Dr. Candice Burke knew better than to stay late after teaching her evening classes. Especially one on the fourth floor like tonight’s English 140, Intro to Children’s Lit. Still, her car was parked right next to the old Humanities building, police officers patrolled the campus, and she was a quick study on the three flights of stairs, priding herself on her athletic prowess, even now that she’d turned forty. 

It was one of her favorite times of the fall semester. Midterms. The students were at their best, aiming to earn max points and make up for goofing off earlier. Their efforts on the midterm projects mattered a lot to Candice, weighted so that even a failing grade could be brought up dramatically with an outstanding performance at midterm. 

After tonight’s class was over and the presentations were fresh in her mind, Candice stayed to jot into her gradebook. She liked keeping a paper record, for those unpredictable times when electronic digital records suddenly became unavailable. Tonight was Arthur’s first A grade. She was impressed by his clever presentation, very original, and considered adding a plus sign after his A. Clearly, he had thoroughly researched “The Gingerbread Man” fairy tale, and he punctuated his ten minutes in front of the class with high falsetto chants of the classic “Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.”

Mesmerizing his audience, Arthur had acted out seldom-heard versions of the little man, as when he was a ball of bread dough in Slavic lands. Arthur described the time the gingerbread man was a dumpling and another when he was a child made of clay. One story depicted the little guy as a scapegoat and instead of his run, run song, he chanted, "They are looking for me high and low, I'm wanted for that, I'm wanted for this, for any old thing that has gone amiss."

Arthur even described the gingerbread man in his role as a dangerous criminal in a newly released contemporary Nursery Crimes series. He ended his presentation to the class by noting with raised eyebrows that he was hoping the little guy could escape Dr. Adams’ merciless grading system. Candice had to smile as she marked a plus sign next to Arthur’s A grade. He'd been expecting her to fail him. Wouldn't he be surprised.

The rest of the grading took her about ten minutes. Turning to unplug her cell phone, she was startled to see she’d not pushed the charger all the way into the outlet. Her phone was still dead. Disgusted, she threw it into her backpack along with her gradebook and hoisted the pack over her shoulder. Turning out the light, she left the room, locking it from the outside as the college safety measures required, and she stepped out into the dim hallway. 

Twenty feet down the hall lay the broad old stairwell, sturdy enough to last for centuries. Handrails of inch-thick planks ran down the sides of the dark flight of steps. Candice had run down these stairs hundreds of times, didn’t need to hold on to the thick railing. Straight down to the landing, sharp right, sharp right, and straight down again. Repeat to the ground floor. Nothing to it. 

She had forgotten that this November evening was the first night back to standard time. No more fading light from daylight savings. Tonight, the stairwell shaft received illumination from a single dim light bulb and one-square-foot window at each landing. No worries. There was that handrail. 

Candice shifted her backpack, so it was more stable against her left shoulder. The moment she reached out her right hand and placed it on the top edge of the plank railing, she heard a voice behind her. A low voice, a deep voice, from somewhere back in the fourth-floor hallway behind her. 

“So, Dr. Candice Burke, may I call you Candy?” the deep voice purred. 

She took a quick step and another and another. Her fingertips lightly traced the thick old plank railing. Her pack bobbed hard against her shoulder. She leaped down the flight of stairs onto the first landing and paused to listen. The voice called, “I’m not made of clay. Stop and listen to me.” 

Her heart pounding, she jumped down two steps at a time. Halfway down next flight, her backpack slipped off her shoulder and thumped over the steps to the second-floor landing. Stunned, she froze and stared wide-eyed at the pack. Her phone was in there. But dead. 

Close behind came the falsetto voice, thin and high: “Run, run as fast as you can, but I can catch you, I’m the Gingerbread Man!” 

She scurried to the landing and bent to pick up her pack, steeling herself against him catching up with her. Would he leap onto her back? Maniacal laughing. Quiet. More laughing. Heavy breathing.

She turned right and scuttled down to the ground floor entry. Her car was just outside. She twisted her head for a quick look up at the top of the stairs. 

There he was, screaming, “Run, run, fast as you can, Candy—” Suddenly he tumbled, voiceless. She watched him fall in slow motion, head over heels down the dark stairwell. With a thump, his shoes landed a foot away from her own. He shot up and stood tall. She shoved him hard. He hit the double-door push bar and dashed outside. 

Candice held her breath, her heart racing. She listened. Mesmerized, she waited. Gave him time to get away. Nothing. Not a sound from The Gingerbread Man. She yanked her phone out of her backpack and pushed 911. Nothing. It was truly dead. 

She started screaming for help, hoping a roaming campus police officer was in earshot. But nothing. 

Not sure how long she waited, Candice made her way out to her car and started the engine, ready to back out of the space. She checked her rear-view mirror. There in the back seat was the Gingerbread Man, grinning at her. 

The End