I was sitting outside a little boutique downtown, balancing a warm sandwich on my lap while my boyfriend, Arman, tried on shirts inside. The sun was setting, leaving streaks of pale orange across the shop windows. It was the sort of evening that felt calm, predictable — the kind where you’d imagine nothing strange could possibly happen.
The bench beneath me was old but sturdy, its dark wood softened by years of weather and countless people who had rested there. I shifted the sandwich wrapper in my hands, the heat of the toasted bread warming my palms, and smiled at the thought of finally taking a bite. Arman had been in the store for nearly half an hour, and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
That was when it happened — the **creak**.
Not just the normal groan of wood settling, but a deep, deliberate sound, like weight pressing down on the far side of the bench. My smile faltered. I froze, sandwich halfway unwrapped, my gaze fixed on the space next to me.
The bench dipped slightly.
Someone had just sat down.
Only — there was no one there.
I blinked hard, rubbed my eyes, even leaned forward to look down the sidewalk. A couple passed by hand in hand, chatting cheerfully. A woman carried shopping bags, and a man pedaled slowly on his bike. But right here, inches from me, the bench curved under invisible pressure.
The sandwich slipped slightly in my hands. I laughed under my breath, trying to convince myself it was nothing. Old wood, I thought. Benches creak all the time.
But then I saw the **shadow**.
It stretched across the ground, faint but undeniable. Next to my own shadow was another, shaped vaguely human — long, hunched shoulders, a head cocked at a strange angle. And yet, when I turned my head, the seat beside me remained empty.
The evening air suddenly felt colder.
I told myself I was imagining things. That maybe one of the boutique’s mannequins was casting the strange shape. I forced my fingers to peel back the sandwich wrapper, desperate for normalcy. A bite of bread, a mouthful of turkey and melted cheese, and this silly moment would pass.
But before I could take that bite, a **whisper** brushed against my ear.
It was so faint I thought it might be the wind. But the words were unmistakable:
*”Are you going to eat all of that…?”*
My breath caught in my throat. The sandwich slipped again, almost tumbling to the pavement. Slowly, with shaking hands, I set it back onto my lap. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat louder than the traffic down the street.
I didn’t answer.
The bench groaned again, as though whoever — whatever — had spoken was shifting closer. The invisible shadow leaned. I could feel the weight of unseen eyes on me, studying me like prey.
From inside the boutique, Arman laughed. The sound rang muffled through the glass, carefree and unaware. I wanted to stand up, wave, scream his name. But something heavy pressed on me, pinning me in place.
*”Just one bite,”* the whisper insisted, closer now, as though lips were brushing the edge of my hair. *”Share it with me.”*
I finally turned my head.
And I saw it.
Not clearly — never fully. But the air shimmered, bending like heat haze, and within it was a figure. Its face was blurred, its features unfinished, like someone half-erased from a photograph. Yet its mouth — its mouth was sharp, stretched unnaturally wide in a hungry grin.
I clutched the sandwich like a talisman. My knuckles turned white.
The figure tilted its head, the shadow on the ground warping to mimic the movement. Its grin widened.
*”Please.”*
The word rattled with hunger.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I leapt to my feet, the sandwich falling to the ground. The wrapper burst open, and the smell of toasted bread and melted cheese spilled into the air.
The shadow lunged.
I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over my own shoes. The sandwich disappeared — one moment it was there, the next it was gone, as if scooped up by invisible claws. The bench groaned violently, wood splintering under an impossible weight.
And then, silence.
I stared at the empty seat. Nothing. No figure. No shadow. Just a cracked bench and crumbs on the sidewalk.
The boutique door jingled, and Arman stepped out, a plastic bag swinging in his hand. He looked at me curiously.
“Hey, what happened to your sandwich?” he asked.
My mouth opened, but no words came. I glanced back at the bench. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw teeth glinting in the air, hovering where the sandwich had been. But when I blinked, they were gone.
“Dropped it,” I muttered.
Arman shrugged, oblivious, and slung his arm around my shoulders as we walked down the street.
Behind us, the bench creaked again.
