Urban legends usually start the same way. A whispered warning, a cautionary tale,

a rule you're supposed to follow without ever asking why. Don't go into the woods at night,

don't look in the mirror and call the name, don't stop for the crying baby on the side of the road.

The counting man belongs to that category. It on the side of the road.

The counting man belongs to that category.

It spreads in fragments, old message boards, lost blogs, anonymous confessions, enough to form

a pattern, but never enough to give answers.

The rule itself is simple. If you're walking alone and you hear footsteps behind you that match your own, and a voice begins to count, don't turn around.

That's it. That's the warning.

The voice always starts at one, low, deliberate, almost conversational.

Each night it continues, one number higher than before.

Two, three, four.

The timing is always the same. After dark when you're alone and the footsteps never break

rhythm.

There are two known outcomes.

If you break the rules, if you turn around, it's over instantly.

There are no accounts testifying that someone has done this, so it's safe to assume the worst.

If you don't turn, the count goes on.

Each night it climbs higher, step by step, pulling you toward the number 10.

And that's the part no one can fully describe.

No account ever survives past 10.

Whatever happens when the counting man finishes counting,

...