She started researching the history of the lake and the willow tree. She found old newspaper articles about a groundskeeper who had drowned in the lake in the 1930s, a man named Elias, who was known for his tall, lanky frame and his habit of wearing a long coat and a hat. He had died trying to save a child who had fallen through the ice, and his body was never recovered. The willow tree had been the spot where he used to sit during his breaks.

Marta began to wonder if the figure was the ghost of Elias, still watching over the lake, and that her nightly walks had somehow grated his attention. She wanted to help him, to give him closure, but she didn’t know how. She decided to go back to the willow tree one last time, at midnight, when the moon was high. She brought a bouquet of flowers, a small tribute, and placed them at the base of the tree. She spoke softly, ‘I’m sorry you never found peace. Tell me what you need.’

As she finished speaking, the figure appeared again, closer than ever. This time, it slowly raised its arm and pointed directly at Marta’s chest. A cold sensation spread through her, but not of fear, but of understanding. She felt as if the ghost was telling her that it was her turn to watch the lake, to guide lost souls, to be the constant that others would see in the distance.

When she opened her eyes, the figure was gone, but she felt a presence within her, a calm resolve. She knew that from now on, she would walk the track every night, not for exercise, but for duty. She would be the one for whom the lake was a responsibility. The next night, as she walked, she saw a jogger on the other side of the lake, and in the distance, she saw a tall, dark figure standing by the willow tree. She smiled, knowing that she had become part of the lake’s story, a silent guardian, a constant at mile 4.