The Running Man: A Liminal Space Story

The Running Man

Victor Stride couldn’t sleep. His mind churned with thoughts that wouldn’t quiet, his body restless in the darkness. He tossed and turned, the bed too warm, the sheets too tangled. Finally, he threw the covers off and stood up, the cool air of the room only emphasizing the heat that clung to his skin. He licked his lips. A cigarette. He needed one. It would calm his nerves. He always smoked when he couldn’t sleep.

He walked out of his room, heading toward the kitchen table where he kept his lighter and pack of cigarettes. As he grabbed them, his eyes fell on a watch—one he hadn’t seen before. It sat next to the pack, shiny and unfamiliar.

He frowned, puzzled for a moment. It wasn’t his. Maybe his brother left it here? He had been checking on him lately, always making sure he was still alive. But it didn’t matter. He threw the thought to the back of his mind. Probably something his brother had left behind. He picked up the cigarettes and lighter and moved toward the door, brushing the watch aside without giving it another thought.

He stepped outside, his eyes not yet fully awake, glancing down at the ground. The poppies in his yard swayed gently in the breeze, their delicate petals rustling softly. The dark green grass stretched out beneath them, untouched, and the bushes—just as they had been the day before—formed a natural border along the driveway. Decorative stones lined the path to the porch, each one placed neatly, adding a touch of order to the otherwise wild nature of his garden. It all looked so familiar, but something about it felt wrong.

He felt a creeping sense of dread, but he shrugged it off. He was probably just tired. A crappy night’s sleep. Nothing more.

Victor licked his lips again. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs with a comforting burn. He slipped the lighter into his pocket.  A second drag, deeper this time, and he exhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the yard again, trying to settle his nerves. The breeze made the poppies sway a little more, and he watched them for a moment, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

The air felt crisp, the last remnants of dew still hanging in the air. It was early, just before the sun had fully risen. But even then, the feeling of unease didn’t go away. He dismissed it as exhaustion.

But as he turned to head back inside, he dropped the cigarette. It fell, still lit, to the ground. And when he turned around, it hit him.

The house was gone.

His garden was gone. The front yard, the familiar porch, everything he had just seen was now nothing but empty space. Instead, there was only a strange neighborhood, full of pastel-colored houses and eerily still streets. The air, now heavier, seemed to close in on him.

His stomach dropped. This wasn’t right.

Victor stepped out into the street, standing in front  of what would have been his house. The pavement felt cold and unfamiliar beneath his feet, a stark contrast to the comfort he had always known. His house was gone—just empty space where it had been. He stood there for a moment, frozen, unsure of which way to turn or what to do next. He stared at the spot, trying to make sense of it. His stomach churned.

It was as if something in the air was waiting for him to notice, to feel the emptiness around him. And then, without warning, the voice came.

“Rule one: Do not speak to anyone.”

The words were sharp, clear, and somehow seemed to echo off the empty street. He felt the weight of the silence around him, an unfamiliar, unsettling sensation that pressed against him.

“Rule two: Do not accept food or drink from anyone.”

The voice continued, with no sign of stopping, as though he were being informed of something important, something crucial. Panic was starting to bubble in his chest.

“Rule three: If you hear footsteps behind you, run.”

At the mention of this rule, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He instinctively glanced behind him, but there was no one there. The feeling of dread began to creep in, gnawing at him. He moved his hand to the outside of his pocket, feeling for his lighter.

It was there, cool and familiar against the fabric. A small comfort. But that comfort faded quickly as the voice continued.

“Rule four: Keep moving.”

His feet, seemingly of their own accord, started to shuffle forward, the words forcing him into motion. His body was still sluggish, heavy, but he kept walking, instinct taking over. He couldn’t stop. His heart raced as he tried to ignore the growing fear in his chest.

“Rule five: Always remember to wear your watch.”

He thought back to the watch sitting on his kitchen table. He felt a lump in his throat. He gulped it down and started walking. 

Victor’s legs moved automatically, his body obeying the rules, his mind still struggling to catch up. He couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving. The streets seemed endless, the pastel houses stretching on and on. There were no sounds of life, no real signs of people. The neighborhood was deserted, but the eerie stillness only added to the feeling of being watched. Of being trapped.

As he walked, the sense of dread that had first settled in his stomach began to build again. He noticed the yards, the flowers—his own yard now distant, distant memories. The poppies, the bushes, the dark green grass. The houses around him felt too… perfect. The flowers were unnaturally bright, the grass unnervingly lush. The decorative stones lined the paths too precisely, as if they were carefully arranged, but something about them felt off. Like an imitation, but an imperfect one.

He couldn’t explain why, but the oddness of it all made the world around him feel even more unreal. It was as if the space itself was… unfamiliar, as if nothing here belonged in any world he knew and yet at the same time he felt like he’d seen this place before. 

His feet moved forward, and his thoughts continued to spiral. The rules were clear, but he felt the weight of them pressing down on him. Victor licked his lips. The urge to keep moving was overwhelming, and every step took him farther from the place he had known, deeper into a world that seemed to stretch endlessly. He didn’t understand it, but he couldn’t stop.

As Victor continued walking, the sense of time seemed to warp around him. The sky was still that strange, heavy shade of blue, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The stillness of the neighborhood was unsettling. No sounds of cars, no distant chatter. Only the whisper of his own footsteps on the pavement and the occasional rustle of leaves from an unseen breeze. The world felt empty, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Victor’s feet grew heavier with each step, but his body refused to stop. His mind raced, but his legs kept moving. Every part of him wanted to scream, to break free, but the rules echoed in his head. Keep moving. No matter what. Even if it made no sense. Even if the fear gnawed at his insides.

Eventually, he passed a house that looked oddly familiar. Not in a way that he recognized it, but in the sense that something about it struck a chord deep inside. The window panes were clean, but there was something about them—too clear, too reflective. He caught a glimpse of himself, fleetingly. A man with the same tired eyes, the same hunched shoulders. The same person, yet something was wrong.

He didn’t stop. His feet carried him forward, but the unease deepened. It wasn’t just the houses that felt wrong; it was the entire place. The lack of people. The lack of anything real. He felt like an actor in a scene that he didn’t belong in, like the stage was too bright and the set was falling apart in places he couldn’t see.

There was a movement ahead, breaking the monotony. A figure in the distance. A woman standing on a porch, holding a cup. She looked at him as he walked closer, her eyes unreadable. His steps slowed, and for a split second, he felt a strange compulsion to walk toward her. But the rule whispered again in his mind. Do not take food or drink from anyone.

She smiled at him, a slow, measured gesture that didn’t reach her eyes. She raised the cup in her hand, as if offering it to him. “Would you like some tea, dear?”

His stomach churned. He couldn’t speak. The rule echoed louder now, and he forced himself to keep walking, the urge to look back at her almost unbearable. His legs moved forward, but his mind was racing. Who was she? Why was she here? And why was she offering him tea? Everything in this place was wrong, but the fear of breaking the rules—of speaking, of stopping—was stronger than any curiosity.

Behind him, the woman’s figure blurred as he moved farther away, and the silence of the neighborhood settled back in. The only thing that remained was the strange sense that he was being followed, though no one was there.

Victor kept walking, the rhythm of his steps carrying him deeper into the strange neighborhood. His feet moved of their own accord, propelled forward by the rules, the compulsion to keep moving. The houses continued to line the street, pastel-colored façades and perfect lawns. They looked like they were straight out of a dream—a dream that had turned unsettling.

As the sun slowly rose, the air grew warmer, the light casting longer shadows. The houses, once merely strange, now felt suffocating, as if the very walls were closing in on him. He glanced up at one of the windows and thought he saw a figure standing behind it. The glass was too clear, almost unnaturally so. But when he looked again, the figure was gone, leaving him with a tight feeling in his chest.

He couldn’t tell if it was his exhaustion or the rules making his mind play tricks on him. He thought about stopping, maybe sitting down, but the fear of breaking the rules was stronger than his desire for rest. He licked his lips again. He really wanted a cigarette. Victor moved his hand to his pocket again, feeling the familiar bump of the lighter, grounding himself. It was the only thing that kept the panic at bay, even if just for a moment.

A sound cut through the silence—a faint rustling, like footsteps behind him. His heart skipped a beat, and he turned around, but there was no one there. He could hear the sound of his own footsteps now, louder, the weight of the silence around him pressing down on him.

He turned back and kept walking.

Victor’s mind began to unravel the longer he walked. The rules played over and over in his head, a constant refrain he couldn’t shake. His body felt like it was moving on autopilot, his legs carrying him through the seemingly endless streets. The more he walked, the more the surroundings seemed to blur. The houses had started to look like one continuous block, the same pastel colors, the same manicured lawns, the same perfect arrangements of bushes and flowers.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the air was growing thicker, the sun now fully above the horizon, casting a harsh light on the neighborhood. He felt like he was suffocating in it, his breathing shallow as if the air itself was closing in on him. He had to keep moving, but the desperation to escape was starting to rise within him. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. 

The stillness was unbearable.

And then, ahead of him, he saw another figure. A man this time, standing on the sidewalk just ahead. The man was motionless, his face obscured by the shadows. He couldn’t make out any details, but the sight of someone else—another person—made Victor’s heart race. Maybe this was his chance to speak, to find out what was going on. Maybe someone else was stuck here too.

But then the rule echoed again in his mind: Do not speak to anyone.

He froze in place, panic surging as he fought the urge to approach the man. He could see him standing there, just out of reach, but the closer he got, the more the figure seemed to fade, like a shadow in the light. It wasn’t right. None of it was. The space was shifting, the people around him were… fading.

The man was gone.

Victor stood there for a moment, his feet still moving but his mind reeling. What was happening? Was this all a dream? Was this some twisted version of reality? And why was he still moving, still following the rules, still feeling this gnawing fear in his chest?

He walked past the spot where the man had stood, the pavement feeling colder beneath his feet. It wasn’t the neighborhood anymore. It wasn’t even real. The sense of unreality had become too much to ignore, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know how to.

Victor’s feet moved relentlessly, and with each step, the weight of his surroundings pressed on him harder. The silence of the neighborhood was deafening. No sounds of life, just the echo of his own steps. The houses around him blurred together in an endless sea of pastel colors and manicured lawns, the same thing over and over again, but nothing felt familiar. It was like he was walking in a dream, or worse, a nightmare. His mind was foggy, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t give in to the pull of rest.

His hand brushed the lighter in his pocket again, a fleeting moment of familiarity. The craving for a cigarette surged in his chest, gnawing at him. He needed something, anything, to break the tension. His body was burning from the effort of moving, but the rules echoed in his mind, keeping him on track.

And then he heard it—the softest sound at first, but it grew louder with each passing second. Footsteps. Behind him. His stomach dropped, his pulse quickening.

The rules. If you hear footsteps behind you, run.

His legs responded before his mind could catch up. He took off running, his body propelled by fear, by instinct. The air felt thick, the pavement beneath him like it was pushing back, but he didn’t stop. His breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself harder, the footsteps growing louder, closer.

His mind was a blur of panic, racing as fast as his legs could carry him. The houses blurred as he passed them, the empty windows staring at him like dead eyes. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The rule was clear. Keep moving. And the footsteps were getting closer.

His chest burned, his legs screamed for him to stop, but he couldn’t. He had to outrun whatever was behind him. Had to get away from it. He felt like he was trapped in some twisted loop, the world around him growing tighter, more suffocating. The fear was consuming him, every step making it harder to breathe.

Victor ran.

His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest burning with every step. The world blurred around him, the pastel houses streaking past like smeared paint. His legs ached, his muscles screaming in protest, but the footsteps—those footsteps—were still there. Close. Too close.

They didn’t belong to him.

He refused to look back. He knew better. The rules were clear. The rules were law.

His mind was a mess of panic and exhaustion. His lungs strained for air, his skin damp with sweat. The morning coolness had long since vanished, replaced by an oppressive heat that clung to him. His dry, cracked lips stung as he licked them, the craving for a cigarette clawing at his throat. He reached down, brushing the outside of his pocket. The lighter. Still there. Still real. The only real thing left.

But he couldn’t stop. Not now.

The houses stretched on, identical, unending. He tried to track his movements, to see if he was making progress, but everything looked the same. How long had he been running? Was he going in circles?

And then—

The footsteps stopped.

The sudden silence crashed over him, deafening in its absence. His pulse pounded in his ears as his body faltered, his sprint staggering into an unsteady jog. His chest heaved, his throat raw. He swallowed hard, still moving, forcing his feet forward despite the pain.

The neighborhood was empty again.

His legs trembled as he slowed to a brisk walk, his entire body pulsing with exhaustion. His hands were shaking. He swallowed another wave of nausea, his stomach twisting violently. He thought he might throw up, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

The rules were still there. Looming over him. Waiting.

Victor took another shaky breath, licking his lips again. His mouth was dry. His throat burned. I could use a cigarette.

But the lighter in his pocket was the only thing he had. The only thing tethering him to reality. His fingers pressed against it through the fabric, grounding himself as best he could.

Then he saw her.

A girl, walking ahead of him, dressed in a set of floral pajamas.

Victor’s heart lurched in his chest.

She looked normal. A person. Not like the tea woman. Not like the shifting space around him. She had dark hair, slightly disheveled, her posture tired yet deliberate. Something about her unsettled him in a way he couldn’t name.

His mind whispered a question he couldn’t ask.

Was she like him?

Was she stuck here too?

Victor’s pulse thundered as the realization set in. If she was in pajamas, like him, did that mean… Had she also woken up here?

And then another, more terrifying thought crept in.

Had the footsteps behind him been hers?

The question made his stomach drop.

He couldn’t ask. He wasn’t allowed. He wanted to, but the rules were suffocating, caging the words before they could even form. He wasn’t allowed to speak.

So he watched her, terrified for her.

Terrified for himself.

And then, just ahead, past her moving form, he saw the woman with the tea.

Still waiting. Still smiling.

And this time, a little girl was there too.

Victor’s pulse thundered in his ears. His whole body ached, drenched in sweat, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The little girl was gone. The girl in the floral pajamas had kept walking. The tea woman had turned her gaze on him. He swore he could still feel her eyes on the back of his neck, like fingers pressing into his skin.

The heat was unbearable now. The sky was too blue, too bright. His head pounded. His mouth was unbearably dry. He swallowed, but it did nothing. His lips were cracked, raw from the sun and from licking them too much.

His fingers pressed against the lighter in his pocket.

I need a cigarette.

His craving curled inside him, sharp and desperate. He could almost feel the burn of the smoke in his lungs, the familiar sting at the back of his throat. He imagined the bitter taste of it on his tongue, imagined the way it would calm his nerves, slow his thoughts.

But there was nothing. Just the phantom of something lost.

His steps faltered, just slightly. Not enough to stop. Not enough to break the rule. But his body was beginning to betray him. His vision blurred at the edges. His legs felt weak beneath him.

How long had he been walking?

He didn’t know.

And then—

Rustling.

His breath caught.

Not footsteps. Not quite. But something shifting. Moving.

Behind him.

Victor didn’t turn around.

Rule three: If you hear footsteps behind you, run.

The rules had never mentioned what to do if you heard something else.

A slow, dragging sound scraped against the pavement. Not footsteps, but movement.

Victor’s heartbeat slammed against his ribs. His whole body tensed, every nerve screaming at him to move, to go.

And then he did.

He bolted.

His legs were weak, but fear was stronger. His body lurched forward, running before his mind could catch up. The world around him blurred as he sprinted down the endless street, past the pastel houses, past the perfect lawns, past the staring windows.

The sound behind him picked up.

Not footsteps. Not running. But something shifting, dragging, relentless.

Victor didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

The sun blazed overhead, the air thick and suffocating. His breath came in gasps, his throat raw, his muscles burning. The craving for a cigarette twisted inside him, an unbearable, gnawing thing. His fingers twitched toward his pocket, but he kept running, running, running.

The sound behind him never stopped.

Victor ran until his lungs burned, until his legs threatened to give out beneath him. The sound behind him never stopped—never sped up, never slowed down. It just dragged. A slow, scraping shift against the pavement. A sound that shouldn’t have been there.

His mind raced. What is it? Was it something new? Was it the little girl? Had she changed? Was it someone else? Was it him?

No. No. He couldn’t think about that.

He forced himself to focus on the rules. The rules were law. The rules were the only thing keeping him alive. Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

His legs screamed. The world around him felt hazy, unreal. The heat bore down on him like a weight, his skin sticky with sweat. He licked his lips again, but it only made things worse. He needed water. He needed air. He needed—

I need a cigarette.

The thought hit like a knife to the gut. His craving was unbearable now, clawing at the inside of his chest, making his hands shake as he ran.

And then, as suddenly as it started—

The sound behind him stopped.

Victor’s body jerked forward, his momentum nearly sending him crashing to the pavement. His breath came in ragged gasps, his head spinning.

He didn’t stop moving. He couldn’t.

But his steps slowed, shifting from a full sprint to a weak, unsteady jog. His knees threatened to buckle with each step. His stomach twisted violently, nausea churning through him like acid.

He swallowed hard.

And then—

His body lurched, and he dropped to his knees.

Victor gagged, his stomach heaving. He was still moving—crawling now, forcing himself forward as bile burned up his throat. His whole body convulsed as he retched onto the pavement, but he didn’t stop. He dragged himself through it, his hands scraping against the rough ground, fingers trembling.

The rule wouldn’t let him stop.

Even as his stomach emptied. Even as he coughed, spitting bile and saliva onto the pavement. Even as the world spun violently around him.

He had to keep going.

Keep moving.

The air was thick with heat, the taste of vomit sour in his mouth. His lips burned, cracked and dry. His body ached, every muscle trembling from exhaustion.

But somehow, through the pounding of his own heartbeat, he realized something else.

He could still smell it.

Cigarette smoke.

It lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable.

His stomach turned again, but this time, not from nausea.

Slowly, shakily, he forced himself to his feet, bile still clinging to his chin.

And his fingers twitched toward his pocket.

Victor’s fingers brushed against the outside of his pocket. The lighter. It’s still there. It’s still real. It’s mine.

The smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, just faint enough to make him second-guess it. His lips parted slightly as he inhaled, desperate to catch even the ghost of the scent again. It felt close—so close. But there was nothing.

His throat ached, his body weak, but he kept walking. The world around him had turned into a haze of too-blue skies and pastel houses that stretched endlessly in every direction. His legs trembled beneath him, every step unsteady, but the rule whispered in his skull. Keep moving.

His thoughts were tangled, fraying at the edges.

He had run. He had vomited. He had crawled. And yet, nothing had changed.

How long had he been here?

Was there even a way out?

Victor swallowed thickly. His fingers twitched against his pocket again. The lighter. His lighter. The one thing keeping him tied to reality. His last connection to the real world. He hadn’t used it since stepping off his porch. But it was there.

It was always there.

He gripped the shape through the fabric, needing it, needing to feel it beneath his fingers.

And then—

He reached inside his pocket.

His hand closed around nothing.

Victor’s breath hitched.

His fingers brushed against the empty fabric once, twice, again. His heart lurched violently, stomach twisting as panic wrapped cold fingers around his spine.

No. No, it was just there.

He patted the outside of his pocket—desperate, frantic. But the shape was gone.

His lighter wasn’t there.

It had never been there.

His throat closed. His pulse hammered against his ribs. No, no, I felt it, I touched it, I—

A cold wave of horror crashed over him.

The cigarette smoke was back. Stronger this time.

Like it was coming from right behind him.

Victor didn’t think. He ran.

His legs were dead weight beneath him, his muscles burning, his chest tight with exhaustion. He didn’t care. He didn’t think. His body was moving before his mind could even process the terror flooding through him.

The smell of cigarette smoke was thick now, curling through the air like it was chasing him. It clung to his skin, seeped into his lungs, filled every inch of his body with the gnawing craving he could never satisfy.

It was behind him. It was right behind him.

His stomach twisted, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. His vision blurred at the edges, black spots creeping in from exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever.

Something shifted behind him. A whisper of movement.

His mind screamed at him to look back. Just a glance. Just to see.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

The rules. The rules. The rules.

His foot caught on something. His ankle twisted. His body lurched forward, and for a split second, weightlessness swallowed him whole.

Then—impact.

He hit the pavement hard, the skin of his palms scraping against the rough ground. Pain exploded through his limbs, white-hot and unbearable, but his body was already scrambling forward.

He was still moving.

He had to keep moving.

His arms shook as he dragged himself forward, his fingers scraping against the pavement. He coughed, bile still clinging to his throat. The smell of cigarette smoke was suffocating now, curling around his face like breath on the back of his neck.

He was going to be sick again.

He wasn’t fast enough.

Victor forced himself up. Forced himself to move. His legs barely worked now, but he walked. Stumbled. Forced one foot in front of the other.

The dragging sound behind him had stopped.

But something was different.

The space around him felt wrong in a way it hadn’t before. The air was heavy. The houses were warping—stretched just slightly too tall, the windows too dark. The sky, once an endless bright blue, was beginning to dim.

The rules had never said what would happen if he was too slow.

Victor swallowed hard. His body was failing him. His mind was slipping. The exhaustion was sinking deep into his bones, making every step harder.

He just had to keep moving.

Even as his feet began to drag.

Victor barely felt his legs anymore. His steps were sluggish, uneven, the weight of his own body becoming unbearable. His breathing was ragged, shallow—each inhale felt like trying to swallow air that wasn’t really there.

His feet—he could hear them now.

Drag.

The sound sent a violent jolt through his system.

No.

He tried to lift his legs properly, tried to walk like he had been before, but his body refused. His steps were heavy, unnatural. His feet barely left the pavement.

His mind screamed at him.

You’re slowing down. You’re not moving fast enough. Keep moving. KEEP MOVING.

But no matter how hard he tried, his pace wouldn’t pick up. His body had given up before his mind had.

Something was wrong.

Something was happening to him.

The air pressed against him like a living thing, thick and suffocating. The sky, once too bright, was darkening, the colors bleeding out like smeared paint. The houses around him seemed taller than before, looming over him, their windows stretching into unfamiliar shapes.

He could hear his own footsteps.

He could hear his own dragging footsteps.

Victor’s stomach twisted violently.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

His hand shot to his pocket on instinct, feeling for the lighter. It was gone.

His last tether to the real world. Gone. Just like his house. Just like the cigarette he dropped. Just like the time he thought he had.

And then—

Up ahead, the road stretched forward.

And someone was walking toward him.

Victor’s heart stuttered in his chest.

The figure moved slowly. Their steps uneven. Their feet—

Dragging.

His breath locked in his throat. His whole body screamed at him to turn, to run, to do something.

But he just stood there.

Frozen.

Watching.

As the figure approached, he could make out details. A man.

Dressed in white and blue pinstriped pajamas.

Victor felt something deep inside of him crack.

His mind refused to process what he was seeing. What he knew he was seeing.

The man’s arms were too long, his fingers just a little too stretched. His face—

His face.

Victor’s body finally reacted. His legs stumbled backward, but his steps—

Drag.

His breath hitched.

The other Victor—the thing that looked like him—kept walking.

He was moving the way Victor had been moving. Slow. Heavy. His head tilted ever so slightly, his expression unreadable.

Victor’s body trembled. His lips parted, a breathless, broken sound escaping him.

He wanted to scream. To ask what was happening. To beg for this to be a nightmare.

But he already knew the rules.

Do not speak to anyone.

The other Victor passed him. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him.

Just kept walking.

Just kept moving.

Victor stood there, shaking, every inch of him locked in pure horror.

His body felt wrong. His limbs ached in a way they shouldn’t. His hands—his fingers—

Were they longer than before?

His legs—his feet—

He took a step forward.

Drag.

Victor’s stomach lurched.

No. No. NO.

He forced his foot to lift properly. Forced himself to walk.

But it was too late.

His steps were slowing.

His steps were dragging.

The road stretched endlessly ahead of him.

And somewhere, far behind, someone else would hear footsteps.

And they would run.