Here's another **very long**, dark story in its own block—**Story #13: "The Passerby Under Thames Bridge Who Knows Your Name"**.--

# 🌉 **13. "The Passerby Under Thames Bridge Who Knows Your Name"—a very long horror story**

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## *Prologue: London After Midnight*

The Thames after midnight isn't the same as it is during the day.

The water becomes smooth as glass, black as ink, silent as if afraid of its own current.

The bridges—Tower Bridge, Southwark Bridge, Millennium Bridge—look like lifeless colossi whose warmth of life has long since faded.

And the oldest of them, **Blackfriars Bridge**, has a sinister reputation.

It's here, for over a hundred years, that people have been talking about "The Passerby."

Some see him only once.

Others—many times.

And there are those who claim that once he sets eyes on you…

…he'll always visit you.

And that he knows your name, even if you never told him.

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# 🕯️ *Chapter I: Marta – Night Tour Guide*

Marta Lewellyn, a thirty-year-old guide, guided tourists through the dark corners of London.

She loved her job.

She knew every legend, every spooky address, every ghost story.

That evening, the group was small—five people.

All foreigners, curious about London's "true horrors."

The final stop on the tour was **Blackfriars Bridge**.

"It's here," Marta began, "that people claim to see the figure of a man walking slowly along the river, always alone, always after dark…"

One of the tourists interrupted her:

"What does he look like?"

Marta smiled.

"They say he's tall, in an old, soggy coat. His hat obscures his eyes. And when he passes someone in the dark, he whispers their name, even though he doesn't know them."

The tourists laughed nervously.

And Marta...

reciting this legend for the hundredth time, she felt a shiver for the first time.

As if someone were watching her from the depths of the river.

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# 👣 *Chapter II: Man at the Pillar*

After the tour, Marta walked to the subway.

It was almost midnight.

The wind carried moisture from the river.

She stopped for a moment at the railing to check her phone's messages.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a silhouette by one of the bridge's pillars.

Tall.

Motionless.

Standing just above the water.

Marta turned her head.

The silhouette disappeared.

“Imagination,” she thought.

But then a familiar, cold voice echoed right behind her:

> “Marta…”

She froze.

She turned slowly.

There was no one there.

Only the shadow of the bridge and the black water.

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# 🌫️ *Chapter III: A Face in the Fog*

The next night, Marta returned the same way.

The river was shrouded in fog, the streetlights creating halos, and raindrops sounded like footsteps.

She passed the pillars.

Then she heard:

> “Marta…”

This time the voice was closer.

Much closer.

She froze and turned.

A man in an old, heavy coat stood in the fog, his hat obscuring his face.

“Excuse me…” she began. “Do you know me?”

The man tilted his head.

Water dripped from his hat. His coat was wet, as if he'd just emerged from a river.

She took a step back.

He took a step forward.

> "Marta…"

> "I've been waiting for you for a long time."

Marta turned and started running.

She didn't hear footsteps behind her.

But when she looked over her shoulder, she saw him **walking slowly, gliding**, unhurriedly, certain he'd catch up with her anyway.

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# 🏠 *Chapter IV: A Phenomenon in the Apartment*

Marta returned home terrified.

She locked all the locks and closed the curtains.

After half an hour, she calmed down enough to turn on the kettle.

And then the light went out.

Click.

Darkness.

First, she thought of the fuses.

But then…

a **splash of water** came from the kitchen.

As if someone was standing in a wet puddle.

Then—footsteps.

Slow.

Stretching.

Marta lifted her phone, turning on the flashlight.

A figure stood in the kitchen doorway.

Tall.

In a wet coat.

Approaching.

A voice, wet and stale, as if speaking underwater:

> "Marta... I'm back."

Marta screamed and rushed toward the front door.

She reached the hallway—

but the door was...

**open**.

And inside—darkness and a cold night wind.

As if someone had just entered.

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# 📖 *Chapter V: Archive of Dark Events*

The next day, Marta went to the city library.

She wanted to check if the story of Przechodni had any sources.

She found an old, dusty volume of newspapers from the late 19th century.

On one of the pages—a photograph.

A man.

In a coat.

In a hat. Standing on the bank of the Thames.

"Missing, presumably drowned while searching for his son. His body was never found."

She clipped the article and read it carefully.

Then she noticed the second article.

"Woman claims she saw a man in a wet coat who whispered her name. A few days later, he disappeared."

Third article.

Fourth.

Tenth.

Always the same figure.

Always after midnight.

Always by the Thames.

He always said his name.

And then…

the victim started seeing him everywhere.

In the mirror.

In the bus window.

In the reflection in the water.

Until finally…

she stopped going home.

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# 🌊 *Chapter VI: Meeting by the River*

Martha returned to Blackfriars Bridge at 11:58 PM.

She wanted to end this once and for all.

The fog was so thick that there was almost nothing to see.

Oh, I see.

"I know you're here," she said. "I want answers. What do you want from me?!

First there was silence.

And then—footsteps.

The same silhouette emerged from the misty whiteness.

The man spoke slowly, in a hoarse, gurgling voice:

> "I want... you to listen to me."

Marta stood still, trembling.

"Who are you?"

The passerby raised his head.

His face was pale, bluish, and covered with cracks.

As if he'd been underwater too long.

> "I'm looking for my son..."

> He died here...

> I can't leave until I find him..."

Marta felt pity.

But only for a moment.

Because then the man added:

> "And today..."

> you'll come with me."

And he moved toward her.

Not quickly.

Not running.

Slowly, surely, inevitably.

As if he knew he'd catch up with her anyway.

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# ⚠️ *Chapter VII: Escape to the Tunnel*

Marta turned and started running toward the narrow passage under the bridge.

She heard the man following her.

Walking, not running.

And yet, he was closing the distance.

As she entered the tunnel, the lights began to flash.

And with each flash, she saw him closer:

Mig.

—At the entrance.

Mig.

—Halfway down the tunnel.

Mig.

—Behind her.

Marta fell, tripping over a metal dumpster.

She turned and saw his face just centimeters from hers.

The man whispered:

>—Marta… the river needs us…

And he held out his hand.

Wet.

Icy.

Deadly.

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# 🛟 *Chapter VIII: Salvation?*

At the last moment, Marta stood up and hit him with her flashlight.

He recoiled with a sound like someone hitting water.

Marta ran out of the tunnel, straight into the street.

There, a police patrol stopped beside her.

"Ma'am, what happened?"

Marta looked back.

The tunnel was empty.

Dry.

Silent.

Dead.

"He... he was there..." she whispered.

The policeman looked at her sympathetically.

"Please go home. Don't walk alone at night."

They left.

Marta was left alone.

And then she heard in her ear, right next to her:

> — Marta…

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# 🧿 *Epilogue: Reflection in the Water*

Marta never led night tours again.

She moved to daytime tours, to the bright, crowded places of London.

But one night she had to walk along the Thames.

The rain was pouring down.

When she looked into the water, she saw her reflection…

…and next to it, right next to it, another.

The face of a man in a wet coat.

He was looking at her.

Still.

With eyes that reflected only the waves.

And then he whispered one last time:

> — Marta… it's time.

Her body was found a month later.

In the water, under Blackfriars Bridge.

It was recovered in the exact same spot where the man in the newspaper photograph from a hundred years ago had disappeared.

Her eyes were wide open.

As if she were searching for someone in the depths.

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