The Jogger in the Hall

In the autumn of 2008, I was eight months pregnant with my first child, a girl we planned to name Amelia. We lived in a sprawling Victorian house my husband had inherited from his grandmother, a creaky old place with long hallways and rooms that never seemed to warm up no matter how high we turned the radiators. My husband, his younger brother, and I had a ritual: dinner every night at seven, each of us in our designated spots at the long oak table. That night, we were having homemade chili and cornbread, and I was just lifting a spoonful to my lips when something flickered at the end of the hallway.

From my seat, I had a direct view down the corridor that led to the bedrooms. What I saw made my blood run cold: a tall, gaunt figure, a man in his seventies, jogging in place at the far end, near the door to my studio. He wore tight white athletic shorts with a single red stripe down each side, no shirt, and a faded red headband. His skin was pale and slick, like he’d been running for hours, but his movements were jerky, unnatural—like a marionette with tangled strings. A cold dread washed over me as I realized I could see the floral wallpaper through his chest.

I dropped my spoon, clattering it against the bowl, and shrieked, pointing down the hall. ‘Did you see that?’ I yelled, my voice trembling. My husband and his brother stared at me like I’d grown a second head. ‘See what?’ my husband said, frowning. I tried to describe the old man, the way he glowed faintly, translucent, the way he seemed to be staring right at me, but the words came out as incoherent sobs. They exchanged worried glances, thinking maybe it was pregnancy hormones or exhaustion.

I tried to calm down, but I couldn’t shake the image. I insisted on packing my bags and leaving that night, but my husband convinced me to stay, saying it was just a draft and my imagination. Reluctantly, I stayed, but I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the house made me jump. At 3 a.m., I heard a steady thumping, like footsteps running on the hardwood floor, coming from the hallway. I crept to the bedroom door and peered through the crack. There he was again, running in place, this time closer, his face contorted in a silent scream. I slammed the door and pressed my back against it, shaking.

In the morning, I told my husband I was leaving, no arguments. He tried to calm me, but I was adamant. As I packed my bags, I noticed a small, dusty photograph in the hallway, one I’d never seen before. It was a old black-and-white picture of a man in a track uniform, with a headband, standing in front of this very house. The resemblance to the jogger was uncanny. On the back, in faded handwriting, was a date: June 14, 1932, and the name ‘Howard.’

I showed it to my husband, who turned pale. He told me that the house had indeed been owned by a man named Howard in the 1930s, a marathon runner who died of a heart attack while training for a race. He’d been found dead in this very hallway, wearing his running clothes. My husband had never told me this because he thought it would frighten me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have told you.’ I packed faster, but even as I left, I could feel eyes on me from the hallway. To this day, I can’t look at old photographs or hear the sound of running without a shiver down my spine.