Night Time Story: The Vanishing Footprints
On the first snow day of winter, Maddie noticed something strange from her bedroom window—a single line of footprints crossing her backyard, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as mysteriously at the old stone wall.
By the time she bundled up and ran outside, fresh snow was already filling them in. Maddie followed what remained, taking photos with her phone. The footprints were small, like a child’s, but old-fashioned, with pointed toes unlike modern boots.
The next morning, despite six more inches of snow overnight, the same footprints appeared in exactly the same place. This time, Maddie followed them to the wall. On the other side was an empty field where old Mr. Harper refused to let anyone build, despite developers offering him fortunes for the land.
When she asked her parents about the field’s history, they knew nothing except that it had always been empty.
At the library, Maddie discovered a photograph from 1918 showing a small schoolhouse in that very field. It had burned down during the flu pandemic, with several children inside.
The town had never rebuilt it, and eventually, the tragedy was forgotten.
That night, Maddie set her alarm for midnight. Standing at her window in the falling snow, she watched in amazement as the footprints formed one by one—made by invisible feet heading toward where the school once stood.
Maddie grabbed her coat and flashlight. Outside, she called out, “I know about the school. I know what happened.”
The footprints stopped forming. Then, slowly, they turned and came toward her. The snow around her grew strangely warm, and Maddie heard what sounded like children whispering.
“Nobody remembers us,” a voice said, soft as falling snow.
“I remember now,” Maddie replied. “And I’ll help others remember too.”
The next day, Maddie visited Mr. Harper, who turned out to be the grandson of the schoolteacher who had died trying to save her students. He had kept the land empty all these years but had never spoken about why.
Together, they collected stories from town elders and archives. By spring, a small memorial garden stood in the field with the names of everyone who had been lost, along with plants that bloomed like footprints across the once-empty space.
The mysterious footprints never appeared again—but every winter, the first snow would melt in the exact path they had once taken, as if to remind the town of the children who still needed to be remembered.
By Fiona Frost
