30 Oct I Saw Hunger, and It Followed Me Home

I’ve driven the same backroads home for years, but I’m never taking them again. I can’t. Not after what I saw last week.

It was late—maybe 11:30 PM. I’d just finished meeting with a client who wouldn’t stop nitpicking their website redesign. It was easier to take the backroads than to deal with the highway at that hour. No lights, no traffic—just me, the hum of my car, and a stretch of empty asphalt. Usually, it’s peaceful. But that night, it wasn’t.

About halfway down the road, I saw hazard lights flashing ahead, just past a curve. My first thought was that someone had car trouble. I slowed down out of habit, thinking I’d at least ask if they needed help.

But then I saw him.

There was a man crouched on the side of the road. At first, I couldn’t tell what he was doing—it looked like he was rummaging through something. Maybe it was an animal that got hit—a deer, or a coyote? I inched closer, and the headlights hit him fully. That’s when I saw it.

It wasn’t an animal. It was a person.

He was hunched over the body, his hands digging into its chest. Blood coated his face, dripping off his chin, and he was…eating. Ripping off chunks of flesh with his teeth.

I slammed the brakes, and the screech must’ve startled him because he looked up. For a second, we just stared at each other.

I’ll never forget his face. The wide, empty eyes. The blood smeared across his cheeks like war paint. And then he smiled—this slow, deliberate grin that made my stomach turn. His teeth were stained red.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but I just froze. My brain couldn’t process what I was seeing. Then he stood up, and I swear to God, he started walking toward my car.

No, not walking. Running.

He came at me so fast I almost didn’t react in time. My foot slammed on the gas, and the car jerked forward. In the rearview mirror, I saw him sprinting after me, his grin stretching wider. His legs moved with mechanical, inhuman precision.

He chased me for about a hundred feet before stopping, standing motionless in the middle of the road. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even breathe until I made it home.

I parked in my driveway and sat there for a minute, shaking. I told myself it was just some lunatic high on drugs. That’s what people tell themselves, right? It’s easier than thinking about the alternative.

My house isn’t much—just a small one-story place with a decent yard. Normally, it feels safe. But that night, every shadow looked like him. I locked the doors and windows, double-checked them twice, and sat on the couch with my back to the wall. I don’t even own a gun. The best I could do was grab the baseball bat from the closet.

I didn’t sleep. Every little sound made me jump—creaks in the floorboards, the wind brushing against the siding. When the motion sensor light over the garage flicked on around 2 AM, my heart practically stopped.

I peered through the blinds, but there was nothing there. Just the empty yard. Maybe it was a raccoon. Maybe.

By morning, I’d almost convinced myself I’d imagined it all. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe the guy was just some weirdo messing with me.

But then I saw the footprints.

Muddy, bare footprints leading up the driveway. They stopped right at my front door.

I hadn’t imagined it.

Someone—no, he—had been there.

* * * * * *

After that night, my house didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt… wrong. Like I wasn’t alone.

I told myself I was just being paranoid. I even tried to rationalize the footprints—maybe it was some teenager pulling a prank. It didn’t work. Deep down, I knew it was him.

The second night, at around midnight, the motion light came on again. I didn’t go to the window right away. I just sat there on the couch, gripping the bat, trying to convince myself not to look. But curiosity got the better of me.

I pulled the curtain back just enough to peek out.

There was nothing at first—just my driveway, empty and still. Then I noticed something by the porch—a small pile of neatly-stacked rocks. They hadn’t been there earlier.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

It was a text from an unknown number. There were no words, just a picture. It was of my house, taken from the edge of my yard. In it, I could see myself through the window, peering out.

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t sleep that night. The following morning, I called the police.

The officer who came out was polite but skeptical. I showed him the picture, the footprints, and the rocks. He jotted everything down but didn’t seem too concerned. “Probably just a prank,” he said. “Kids messing around.”

I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t.

“I’ll forward this to our tech team,” he added, holding up the photo I’d given him. “We’ll also check the number and see who it belongs to. You’ll hear from us soon.”

That evening, I went to a hardware store and bought security cameras, extra locks, and floodlights. By the time I finished installing everything, the sun had set. I felt a little safer, but not much.

The surveillance gear gave me a sense of control—like maybe if I could see him coming, I’d have a chance to do something. But that night, the cameras proved useless.

Around 1 AM, I heard a faint tapping on the living room window. Though I was terrified to see what was causing it, I forced myself to check the camera feed.

Static.

Every channel showed static.

The tapping grew louder, more insistent. Bat in hand, I crept to the window and peeked out. Nothing. Just the empty yard again.

I went back to the couch and tried to calm down, but the tapping didn’t stop. Instead, it moved—first to the living room window, then the kitchen and the bedroom. It circled the house like a predator stalking its prey.

By morning, it stopped. When I checked outside, I found more footprints, leading up to every first-floor window in my home.

I called my best friend, Eric, and begged him to come over. I needed someone to talk to, someone to convince me I wasn’t losing my mind.

Eric showed up that afternoon, unconvinced but willing to help. “Look, man, it’s probably some head case trying to scare you,” he said. “But I’ll stay a few nights if it makes you feel any better. Strength in numbers, right?”

That evening, we stayed up late, drinking and trying to lighten the mood. For a while, it worked. I almost felt normal again.

But as the hours passed, Eric’s mood shifted. The alcohol and the long hours—they were enough to dull his caution.

“Relax, Jared,” he said, laughing off my warnings. “You’re acting like this guy’s the boogeyman or something.”

When his phone buzzed a moment later, he grabbed it and stood up. “I’ll take this outside. It’s loud in here.”

“Are you kidding me?!” I snapped, alarmed.

He grinned and pulled a small switchblade from his pocket, flicking it open. “I’ll be fine. Let him try something. This’ll handle it.”

I tried to protest, but he waved me off. “Chill out, man. I’ll be back in five.”

I watched him step outside and close the door behind him.

At first, everything seemed fine. I could hear his muffled voice as he paced the driveway. But then I heard it—a short, gut-wrenching scream.

“Eric!” I yelled, grabbing the bat and running to the door.

The driveway was empty. Eric’s phone lay face-down on the concrete, its screen cracked. A dark, glistening trail of blood led from where the phone had fallen to the edge of the woods.

My stomach churned; for a moment, I couldn’t move.

“Eric!” I called again, my voice cracking.

Silence.

I stumbled back inside and locked the door behind me. My hands shook as I dialed 911.

The police arrived quickly this time. Maybe it was the panic in my voice, or maybe it was the blood. They combed the area with flashlights and dogs, but after hours of searching, they found nothing. No body. No sign of Eric.

“Are you sure your friend didn’t just wander off and hurt himself?” one officer asked.

“No,” I said firmly.

“Mm-hmm,” the cop responded. “How much did you say you boys had to drink tonight?”

“I know how this looks, but I know Eric! He wouldn’t leave his phone behind. And there’s so much blood! You don’t really think he did that to himself, do you? Please, you’ve got to help him!”

“We’ll keep searching,” another officer promised. “Let us know if you remember anything else.”

I wanted to believe them, but their tone made it clear they didn’t expect to find him.

The next day, Eric’s sister called me. She must have heard the news.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Where’s Eric?”

I didn’t know what to say. “I—I don’t know,” I stammered. “He went outside, and then…he screamed. I called the police, but—”

“But what?”

“They didn’t find him,” I admitted, guilt knotting in my chest.

Her sobs were the only response before the line went dead.

* * * * * *

That night, the cameras went staticky again. I stared at the flickering screens, dread crawling up my spine as each feed cut to a wall of distortion. My grip tightened on the bat, and I forced myself to move toward the kitchen window, hesitating with every step.

I stopped just short of the window, my pulse pounding in my ears. Slowly, I reached out and unlatched it, sliding it open just enough to let the cold night air seep in. For a moment, there was only silence—and then I heard it.

“Jaaared…”

The voice was faint but unmistakable, drifting through the trees, taunting me. It sent a chill down my spine and made my skin prickle. “Jaaareeeed…” it called again in that same low, eerie whisper, dragging out each of the syllables.

Rage surged through the fear gripping me. I leaned out of the window, gripping the frame with one hand and the bat with the other. “You hear me, you sick freak?!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “I’m not scared of you! You think you can keep this up? You’ll pay for this! You’ll—”

Movement caught my eye at the edge of the woods. My words faltered as he stepped into view.

The pale light of the moon illuminated him, highlighting the sickly grin stretched across his face. He stood there, holding something in each hand. In his right, Eric’s switchblade glinted menacingly. In his left…was a severed hand. Eric’s severed hand.

He raised it slowly, mockingly, and gave me a grotesque wave. Then, locking his empty eyes on mine, he brought it to his mouth. I choked back vomit. The sound of his teeth tearing into flesh was sickening, wet, and deliberate. He chewed slowly, savoring each bite, his grin never wavering.

I stumbled back from the window, choking on bile, and slammed it shut. My hands trembled as I fumbled for my phone and dialed 911.

“He’s here!” I blurted when the dispatcher answered. “He’s outside my house! He’s… he’s got my friend’s hand! And he’s… he’s eating it!”

The dispatcher’s voice was calm but urgent. “Sir, listen to me. Get somewhere safe. Stay with a friend if possible. Officers are on their way now.”

I nodded shakily and grabbed a duffel bag from the closet. My mind raced as I tossed in clothes, my laptop, and anything else I could think of. I quickly called Jessica, a co-worker, and begged her to let me crash at her place. She agreed, no questions asked.

The whole time, my ears strained for any sound, any sign the psychopath was still on my property, in the woods, or worse. But when I cautiously glanced through the window again, he was gone—melted back into the woods like a shadow.

By the time the police arrived at my home, I was long gone. My hands clenched the wheel as I sped through the dark streets, headed toward Jessica’s place.

An hour later, just after I’d managed to settle in somewhat, my phone buzzed. It was one of the officers who had searched my property.

“Jared,” he said, his voice cautious but kind. “We’ve completed our initial sweep of the area. I need to let you know—we found something.”

I gripped the phone tighter, bracing myself. “What is it?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “We found…a hand,” he said gently. “It matches the description you provided, and it appears to be Eric’s. I’m so sorry.”

The room spun for a moment, and I had to sit down. “Just his… just his hand?” I managed, my throat dry.

“For now, yes,” he replied. “We didn’t find any other remains, but we’ll keep looking. I know this is difficult, but we’re doing everything we can.”

My chest tightened as I tried to process his words. “Did you—did you trace the number?” I asked shakily, needing something—anything—to distract me from the horrific image in my mind.

“Yes,” the officer said, his tone measured but with a trace of unease. “The number belongs to a man reported missing a few weeks ago. We think there’s a connection to your case, and we’re actively pursuing it. I promise you, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, though the words felt hollow.

“I know this is terrifying,” he added, his voice softening. “But you’re doing the right thing by staying somewhere safe. If you remember anything else or if anything happens, call us right away.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Okay. Thank you.”

“We’ll keep you updated,” he said before hanging up.

I placed the phone down slowly, my hands trembling. Their words had been kind, but the reality was brutal. Worse yet, I was no closer to understanding what was happening—or how to stop it.

* * * * * *

I stayed with Jessica for a week, trying to hold it together, but every night was worse than the last. Sleep didn’t come easy, and when it did, I’d wake up in cold sweats, the man’s blood-soaked grin burned into my mind. Jessica didn’t push for answers—I think she could tell I wasn’t ready to talk—but I could feel her unease growing.

When I told her I was planning to go back home, she didn’t hide her concern.

“Jared, are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked, her voice low and cautious. “The police told you to stay away. Maybe it’s too soon. The police still haven’t identified a suspect, and Eric is still missing.”

“I can’t just stay here forever,” I said, though my voice wavered. “It’s my house. I can’t let him—whatever he is—take that from me.”

Jessica crossed her arms, her face tight with worry. “And what if going back just makes it worse? What if you walk right into another nightmare?”

I hesitated, gripping the strap of my bag. “I don’t know, Jess. But I can’t keep hiding. If I don’t go back now, I probably never will.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I get it, but…just promise me you’ll call if anything happens. Don’t try to handle it on your own.”

“I promise,” I lied.

When I pulled into my driveway late the following morning, everything looked normal, just the way I’d left it. The curtains were drawn, the lawn was untouched, and the house stood there like it always had. But inside, it felt… off. The air was stifling, like the house itself knew what had transpired and was bracing for an encore.

I wasn’t about to let that happen. Not without a fight. I installed extra locks and deadbolts on the doors, making sure they’d hold if anyone—or anything—tried to break through. I bought top-of-the-line security cameras and positioned them to capture every angle of the house, even synced the feeds to my phone so that I could monitor the footage in real time. A new floodlight cast a harsh glow over the entire front yard at night, leaving no shadows for anyone to hide in. And I bought a gun, along with enough ammunition to make damn sure I’d be ready if it came to that.

For a few days, it felt like I’d taken control. The house still felt wrong, but I was doing everything I could to protect myself. The police promised to do extra patrols around the neighborhood as well, and they told me I’d be a priority if anything happened. It wasn’t much, and I didn’t honestly believe they could actually stop him, but it was a nice gesture, and it couldn’t hurt.

Then, one morning, it all came crashing down.

I woke up to find something on my doorstep. At first, I thought it was trash—a bone and some kind of meat—but then I got closer, and the smell hit me. The bone was long and white, streaked with fresh blood. The meat was raw and reeking, flies already buzzing around it.

I staggered back, bile rising in my throat. By the time the cops showed up, I was in the kitchen, shaking so badly I could barely hold the coffee mug in my hands. They took pictures, bagged everything, and promised to “look into it.” But their faces told me everything I needed to know. They didn’t have a clue what to do.

The next day, it got worse. There were bloody smears on the walls and front door, streaked like someone had dragged their hands across the surface. The day after that, there were more bones—this time arranged in a spiral on the porch. I stopped calling the cops. What was the point? They couldn’t stop him. No one could.

That’s when I started to unravel. Food didn’t interest me anymore—I lived on coffee and scraps, barely tasting anything. Sleep wasn’t an option. Every creak, every shift in the shadows sent me into a panic. I stopped going to work, stopped answering my phone. Friends and family tried to reach out, leaving voicemails that piled up, unheard. Jessica’s voice got more and more worried each time, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. How could I explain any of this? I wasn’t about to drag her further into it. This was my nightmare to deal with.

I spent my nights in the dark, gun in hand, staring at the cameras, waiting for the static to return. Deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time.

* * * * * *

It was a little after midnight when I heard it.

The sound was faint at first, just a whisper carried by the wind. But as it grew louder, my blood turned to ice. It was a voice—a familiar, sing-song tone drifting from somewhere beyond the house.

“Jaaared…”

I tightened my grip on the gun, the cold steel slick against my sweaty palms. Slowly, I made my way to the second-floor bedroom window, where the sound seemed closest. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool night air.

“Jaaared…” the voice called again.

I grabbed a flashlight from the nightstand and shined it into the yard. At first, I saw nothing but the floodlit grass, still and empty. But then, he stepped into view.

The beam of the flashlight caught his face first—grinning and blood-streaked, his teeth glinting like jagged shards of glass. He stood just at the edge of the woods, dragging something heavy behind him. My stomach dropped when I realized what it was: a body. Limp, pale, and unmistakably human.

He stared up at me, his eyes meeting mine, as if daring me to look away. Then, with sickening casualness, he crouched down and raised the body’s leg. His hands moved methodically, slicing into the flesh with a knife I hadn’t seen him draw. I watched, frozen in horror, as he carved off a piece of the leg and brought it to his mouth.

My flashlight shook as I let out a scream. “What the hell do you want from me?!” I shouted, my voice breaking.

The man tilted his head, still chewing, as if considering my question. Then he swallowed, his grin widening even further, and for the first time ever, he spoke. “I want… to know what you taste like.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Before I could react, he unexpectedly dropped the body and hurtled forward, sprinting toward the house. No—sprinting wasn’t the right word. He ran on all fours, his movements jerky and unnatural, like a rabid animal.

I stumbled backward. A split second later, with a deafening thud, he slammed into the front door just below me. The entire house shook, the locks straining under the impact.

I barely had time to process what was happening before he changed tactics. Before I had time to react, the sound of glass shattering rang out from downstairs. My stomach plummeted—he’d come through the living room window.

I scrambled toward the bedroom door, the gun clutched tightly in my hands. The sound of his footsteps pounding up the stairs was like thunder, each step faster and heavier than the last.

When he burst through the door, I didn’t think—I just fired. The gun roared in my hands, and the man staggered backward, a bloom of red spreading across his chest. But instead of falling, he let out a guttural snarl and kept coming.

I fired again. And again. And again.

Each shot seemed to slow him, but only for a moment. He was relentless, shrugging off wounds that should have dropped anyone else. Blood poured from his body, but he didn’t seem to care.

He lunged at me, grabbing my arm with an iron-like grip. I struggled, firing another shot into his shoulder, but he remained unfazed. His head snapped forward, and before I could defend myself, he sank his teeth into the flesh of my shoulder.

I screamed as he tore away a chunk. Blood soaked my shirt as he chewed, a sickening grin spreading across his face.

Adrenaline took over, numbing the blinding pain. I drove my knee into his stomach and fired yet again—this time into his head. This time the bullet sent him sprawling across the floor, his body spasming as he hit the ground.

But he still wasn’t dead.

I could see his fingers twitching, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. I didn’t wait for him to recover. I grabbed him by the legs, ignoring the slick, sticky blood that coated my hands, and dragged him down the stairs. He groaned weakly, but didn’t fight back.

The basement door loomed ahead. I flung it open and hurled him down the steps, his body thudding against one stair after the other until, finally, he connected with the concrete below. Slamming the door shut, I threw the bolt and shoved a heavy dresser in front of it for good measure.

For a moment, there was silence—but it was short-lived. A moment later, the quiet was interrupted by the sound of fists pounding violently against the door. The wood groaned under the pressure, splintering with each blow. It wouldn’t hold for long.

I looked around desperately for an escape. My eyes landed on the generator I’d bought recently, sitting in the corner of the kitchen. I’d been worried about the power going out and leaving the cameras and floodlights useless. It ran on gasoline, and the canister sat beside it, nearly full.

I grabbed the container, unscrewed the cap, and poured a thick stream of gasoline under the basement door. The pounding grew louder, the door starting to crack as I struck a match and dropped it into the puddle. Whoever—whatever—this man was, something was very, very wrong, and if gunshots to the head weren’t enough to fell him, it was only a matter of time until he caught up to me, if I didn’t do something drastic. So, that’s exactly what I did. Even as I lit the match, I was aware of the cost—I just didn’t care.

Flames roared to life, crawling up the door and licking at the walls. The pounding stopped, replaced by an ear-piercing screech—a sound so raw and primal it made my stomach turn. It was fury, unrestrained and wild, echoing up from the basement.

I didn’t wait to see what happened next. I grabbed my keys and ran for my vehicle, the fire spreading behind me. By the time I reached the street, the house was fully engulfed.

But even as I sat there, gasping for air in the front seat of my car, the sound of that screech echoed in my ears.

* * * * * *

I didn’t stop driving until the sun came up. My shoulder throbbed where I’d been bitten, the wound bandaged clumsily with a strip of my shirt. The blood had soaked through hours ago, and the pain was excruciating, but I didn’t dare go the hospital, for fear of having to explain what had happened.

I ended up in a motel on the outskirts of the next city, far enough that I hoped whatever that thing was couldn’t follow. The room was cheap and grimy, but I didn’t care. I locked the door, shoved the dresser in front of it, and collapsed onto the bed. Sleep came in fits and starts, every noise pulling me back to the surface.

The next few days passed in a blur. I knew I couldn’t go back, but I didn’t know how to move forward either. The house was almost certainly gone, likely reduced to a pile of ash and rubble. I didn’t stick around to talk to the fire department or the police—I couldn’t risk it. What was I supposed to say? That some kind of monster tried to eat me, so I torched my own home to stop it? They’d lock me up before they’d believe me.

I ended up moving to a new city, hours away. It wasn’t much, just a studio apartment with a bolt-heavy door. I told myself it was a fresh start, a chance to rebuild. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over.

Every night, I triple-checked the locks and stared at the shadows in the corners, expecting them to move. I’d become paranoid and restless, every minor disturbance leaving me on edge. My dreams were worse. The intruder’s face haunted them—his grin stretching wider and wider until it split his face in two, his teeth glinting red as he leaned in close, whispering my name. I’d wake up drenched in sweat, clutching the knife I kept under my pillow.

I thought that maybe the memories would fade in time, and for a while, it seemed like they might. The city felt bigger and safer, and before long, the events that haunted me seemed more like a bad dream than something I’d actually experienced. But nightmares have a way of creeping into the real world when you least expect them.

It happened on a Wednesday night. I came home from work, tired and hungry, ready to collapse on the couch with a cheap microwave dinner. But as soon as I reached my apartment door, my stomach turned.

There was blood smeared all over it. Fresh and bright red, trailing down toward the floor.

I froze. Slowly, I backed away and knocked on the landlord’s door. She looked annoyed at first, but her tune changed quickly once I pointed out the blood.

“Oh my god! Hang on,” she said, grabbing the keys to the security office. “Let’s check the cameras.”

We found the footage quickly. It was late the night before—around 3 AM—when movement was first captured on film. On the screen, a figure stood motionless in the hallway, facing my door, with something dark smeared across its face. Blood. So much blood. Even on the grainy black-and-white feed, I recognized the outline, its broad shoulders and unkempt hair.

My blood ran cold as the figure moved, running its hands along my door, smearing the blood across it. Then, slowly, it turned toward the camera. Its face was partially obscured, but its grin was unmistakable. And as it leaned closer, filling the frame, its tongue darted out, licking its lips.

As I watched in horror, it mouthed a single word:

“Jaaared…”

As the final syllable rolled off its tongue, the screen flickered once, twice, and then cut to static.