The Last Streetlight

In the autumn of 2004, I moved into a small rented cottage on the edge of a sprawling, unkempt field, about fifty yards from a lonely stretch of country road. The cottage had one bedroom, a cramped kitchen, and a bathroom whose window looked out onto the gravel driveway. At night, the only light came from a single, flickering streetlamp that stood at the junction where the road met an abandoned railroad crossing.

I was a light sleeper, and every night I would get up to use the bathroom, then check on my old dog, Buster, who slept in a basket by the front door. The front door had a small, rectangular window at eye level, but I always kept the curtain drawn. After my nightly ritual, I would shuffle back to bed, my eyes adjusted to the dark, and I never bothered to turn on any lights.

One night, I woke with a start. The house was silent, but something felt different—a pressure in the air, like just before a thunderstorm. I got up, padded to the bathroom, and did my business. Then, as was my habit, I walked toward the front door to check on Buster. He was curled up, but his head was lifted, ears alert, staring at the door.

I took a step closer, and I saw a movement through the curtain—a dark shape shifting. I thought, ‘Oh, Buster needs to go out.’ I reached for the door handle, but as I got closer, I realized the shape was too tall, too human. I froze, and my eyes focused on the bottom corner of the window, where the curtain had slipped. Through the gap, I could see the streetlamp, and silhouetted against its pale glow was a figure—tall, gaunt, and utterly still.

My heart hammered. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a passing deer, my imagination. I pulled the curtain fully across, locked the door, and retreated to my bedroom. But I couldn’t shake the image of that figure, standing just outside, waiting.

The next night, I didn’t get up. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind. But at three in the morning, nature called. I crept to the bathroom, avoiding the front door. When I came out, I couldn’t help but glance down the hallway. The curtain was drawn, but the window was now lit—the streetlamp’s glow was somehow brighter, more focused, as if it were shining directly into the house.

I took a step toward the door, and I saw a hand press against the glass from outside—long, pale fingers, nails thick and yellow. I stumbled backward, my breath caught in my throat. The hand withdrew, and then a face appeared, pressed close to the window. It was featureless—no eyes, no mouth, just a smooth, pale oval. And it was smiling.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the corner of the living room, clutching a broom, until dawn. When the sun rose, I went to the window. There was nothing outside, but I noticed the glass was smudged with a greasy residue, like a handprint. I couldn’t clean it off, no matter how hard I scrubbed.

Every night after that, the figure appeared. It never tried to break in, never made a sound, but it stood there, watching. I stopped going to the bathroom at night. I set up a bucket in the bedroom. I avoided the front of the house entirely. But I knew it was still there, because I could feel its gaze, even through walls.

My dog, Buster, refused to go near the door. He would whimper and hide under the bed. I tried to leave, but every time I packed a bag, I would find myself frozen, unable to step outside. It was as if the house had become a trap, and I was its prey.

On the seventh night, I woke to a sound—a soft, rhythmic tapping on the glass. I forced myself to look. The figure was there, its face now cracked, like porcelain, and from the cracks, a faint, high-pitched humming emanated. The streetlamp flickered, and then went out, plunging the house into absolute darkness.

In that darkness, I heard something that made my blood run cold: the metallic click of the front door unlocking. The door creaked open, and I felt a draft of cold air. I couldn’t see anything, but I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate, crossing the living room floor.

I shut my eyes, praying to wake up. But I didn’t. I heard a voice, not from outside, but inside my head, whispering, ‘The last streetlight is out. Now you are mine.’

They found me the next morning, curled in the corner, my eyes wide open but unseeing. The doctors said it was a psychotic break, and I spent years in a hospital. But when I finally got out, I went back to that cottage, driven by a compulsion I couldn’t explain. The streetlamp was gone, torn down, but the house was still there. And in the window, I saw it again—the featureless face, waiting for me.

I never went back after that. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I see a glimpse of it in my peripheral vision, standing under a streetlamp, watching me. And I know, when the last light goes out, it will come for me again.