I’d been running the paths since I was a somewhat chunky pre-teen getting relentlessly teased by the skinny girls at school. In those early days—red-faced, chest aching, legs screaming—I hated every step of my daily run.
But as my body got accustomed to the movement, stamina increasing, muscles forming, it became one of the favorite parts of my day.
It cleared my head.
It chased away the stagnant energy in my body.
I’d been running a lot since I’d gotten married.
More so the past few months.
I could run every path blindfolded after all these years.
Having no work to do, I went for an already ambitious run of the full “loop” around the whole park. Six point one miles of mind-clearing cardio with fellow early risers: runners, cyclists, people walking their dogs before work.
But by the time I was done with that, my mind was still racing in dizzying circles.
With a sigh, I made my way toward the 110thentrance to the North Woods.
It wasn’t an area I ran often. There was something both exotic and eerie about it. It wasn’t long before you no longer felt like you were in the city. Before the lush greenery swallowed you up completely, pulling you into a world that felt more fae than human.
But I figured maybe what I really needed was a change of environment to get out of my head.
What better change in scenery than cobblestone steps, footbridges, and waterfalls?
It was one of the few places in the city where you could feel—and be—completely alone.
I felt my shoulders lowering, my muscles loosening as I was transported into a whole different world.
Up above, there was a heavy canopy of trees, making sunlight dapple through, cooling the space by a solid ten degrees.
My pace slowed as gravel paths gave way to packed dirt and stone steps, large roots and rocky outcrops making a rolled ankle more of a possibility.
Besides, this was the kind of place that begged you to slow down, to take it all in.
Somewhere off the side of the path, I could hear the babbling of a stream and, further still, the rush of a waterfall.
It was as I was approaching the Glen Span Arch—an underpass of pure gothic gorgeous creepiness—that I heard it.
A crunch behind me.
My heart leapt as my stomach plummeted.
My hand went immediately for my phone, toggling off my music. But my chest felt tight when I saw the little red X over my service reception.
I pushed myself a little faster, ignoring the impulse to slow down as I moved through the narrow space under the arch where one wrong step could have you falling off the path and into the murky water.
It was probably just a squirrel, for goodness’ sakes. There weren’t a lot of places in the city for the wildlife to live their little lives. The parks were full of critters.
But there was no reasoning with my panic as I heard another sound. Not a crack.
No.
That sounded like a set of footfalls.
Adrenaline surged, a shaky sensation taking over my whole body as I emerged from the arch.
Steeling myself, I glanced back over my shoulder.
