The Fifth Step

The night air was thick with the smell of wet asphalt and rotting leaves. I was trudging home from a house party in the industrial district, a place of shuttered warehouses and forgotten rail lines. My path cut through an old cemetery that locals avoided, and at its heart stood a crumbling chapel, its brick facade stained black with soot from the nearby mills. They called it the Ash Chapel. The story was that if you passed its rusted iron gate at night, you would gain a companion—something that would mimic your footsteps, hum your favorite song, and wait for you to look back. If you did, you’d see nothing. But if you ignored it, it would follow you all the way home and wait outside your door, testing your sanity until dawn. I’d always laughed at that story, so I took the shortcut.

As I approached the chapel, the wind died, and the silence felt like a held breath. I walked past the gate, my boots crunching on gravel. Then I felt it—a pressure between my shoulder blades, like a finger hovering just above my skin. Behind me, a soft patter of small feet, perfectly synced with my own steps. I quickened slightly, and the patter quickened too. My gut told me to look, to prove it was just my imagination, but my instinct screamed run. I slowed, took a breath, and turned. The path was empty. The chapel’s broken windows stared back like hollow eyes.

I resumed walking, faster now, and after a minute, I heard it—a low humming, a melody I recognized but couldn’t place. It was my mother’s lullaby, the one she used to sing to me when I was a child. The humming grew clearer, closer. I broke into a jog, but the humming stayed right behind my ear. Then I felt a tap on my left shoulder, light and dry, like a twig. I spun around, ready to confront whoever was playing a trick, and saw nothing. But the humming stopped. The footsteps stopped. The silence was worse.

I ran. I ran until my lungs burned and the cemetery was a smudge behind me. My house was a small cottage on the edge of town, and I fumbled with my keys, slammed the door, and locked everything—bolts, chains, windows. I called out for my mother, but there was no answer. She must have been at her night shift. I tried to calm my racing heart, leaning against the door, when a loud, rhythmic pounding began on the other side. It wasn’t frantic; it was deliberate—three knocks, a pause, then three again. And with each knock, I felt the floorboards vibrate as if something massive stood outside.

Then I heard a voice, thin and reedy, muffled by the wood: “Let me in. I’ve walked with you for miles.” My blood turned cold. I backed away, but the pounding grew harder, splintering the doorframe. I retreated to the kitchen, grabbing a knife, but I knew steel wouldn’t help. The pounding stopped, and I heard a scrape, like nails dragging down the door. Then a childish giggle, followed by my mother’s voice, calling my name from the hallway. I turned—and in the dim light, I saw a small shape standing in the kitchen doorway, its head tilted at an impossible angle. It took a step forward, and I felt my heart stop. It had my face. And it was smiling.

I don’t remember how I got out. I only remember running through the back door, through the overgrown field, and into the woods. I didn’t stop until I reached the highway, and I flagged down a truck. I didn’t go home for a week. When I finally returned, the house was empty, and on the kitchen floor lay a single footprint—too small, with five toes, and each print was black as ash. The Ash Chapel was long gone, but I knew, wherever I went, I’d be walking one step behind myself.