"Mitte After Dark":
Berlin at night has a strange pull, a mix of old-world charm and modern edge that makes every corner feel alive with stories. The streets, lined with buildings that have stood for centuries, seem to whisper secrets as you pass. That evening, my friend Jamie and I were walking home through Mitte, the heart of the city, after a long day teaching English. We were tired, our footsteps heavy on the cobblestone paths, our breath visible in the crisp air.
We decided to take a shortcut down a narrow side street we’d used before, but never this late. The buildings here were tall and close, their faded facades looming like silent watchers. Most of the streetlights were dim or broken, casting long, uneven shadows that flickered as we walked. The only sounds were our shoes against the stones and the distant hum of a car somewhere far off. It felt like the city had gone to sleep, leaving us alone in its quiet.
As we rounded a corner, I noticed a figure standing under one of the few working streetlights. It was an elderly woman, small and hunched, her gray hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her coat was threadbare, hanging loosely on her frail frame, and she clutched a worn shopping bag that looked too heavy for her. Her hands were gnarled, fingers twisted like the roots of an old tree. Something about her felt out of place, like she didn’t belong in this empty street.
I slowed down, thinking she might be lost. “Excuse me, ma’am, do you need any assistance?” I asked, trying to sound kind despite the unease creeping up my spine.
She turned to face us, her face caught in the weak glow of the streetlight. Her eyes were sharp, almost too bright, like they were seeing right through me. Her smile was thin, barely a curve of her lips, and it didn’t reach those piercing eyes. “Oh, thank you, dears,” she said, her voice raspy, like dry leaves scraping together. “I’m just trying to get home, but my legs aren’t what they used to be. Would you mind helping me up the stairs to my apartment? It’s just up there.” She pointed to a building behind her, its paint peeling and windows either boarded up or coated in grime. It looked abandoned, like no one had lived there in years.
Jamie, who’d been quiet, grabbed my arm. Her grip was tight, urgent. “We should probably get going, Alex,” she said, her voice low and tense. “It’s late, and we’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
I hesitated, glancing back at the woman. “Are you sure? She might need help.”
Jamie’s fingers dug into my sleeve. “I have a bad feeling about this. Let’s just go.”
The woman took a step closer, and a faint smell hit me—musty, like old clothes left in a damp basement. “It won’t take long, just a few minutes,” she said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “I live alone, and it’s so hard to manage these days.”
I felt a pang of guilt, but Jamie was already pulling me away. “I’m sorry, but we really need to go,” I said, my words rushed. “Maybe you can ask someone else for help.”
Her smile faded, just for a moment, and I thought I saw something else in her eyes—anger, maybe, or disappointment. She didn’t say anything else, just watched us as we turned and hurried down the street. My heart was pounding, though I wasn’t sure why. I glanced back once, and she was still there, standing under the streetlight, her shadow stretching long and distorted across the pavement. A distant siren wailed, cutting through the silence, and it made the hairs on my neck stand up.
We didn’t speak until we were a few blocks away, the lights of busier streets coming into view. Jamie let out a shaky breath. “That was weird, right? Did you see how she was looking at us? Like she was sizing us up.”
I nodded, my mouth dry. “Yeah, and that smell. It was like she hadn’t bathed in weeks. And that building—it didn’t look like anyone lives there.”
Jamie’s eyes were wide. “Exactly. And did you notice her limp? When we first saw her, she was standing fine, but when she started talking to us, she suddenly started limping. It felt... fake, like she was putting it on to make us feel sorry for her.”
I thought back, trying to picture it. “You’re right. I didn’t catch that at the time, but now that you mention it, she did seem to move differently when she noticed us.”
We kept walking, the city’s lights and sounds slowly returning around us, but the unease lingered. When we finally reached our apartment, we locked the door behind us and sank onto the couch, still shaken. I poured us each a glass of water, my hands trembling slightly.
“So, what was that all about?” I asked, taking a sip to steady myself.
Jamie shook her head, her face pale. “I don’t know, but there was something really off about her. When you were talking to her, I got this... feeling, like if we went up those stairs, we wouldn’t come back down. It sounds crazy, but I couldn’t shake it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning forward.
She hesitated, like she was trying to find the right words. “It was like a picture in my head. I imagined her leading us up those stairs, and at the top, there was someone else waiting. Like a son or something, someone dangerous. I know it sounds paranoid, but I just knew we had to get out of there.”
My stomach twisted. “That’s creepy. Do you really think she was trying to lure us in?”
“I don’t know,” Jamie admitted. “But I’ve heard stories about things like that—people pretending to need help to trick you. And that building looked abandoned. Why would she say she lived there?”
I nodded slowly, the pieces coming together in my mind. “Maybe she was working with someone. Like, she lures people in, and then... I don’t even want to think about it.”
Jamie gave a weak smile. “That’s why we’re roommates. We look out for each other.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what might have happened settling over us. I kept picturing that dark staircase, the kind you see in old buildings, narrow and creaking, leading up to who-knows-what. The thought made my skin crawl.
“You know,” I said finally, “I think I’ll avoid that street for a while.”
“Me too,” Jamie agreed. “Better safe than sorry.”
As we got ready for bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman’s eyes, the way they seemed to follow us even as we walked away. I checked the lock on the door twice before turning off the lights. The city outside our window was alive with its usual hum, but that night, it felt different—like it was hiding something just out of sight.
"Face of a Killer":
It was around 3 a.m. when my friends Lisa and Jen and I spilled out of a club in downtown Austin, Texas. The night was warm, but the air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on us. The streets were quieter than I expected for a city known for its nightlife. Only a few cars hummed in the distance, and the streetlights cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the pavement. Our car was parked six blocks away, and as we started walking, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
We were chatting about the music at the club, trying to keep the mood light, but the empty streets made every sound feel louder. Our footsteps echoed, and I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone behind us. “This is kind of creepy,” Jen said, pulling her jacket tighter. “Let’s just get to the car.”
“Yeah, it’s too quiet,” I agreed, my voice lower than I meant it to be. Lisa nodded but didn’t say anything, her eyes scanning the street ahead.
We turned a corner, and that’s when I saw them—two men standing on the sidewalk about a block away. One was tall and lanky, with messy hair and a strange, wild look in his eyes that caught the light in a way that made my stomach twist. The other was shorter, quieter, hanging back like he didn’t want to be noticed. As we got closer, the tall one stepped forward, blocking our path.
“Hey there, ladies,” he said, his voice loud and slurred, like he’d had too much to drink. “What are you doing out so late?”
I felt my heart speed up. There was something off about him, something in the way he grinned that wasn’t friendly at all. “Just heading to our car,” I said, trying to sound calm as we stepped to the side to keep walking.
But he moved with us, blocking our way again. “Come on, don’t be like that,” he said, his breath reeking of alcohol. “We’re just looking for some fun. I’m Roger, by the way.” His eyes locked onto Lisa, and he reached out, brushing his fingers through her hair. “You’re dressed real nice. Like you’re asking for attention.”
Lisa flinched and stepped back. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice sharp but trembling.
“Let’s go,” I whispered to her and Jen, grabbing Lisa’s arm. We tried to walk faster, but Roger kept pace, his steps uneven but determined. His friend trailed behind, looking uncomfortable but not saying anything.
“You don’t have to be rude,” Roger said, his tone shifting from playful to angry. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”
“We don’t want to talk,” Jen said, her voice firm. “Leave us alone.”
Roger’s face twisted, and he stepped closer, too close. “Say that again, and I’ll punch you in the face,” he growled, his fists clenching at his sides.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I looked around, desperate for a way out. The street was empty except for us, the buildings dark and silent. Then I saw him—a police officer standing across the street, near a parking garage, his silhouette lit by a flickering streetlight. “There’s a cop,” I whispered, pointing. “Let’s go to him.”
We started walking toward the officer, our steps quickening. Roger followed, still talking, his voice getting louder and more unhinged. “You think you can just walk away from me? You don’t know who I am!”
“Roger, come on, let’s go,” his friend finally said, his voice tense. “Leave them alone, man.”
But Roger ignored him, his eyes fixed on us like a predator watching prey. My legs felt shaky, but I kept moving, pulling Lisa and Jen with me. We were almost to the officer now, and I could see his face—calm, professional, unaware of the danger behind us.
“Officer!” I called out, my voice cracking. He turned toward us, and I rushed to explain. “There’s a guy following us, harassing us. He threatened to hit us.”
The officer’s expression hardened, and he looked past us to where Roger was standing. I turned to point him out, but Roger was gone. His friend was still there, looking nervous, but Roger had vanished, like he’d melted into the shadows of the street.
“Where did he go?” Jen whispered, her eyes wide.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice barely audible. The officer walked a few steps toward where Roger had been, scanning the street, but there was no sign of him. It was like he’d never been there at all.
“Are you all okay?” the officer asked, his voice steady but concerned.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said, though my hands were still shaking. “Thank you.”
“Get to your car and stay safe,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
We nodded and hurried to our car, locking the doors as soon as we were inside. The drive home was silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I kept replaying Roger’s face in my mind—the way his eyes gleamed, the way his voice turned cold and threatening. I felt like we’d escaped something terrible, but I didn’t know how close we’d come.
A few days later, I was at home, scrolling through my phone, when I saw a news alert that made my blood run cold. “Serial Killer Arrested in Austin,” the headline read. I clicked on the article, and there he was—Roger. His mugshot stared back at me, those same wild eyes, that same unsettling grin. The article said he’d been linked to several murders in the area, all of them brutal, all of them recent. The police had been hunting him for weeks, and he’d been right there, on that street, with us.
I called Lisa and Jen right away. “Did you see the news?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Yeah,” Lisa said, her voice quiet. “That was him, wasn’t it? The guy from that night.”
“I can’t believe it,” Jen said. “We were so close to… I don’t even want to think about it.”
We didn’t talk much after that. There wasn’t much to say. We’d come face-to-face with a monster, and we’d been lucky to walk away. But even now, years later, I can’t walk down a quiet city street at night without looking over my shoulder, without wondering who might be lurking in the shadows.
"Beneath the Firepit":
I live in a quiet suburban neighborhood in Clermont, Florida, where the streets are lined with neat lawns and friendly faces. It’s the kind of place where you wave at neighbors and know their kids’ names. My friend and coworker, Michael, lived just a few houses down with his wife, Laurie. We’d grill together, watch football, and talk about work over beers. But six months ago, Michael vanished, and my world turned upside down.
It started when I noticed I hadn’t seen him at the office. We worked together at a local hardware store, and Michael was always there, cracking jokes or helping customers. When he missed a week without calling, I got worried. I tried his phone, but it went straight to voicemail, then later, it was disconnected. I texted him, but no reply. That wasn’t like Michael—he’d always get back to me, even if it was just a quick “yo, busy, talk later.”
I decided to check on him. I walked to his house one evening, the familiar path past tidy mailboxes and blooming azaleas. Laurie answered the door, her smile tight. “Hey, good to see you,” she said, but her eyes darted away.
“Where’s Michael?” I asked. “He hasn’t been at work, and he’s not answering his phone.”
Laurie’s face changed, like she was bracing herself. “Oh, he left me. Said he wasn’t happy and moved to Georgia for a fresh start. Didn’t he tell you?”
I blinked, stunned. “No, he didn’t. That’s… not like him.”
“Yeah, well, he wanted a clean break,” she said, folding her arms. “Told me not to give out his new number. Said he’s done with this place.”
I stood there, trying to process it. Michael loved Clermont—loved his house, his car, his life here. He’d never mentioned problems with Laurie. “Can I at least call him to say goodbye?” I asked.
“He doesn’t want to talk to anyone,” Laurie said quickly. “Just… let him go.”
I left, but my gut churned. Michael wouldn’t just leave without a word. Over the next few days, I checked his Facebook. There were new posts: “Starting fresh in Georgia. New life, new me.” Another said, “Leaving the past behind. Don’t look for me.” The words felt wrong—too formal, not Michael’s style. He’d write “lol” or “catch ya later,” not this stiff stuff.
I called a mutual friend, Tom, who lived across town. “You heard from Michael lately?” I asked.
“Nope,” Tom said. “Saw those Facebook posts, though. Sounded weird, like someone else wrote them.”
“Yeah, exactly,” I said. “Laurie says he moved to Georgia, but his car’s still in their garage. Why would he leave that behind?”
Tom paused. “That’s odd. His Mustang? He loved that thing.”
The unease grew. A month later, I was at a neighborhood barbecue when I saw Laurie with a new guy. They were laughing, his arm around her waist. I overheard someone say they’d gotten married. Married? Michael had only been gone a few months. How could she move on so fast?
I started watching their house more closely. One day, I dropped by to return a tool I’d borrowed from Michael. Laurie invited me in, overly friendly, offering me iced tea. As we talked, I glanced out the back window and noticed a new concrete slab in the yard, a firepit built on top. It hadn’t been there last summer when Michael and I grilled burgers.
“When did you put that in?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, a while back,” Laurie said, her voice too bright. “Thought it’d be nice for relaxing.”
I nodded, but my mind raced. Michael had talked about building a gazebo, not a firepit. Why pour a concrete slab just for that? And why now, right after he “left”?
I started digging. I called our boss, who said Laurie had phoned to say Michael quit and was moving away, but Michael never spoke to him directly. I checked with local moving companies—none had records of the Shavers hiring them. Then I found out Laurie had sold Michael’s tools and some of his guns, saying she needed the money since he left her.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about that concrete slab. I remembered hearing construction noises a few months back—hammers, maybe a cement mixer. Laurie had said they were fixing the yard, but it was just that slab, nothing else. I pulled up an old photo on my phone from last summer, Michael and me in his backyard. The spot where the firepit now stood was just grass.
My heart pounded. Was I crazy, or was something wrong? I went back to their house the next day, pretending to check on Laurie. She wasn’t home, but the back gate was open. I slipped into the yard, my pulse racing. The concrete slab looked uneven, like it had been poured in a hurry. I knelt down, running my hand over it. There was a slight dip, almost like… the shape of something underneath.
I froze. My mind screamed that I was being paranoid, but my body wouldn’t move. I left quickly, my hands shaking. That night, I called Tom again. “I think something happened to Michael,” I said. “That firepit in their yard—it’s new, and it’s weird. I don’t think he left.”
Tom was quiet for a moment. “You sure? That’s a big accusation.”
“I know, but nothing adds up. The Facebook posts, his car, the marriage, that slab… I’m going to the police.”
The next day, I went to the Lake County Sheriff’s Office and told them everything: Michael’s disappearance, Laurie’s story, the strange posts, the concrete slab. The deputy listened, his face serious. “We’ll look into it,” he said.
A few days later, I saw police cars at Laurie’s house. My stomach twisted as I watched from my porch. Officers were in the backyard, talking to Laurie, who looked pale and frantic. Then they brought in equipment—sledgehammers, a small excavator. They started breaking up the concrete.
I couldn’t stay away. I walked over, standing at the edge of the yard. The police had cordoned it off, but I could see them digging. An officer shouted, and others rushed over. They pulled back a blue tarp, and there, in the dirt, were bones—human bones.
My knees buckled. It was Michael. Laurie had shot him, wrapped his body, and buried him under that slab, then built a firepit to hide it. She’d pretended he was alive, posting on his Facebook, selling his things, even marrying the man who helped pour the concrete.
At her trial, the truth came out. Laurie had been having an affair and wanted Michael gone. She killed him in cold blood, thinking she could cover it up forever. Her daughter, only seven at the time, testified that Laurie claimed Michael attacked her, but the evidence showed he was shot in the back of the head.
Laurie was convicted of second-degree murder and sent to prison. But the neighborhood isn’t the same. I walk past that house every day, and the firepit is gone, but I can still see it in my mind. I think about Michael, how he trusted Laurie, how we all did. And I wonder how many other secrets are buried in quiet places like this.