The Gaslight Man

I have a history of mental illness—psychosis, to be precise—but I want to make it clear that I’ve been stable for years. During my episodes, I never had visual hallucinations; my delusions were purely conceptual, twisting my thoughts rather than my sight. So when I saw him on that foggy evening in March, standing under the flickering gas lamp on Cobblestone Lane, I knew it wasn’t my mind playing tricks. I was on my way home from my sister’s place in the old district of Millbrook, a neighborhood that had preserved its Victorian charm, with cobblestone streets and row houses that seemed to lean in conspiratorially.

I had just stepped off the tram and was crossing the street, glancing both ways even though the street was empty. To my left, I saw him: a tall, thin figure in a long black coat and a top hat, his face obscured by something that looked like a porcelain mask, painted with a serene smile. He stood perfectly still, staring at me from across the road. A chill ran down my spine, but I dismissed it as a trick of the light or a quirky resident. I hurried home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

The next night, I saw him again, this time closer, standing beneath a streetlamp at the end of my block. The same mask, the same unblinking gaze. I quickened my pace, my heart hammering. I told myself it was a coincidence, that perhaps he was a street performer or a prankster. But there was something deeply wrong about him, something that made my skin crawl.

By the third night, I had decided to confront him. I armed myself with a flashlight and a can of pepper spray, and I waited by my window, watching the street. At 11:47 PM, he appeared, as if materializing from the fog. I grabbed my things and rushed out, but when I reached the spot, he was gone. I searched the alleyways, the parked cars, but there was no sign of him. Then I heard a faint whisper behind me: ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ I spun around, but saw nothing.

That’s when the real horror began. My apartment started to feel wrong. Objects moved at night—my keys would be in a different place, a photo frame would be tilted. I found muddy footprints on my carpet, even though my door was locked. I set up cameras, but they only recorded static and occasional glimpses of a shadowy figure that didn’t quite match my memory of him.

I went to the police, but they dismissed me as a paranoid ex-psychiatric patient. My sister urged me to see my therapist, but I knew I was sane. I started researching the history of Millbrook, and I uncovered a disturbing story: in the late 1800s, there was a man known only as ‘The Gaslight Man’ who was rumored to abduct people who were alone at night, leaving only their footprints behind. He was never caught, and it was believed he died in a fire that destroyed his home, but some said he was immortal, bound to the lanterns he used to lure his victims.

As I read, the lights in my apartment flickered, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I turned, and there he was, standing in my hallway, the mask now cracked, revealing a dark void where his face should be. He spoke in a voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once: ‘You know my name at last.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

I don’t remember how I escaped, but I woke up in a hospital, my leg broken, with burns on my arms. The doctors said I was found unconscious in a derelict building near the old gasworks. They blamed it on a gas leak. But I know the truth. The Gaslight Man is real, and he’s still out there, waiting for the next person who dares to look into the shadows. I’m writing this as a warning: if you ever see a man in a porcelain mask under a flickering light, don’t run. Don’t look away. Just pray that he’s only a figment of your imagination—because if he’s real, you’re already his.