“Footprints”
It was a chilly February evening, and all of the residents of Church Street had long been isolated by the storm. The narrow, one-street subdivision sat just a few miles away from town, lined by thick pines from each side.
Even though the town was near, the street felt quite secluded. It had the aura of a gated community, though their only gates were evergreen. The neighbors all knew each other, and events and parties frequently spilled beyond the sidewalk and into the street. Everyone looked out for the local kids, and many people left their doors unlocked.
It wasn’t even 7 o’clock, but it had been pitch black for hours. The snow had been coming down with such force all afternoon and evening, and the roads into town had disappeared. Plows would be through by the morning, most likely, but the residents of Church Street were snowed in for the night.
Evelyn’s parents called to let her know they were staying in a hotel an hour away. They’d been visiting friends, and Evelyn was glad to have the house to herself. She hadn’t been alone in the family home since before she left for college, and the storm gave her the perfect excuse to stay longer and miss class.
She bundled up and stepped onto the front porch. A biting gust of wind nearly forced her back inside. Through the endless curtain of pouring snow, she could barely make out the neighbor’s house across the street.
Shielding her joint from the wind, she clicked her lighter and lit the twisted end. Once she was nice and high, she’d find a snack and something to watch.
Taking in the smoke, she continued looking around. The street had only a few lights, and the illumination didn’t stand a chance against the storm. To the left lived Mrs. Keating and her husband. She was lovely, a retired teacher, but he’d never said a word to Evelyn. Their living room lights were on. They were probably sleeping in front of the TV.
The house on the other side belonged to the Washingtons, a group of five that perpetually resembled a perfect family portrait. The lights were on throughout their house, so it seemed the whole family was home.
Evelyn flicked the butt of the joint into the wind (it was biodegradable) and went back into the house, deadbolting the door. She hung up her coat, removing her dripping hat and boots. As she headed into the living area, walking directly towards the back door, she thought she caught a glimpse of movement on the back deck.
She froze, staring at her reflection in the glass. She took a step towards the back door, but immediately changed her mind. She had just smoked. She was stoned.
Evelyn went into the kitchen and warmed herself some leftovers, cracking open a can of soda. Flipping through channels, she found an old movie with Goldie Hawn, and settled into the couch.
After a while, she returned to the kitchen to clear her plate. As she watched her reflection cross the house in the glass of the back door, she was reminded of what had happened before. She left the plate in the sink and calmly walked to the door. Nearly pressing her face up to the glass, she looked into the night.
The snow was still coming down, beautifully blanketing the trees. Evelyn’s eyes followed the flakes, haphazardly blowing through the wind on their way to the ground. The entire deck was nearly invisible in the mounding snow.
It took a few moments for Evelyn to realize what she was looking at, but then her heart sank into her chest. Just on the other side of the glass was a pair of footprints in the snow. It appeared someone had walked from around the side of the house, onto the deck, and up to the glass door. From there, they continued in the other direction.
Evelyn slid the door open, and a gust of winter wind entered the house. Shocked, she slammed it closed again, quickly turning the lock. The door had been un-latched the whole time. She took deep, measured breaths, trying not to panic. If she’d come in from smoking just a few moments later, she may have met the surprise visitor face-to-face.
Evelyn called her parents, but they didn’t answer. She called a friend, but he didn’t answer either. She was desperately trying to feel like she wasn’t alone. Finally, she called her neighbor, Mrs. Keating.
The elder was surprised to hear from her, but mentioned that she thought she’d seen her walking into the house the day before. Evelyn apologized for interrupting, but told Mrs. Keating that someone may have tried to get in through her back door.
Mrs. Keating urged her to call the police, but they both knew they’d have no way to get there. Evelyn assured her that she’d locked the back door after checking, before the line went silent.
“Hello?” Evelyn asked. “Mrs. Keating?”
She kept her eyes on the back door. Finally, there was movement on the other end, and Mrs. Keating apologized.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I thought to double-check my own locks after asking. And…there are tracks in the snow leading to my back door, too.”
Evelyn didn’t know what to say.
“Isn’t that strange? Our doors are locked, of course. I can’t believe we didn’t notice anything. We’re sitting right here!”
At that moment, Evelyn told Mrs. Keating that she’d call her back after checking in with the Washingtons. Mrs. Keating planned to call the police at the same time.
It felt like Evelyn’s ribs would bruise from the pressure of her pounding heart, and she was desperate to calm down. She pulled a bottle of whiskey from the pantry to her lips and drank.
Mr. Washington picked up on the second ring and was as surprised as Mrs. Keating to hear from Evelyn. After she explained, he walked to the back of the house. A long silence was followed by him confirming that they, too, had footprints walking up to their back door, which then continued towards the next house.
They disconnected so Mr. Washington could reach out to his neighbor on the other side. Before Evelyn could decide what to do next, he was already calling back. The Beckers were out of town, he said, and confirmed on their security system that the house was locked up tight. Whoever it was must have continued to the next house.
Evelyn was at a loss for what to do. She didn’t know the neighbors any further down the road. She turned the TV off, but the silence was blaring, and she flipped it on again moments later. A few minutes had passed when Mrs. Keating finally called back.
Get bryan renaud’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
“Rod Wilson a few doors down confirmed there were tracks there, too, and then they keep on going to the next house.” she shared.
“Do you know who lives there?” Evelyn asked.
“Yes, it’s that queer little man and his dogs. I can never remember his name. And I don’t have his phone number.”
The police had told her they’d get there as soon as they could in the morning. Evelyn was out of phone numbers, but Mrs. Keating had one more handy: Betty Whitaker in the last house at the end.
Evelyn stayed on the line as Mrs. Keating dialed Betty, and after a few rings, the old woman answered.
Mrs. Keating quickly explained and asked if Betty was near her back door.
“No, I’m upstairs in the den. But let me find my slippers here and I’ll go down to check.”
The others listened to the sounds of the woman moving through her house.
“Nobody ever comes all the way to the end of the street. Not even my own grandchildren. So I don’t think…”
There was a long pause.
“Mrs. Whitaker?” Evelyn asked. A few moments of static followed, but no response.
“Betty, do you see footprints?”
A louder noise followed as Betty picked the phone back up.
“I — well, yes. I’m looking at my back porch now. There are footprints leading up to the door, but…none leading away.”
What came next was a blur. Word spread quickly over the phone, and a group of three husbands, Mr. Washington included, took off for the Whitaker house together to ensure Betty was alright.
The men looked everywhere, but couldn’t find anything. They didn’t see any indication that someone had entered from the backyard. One of them joked that Betty was the source of the footprints — that she’d wandered the street after forgetting where she lived. Though a tad cruel, it did account for the fact that the footprints never left.
Betty agreed to stay the night with the Washingtons. Until the police could confirm her home was safe, she didn’t want to be there alone.
The roads had finally cleared enough for vehicles to pass through by the afternoon, and Betty met a group of officers in her driveway. An entire team swept the property, checking every room. They found no sign of anyone other than Mrs. Whitaker herself, and the footprints were long lost to the storm. The house, they said, was secure.
Both Mrs. Keating and Evelyn received calls from Mrs. Whitaker to share the news and invite them over for cocoa. The neighbors bundled up and walked to the end of the street together, laughing about how scared they had been. Now that the footprints were gone, they joked that they may have imagined them the whole time.
Mrs. Whitaker had just gone into the kitchen to fetch the schnapps when both Evelyn and Mrs. Keating heard a dull sound from below. They went silent, holding for another noise. They heard Betty tottling around the kitchen, but nothing else.
After an hour or so, the guests put on their coats and headed home. They were only passing the next driveway over when they heard a horrible, petrified scream from the house they’d just left.
Evelyn sprinted back towards the Whitaker residence, leaving Mrs. Keating behind. As she neared the driveway, a thin man burst through the front door, running into the yard and towards the street. He wore all black, and his eyes were dark and wide. He rushed so frantically that he tumbled to the ground, continuing on all fours for a few strides before getting back to his feet.
Evelyn screamed. Mrs. Keating saw him, too, and began yelling to alert the other neighbors as the man made his way down Church Street.
Evelyn barrelled through the open front door, calling for Mrs. Whitaker. There was no response. She called again, stepping slowly towards the dining room she’d left just minutes ago. The smell of cocoa still lingered.
She continued slowly, and when she finally passed through the frame into the room, she found the poor old woman lying lifeless on the floor.
The basement door was wide open, and Evelyn’s eyes followed the stairs down into the darkness. Below, she saw several boxes and suitcases, one of which was lying open and empty. Just looking at it, it should not have been large enough to contain an adult man.
Mrs. Keating finally made it to the front door. She hollered something about the intruder, but Evelyn didn’t comprehend it.
She shouted for Mrs. Keating to stay out of the house. She didn’t want her to have to see her old friend lying there, an innocent casualty in this stranger’s search for shelter. There was no blood, no sign of struggle. Poor Mrs. Whitaker likely died of fright.
Listen to Footprints on the Scary Stories Podcast.
Available in the Scary Stories Around the Fire print collection.
