It was a dark, chilly , December night, the only audible sound was that of

the wind whistling through the pine trees. Roger Dixon, a painter by
profession, was walking down a pathway through the trees to his house.
Although the house was situated just three furlongs from the bus stop
on the suburban highway, this narrow strip surrounded by thick pine
trees was the only passage to reach there. Usually, he would arrive home
from work well before evening but it got late today as he had been
assigned an important and urgent task that needed to be completed. As
he reached the only turn on the way, he felt as if he was being followed.
He stopped for a while, looked around, but could not see anything
unusual. Dismissing this as his imagination, he resumed his journey.
However, as he walked further, he heard a sound of approaching
footsteps, which was both strange and frightening for Richard. A wave
of fear ran down his spine and made him run for the house.
To be continued….