Just leaves. Relax.
He turns and continues down the street.
Not a big deal, he thinks, though he’s started to walk faster. It happens every October. The leaves fall, dry like shed snakeskins, and are blown about by the wind along the street.
Once more, he can hear them behind him, skidding across the concrete, a hollow rattling whisper.
Nicholson turns again. The wind is still gusting, and the leaves, suspended in the air, twirl and dance as if alive.
As if alive.