Footprints to Nowhere

Free Story’s Quick Summary: Strange, non-human footprints appear at a secluded home, hinting at an unseen, unsettling presence from the nearby woods.

WRITING PROMPT: You find strange, muddy footprints leading up to your front door.

Rating PG-13
Contains: Mildly Disturbing/Frightening Content, Implied Danger/Threat
Absence of Strong Language, Gore, or Sexual Content

The rain had stopped just before dawn, leaving the world slick and glistening under a gray October sky. I stepped onto my front porch, mug in hand, and froze. There, on the weathered wooden steps, were footprints—muddy, oversized, and strangely misshapen, as if the feet that made them weren’t quite human. They trailed up from the path, across the porch, and stopped abruptly at my front door. No smudges, no scuffs, just a clean, deliberate end.

I set my mug down and crouched to inspect them. The prints were deep, the mud caked in thick, wet clumps. Each had five toes, but the toes were too long, too pointed, like claws dragged through the earth. I glanced down the path toward the woods bordering my property. The path was undisturbed—no trace of mud or prints beyond the porch steps. It was as if whatever made these had materialized from thin air.

My first thought was a prank—maybe kids from town messing around after the storm. But I lived two miles from the nearest neighbor, and the prints were too precise, too heavy for a teenager in boots. I grabbed some scrap paper and sketched the prints as best I could, the unease in my gut growing. The door was locked, the windows secure—no sign of tampering. Whatever had come to my door hadn’t tried to get in.

I followed the prints back to the porch’s edge, where they vanished into the path. The woods loomed across the field, dense and dark, the kind of place that swallowed secrets. Beyond them lay Elbio. When the King and Queen of Erdyssa signed the peace treaty with Elbio, I’d thought it safe to live this far out, near the border, without fear of attacks or war darkening my property. People avoided this area; no one wanted to live so close to Elbio permanently, even now. The land was cheap, and I’d found peace. In five years here, I’d never seen anything stranger than a fox darting through the trees. Now, though, the forest felt like it was watching me.

Inside, I poured another drink and tried to shake it off. I retreated to my wood shop beside the house—working with wood always calmed me. But my eyes kept drifting to the sketches on my worktable. The footprints gnawed at me, their strangeness lodging in my mind like a splinter. By noon, I couldn’t focus. I grabbed a lantern, a measuring tape, and my old hunting knife—just in case—and headed outside.

The prints hadn’t changed, still damp and stark against the wood. I measured one: fourteen inches long, six wide, with a stride of nearly four feet. No human could make those. I checked the path and the grass beyond, but there was nothing—no tracks, no broken branches, no sign of passage. I stood at the edge of the woods, the air heavy with the scent of wet pine. “Hello?” I called, feeling foolish. The only answer was the drip of rainwater from the trees.

I decided to ride into town, a three-mile trip, to see if anyone had seen anything similar. Could Elbio be stirring trouble? An attack? But why was it so… inhuman? Could King Dissaith be using magic? I had to find out.

The tavern was quiet, with a handful of patrons lingering despite the early hour. I pulled up a wooden stool, ordered a drink, and listened to a group of men arguing over a delayed shipment. Gradually, I built up the nerve to ask if anyone had noticed anything strange.

Most responses were jokes about mythical creatures or beings from another planet—nonsense, as expected. If someone had asked me the same question, I’d have thought they were crazy. There was no news of trouble from Elbio. Discouraged, I paid my tab and headed for the door.

An older man in the corner, unnoticed until now, spoke softly: “Old Man Hank…”

I stopped in my tracks. “What did you say?”

He shook his head, sipping his ale, muttering incoherently as he rocked gently. His large hat hid most of his face, and his clothes were worn, tattered beyond repair. I crossed to his table and sat uninvited. “Please, I need to know.”

He hesitated, his eyes darting, never meeting mine. Was this what isolation did? Would I become like him, driven to madness by footprints on my porch? Finally, he spoke. “Seen prints like that once, fifty years ago, near Black Creek. Never found what made ‘em.” He stood abruptly, but before leaving, he turned and added sternly, “Stay out of the woods at night.”

He moved faster than I’d expected, vanishing before I could follow. “Don’t listen to Gil,” the bartender called. “He’s a few cards shy of a full deck.”

Outside, Gil was gone. I’d never heard of Black Creek, but there was a small creek half a mile into the woods on my property. Could it be the same? And who was Old Man Hank?

By evening, I was restless. The prints remained, untouched by the light drizzle. I kept my curtains open, watching the porch as the sky darkened. Around nine, I heard it—a low, guttural sound, like a cough mixed with a growl, coming from the woods. My heart raced. I grabbed the knife, slipped it into my belt, and took the lantern outside.

The prints were unchanged, but now there was a new one on the bottom step, facing away from the door. Whatever had come last night had returned—and just left. I scanned the yard, the lantern’s beam cutting through the mist. Nothing moved. The woods were silent, the growl gone. I locked the door and sat up all night, the knife on the table beside me.

The next morning, the fresh print remained, but no others appeared. I rode to the sheriff’s office in town. They sent a man named Carter to investigate. He was polite but skeptical, eyeing the prints with a raised brow. “Could be a bear,” he said, though he admitted the shape was off. He sketched the prints, promised to ask around, told me to report anything else, and left. I didn’t mention the growl—it felt too vague, too easy to dismiss as nerves.

That afternoon, I visited the town library and dug through old records. Black Creek was indeed the stream behind my house. Fifty years ago, there’d been stories of strange sightings—lights in the forest, missing animals, even a hunter who vanished for three days and returned raving about “the thing with no face.” The articles were thin, more rumor than fact, but they left me cold.

Back home, I set up a spyglass on its stand, aimed at the steps, ready if I heard anything in the night. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to catch, but doing nothing felt worse. That night, the growl returned, closer—maybe a hundred yards from the house. I checked the spyglass—nothing but darkness and the faint outline of the steps. I didn’t sleep.

Later, I heard another noise. I raced to the spyglass. The image was grainy, blurred by raindrops on the window and the waning moon peeking through clouds. There, on the steps, stood a figure—tall, hunched, its limbs unnaturally long, its head tilted at an odd angle. Its face, if it had one, was a blur, as if my eyes or the spyglass couldn’t focus. I glanced out the window with my naked eyes, but it was too far to see clearly. Returning to the spyglass, I saw the figure standing over the prints, one clawed foot raised as if about to step away. I jerked back, knocking the spyglass over. It clattered to the floor. I ducked below the window, grasping the cracked spyglass, heart pounding. Had it heard me? Would it try to come in?

I stayed on the floor for hours, drifting off at some point. At dawn, soft light filtered through the window. I jumped up and peered outside. The figure was gone, but the prints remained. I hadn’t dreamed it. I sketched what I could recall—the blurry face, the clawed foot. Without breakfast, I rode to town to find Carter. When I showed him the sketch, he frowned. “Could be a prank,” he said. “Someone in a costume.” He didn’t sound convinced, and neither was I.

That night, I packed a bag, telling myself I’d stay in town for a few days until this blew over. As I loaded my horse, the growl returned, so close it vibrated in my chest. The horse neighed, straining against its tether. I soothed it, then turned. There, at the edge of the woods, just beyond my lantern’s reach, it stood—seven feet tall, gaunt and twisted, its head a featureless void. It didn’t move, just watched.

I don’t remember mounting the horse or riding. When I stopped, I was at an inn in town, hands still gripping the reins. I glanced behind me, half-expecting to see it. The road was empty.

I haven’t returned to the house. Carter visited a week later, saying the prints were gone, washed away by rain. He didn’t mention the sketch, and I didn’t ask. I’m renting a room in town, unsure what’s next. But sometimes, at night, I hear that growl, faint and far-off, like it’s waiting. I wonder if it’s still out there, standing at my door, leaving footprints.

Grok’s Version

The rain had stopped just before dawn, leaving the world slick and glistening under a gray October sky. I stepped onto my front porch, coffee mug in hand, and froze. There, on the weathered wooden steps, were footprints. Not just any footprints—muddy, oversized, and strangely misshapen, as if the feet that made them weren’t quite human. They trailed up from the gravel path, across the porch, and stopped dead at my front door. No smudges, no scuffs, just a clean, deliberate end.

I set my mug down and crouched to inspect them. The prints were deep, the mud caked in thick, wet clumps. Each one had five toes, but the toes were too long, too pointed, like claws had been dragged through the earth. I glanced down the path toward the woods that bordered my property. The gravel was undisturbed, no trace of mud or prints beyond the porch steps. It was as if whatever made these had appeared out of nowhere.

My first thought was a prank. Kids from town, maybe, messing around after the storm. But I lived a good mile from the nearest neighbor, and the prints were too precise, too heavy for a teenager in boots. I pulled out my phone and snapped a few photos, the unease in my gut growing. The door was locked, the windows secure—no sign of tampering. Whatever had come to my door hadn’t tried to get in.

I followed the prints back to the edge of the porch, where they vanished into the gravel. The woods loomed across the field, dense and dark, the kind of place that swallowed secrets. I’d lived here five years, ever since I left the city for a quieter life, and I’d never seen anything stranger than a fox darting through the trees. Now, though, the forest felt like it was watching me.

Inside, I poured another coffee and tried to shake it off. I worked from home, editing manuscripts for a small press, and I had a deadline looming. But my eyes kept drifting to the photos on my phone. The footprints gnawed at me, their strangeness lodging in my mind like a splinter. By noon, I couldn’t focus. I grabbed a flashlight, a measuring tape, and my old hunting knife—just in case—and headed outside.

The prints hadn’t changed, still damp and stark against the wood. I measured one: fourteen inches long, six wide, with a stride of nearly four feet. No human could make those. I checked the gravel path again, then the grass beyond, but there was nothing. No tracks, no broken branches, no sign of passage. I stood at the edge of the woods, the air heavy with the scent of wet pine. “Hello?” I called, feeling foolish. The only answer was the drip of rainwater from the trees.

Back at the house, I uploaded the photos to a local wildlife forum, describing the prints and asking if anyone had seen anything similar. Most responses were jokes—Bigfoot, swamp monster, alien landing. One user, “OldManHank,” was more serious: “Seen prints like that once, ‘78, near Black Creek. Never found what made ‘em. Stay out of the woods at night.” I messaged him for details, but he didn’t reply.

By evening, I was restless. The prints were still there, untouched by the light drizzle that had started. I kept my curtains open, watching the porch as the sky darkened. Around nine, I heard it—a low, guttural sound, like a cough mixed with a growl. It came from the woods, faint but unmistakable. My heart kicked up, and I grabbed the knife, slipping it into my belt. I turned on the porch light and stepped outside.

The prints were still there, but now there was something new: a single, fresh print on the bottom step, facing away from the door. Whatever had come last night had returned, and it had just left. I scanned the yard, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the mist. Nothing moved. The woods were silent, the growl gone. I locked the door and sat up all night, the knife on the table beside me.

The next morning, the fresh print was still there, but no others. I called the sheriff’s office, and a deputy named Carter came out. He was polite but skeptical, eyeing the prints with a raised brow. “Could be a bear,” he said, though he admitted the shape was off. He took some photos, promised to ask around, and left me with a number to call if anything else happened. I didn’t mention the growl. It felt too vague, too easy to dismiss as nerves.

That afternoon, I drove to the library in town and dug through old records. Black Creek, where OldManHank had seen similar prints, was a stream that ran through the woods behind my house. In the 1970s, there’d been stories of strange sightings—lights in the forest, animals gone missing, even a hunter who’d vanished for three days and came back raving about “the thing with no face.” The articles were thin, more rumor than fact, but they left me cold.

Back home, I set up a trail camera on the porch, aimed at the steps. I wasn’t sure what I expected to catch, but doing nothing felt worse. That night, the growl came again, closer this time, maybe a hundred yards from the house. I checked the camera feed on my laptop—nothing but darkness and the faint outline of the steps. I didn’t sleep.

At dawn, I rushed to the porch. The camera had triggered once, at 2:47 a.m. The image was grainy, the infrared casting everything in shades of gray. There, on the steps, was a figure. It was tall, hunched, its limbs too long, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. The face—if it had one—was blurred, like the camera couldn’t focus on it. My hands shook as I stared at the screen. The figure was standing over the prints, one clawed foot raised as if about to step away.

I copied the image to a USB drive and deleted it from the camera. I didn’t want it on my computer, didn’t want it near me. I called Carter again, but when I showed him the photo, he frowned. “Could be a glitch,” he said. “Or someone in a costume.” He didn’t sound convinced, and neither was I.

That night, I packed a bag. I told myself I’d stay in town for a few days, let this blow over. But as I loaded my car, I heard the growl again, so close it vibrated in my chest. I turned, and there it was—at the edge of the woods, just beyond the porch light’s reach. It was tall, maybe seven feet, its body gaunt and twisted, its head a featureless void. It didn’t move, just stood there, watching.

I don’t remember getting in the car. I don’t remember driving. When I stopped, I was at a motel in town, my hands still gripping the wheel. I checked the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see it behind me. The lot was empty.

I haven’t gone back to the house. Carter called a week later, said the prints were gone, washed away by rain. He didn’t mention the photo, and I didn’t ask. I’m staying in town now, renting a room until I figure out what’s next. But sometimes, at night, I hear that growl, faint and far-off, like it’s waiting. And I wonder if it’s still out there, standing at my door, leaving footprints.

Images created by ChatGPT

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