I went for a run and saw an old woman sitting alone in the park, asking for my help.
Something felt off, and I had this gut feeling to get away, fast.
So I made up an excuse and walked off.
When I went home, I heard on the news that a young man had gone missing earlier that day—last seen near the same park where I’d been running.
They showed a grainy photo taken from a nearby traffic camera.
My heart skipped. In the background, barely noticeable unless you looked closely, was that same old woman sitting on the bench.
Only… in the photo, she wasn’t sitting alone.
She was smiling—smiling directly at the camera—with the missing man walking toward her.
I froze. My mind replayed the moment: her voice, soft and trembling, asking for help… the way her eyes had locked onto mine, almost too alert, too focused.
And now that I thought about it—too late—I hadn’t seen her blink. Not even once.
The reporter mentioned this wasn’t the first case.
There had been two other disappearances in parks across the city, each one involving someone last seen near an “elderly woman in distress.”
But by the time police arrived, no one fitting that description was ever found.
I felt cold all over.
That gut feeling—something primal—had saved me.
But the worst part? I couldn’t shake the image of her face, burned into my memory. Not just the smile… but the eyes.
They weren’t old.
They were hungry.