The Street Lamp
“You should go close your windows. It’s going to rain tomorrow.” said your Dad. You sighed and looked at the clock: 11:20. “Okay” you said, as you felt a tiny twinge of fear spark in your brain. It was an old fear, your fear of the dark. You’ve had it since you were a child. It was silly, but a natural human fear. You grabbed your keys and whistled for the dog, who was always happy to go outside even in the dark. As he stood there on the front porch in the dim light wagging his tail, you began to make your way toward your car. As you walk across the yard toward your car, what started as the dull fear of the dark that you’ve always had began to creep into panic, until it suddenly overtook you, pouncing onto you with incredible surprise and ferocity into full blown panic. As your heart begins pounding you fight with your whole being to focus on your car, and not look off into the abyss that exists just past the weak circle of light from the street lamp. As you get into your car and shut the windows, your will finally fails and you stare out into the dark.What you see, or better lack of sight thereof, unnerves you. You see nothing. Not a blank, boring nothing. A nothingness, a black so complete and overwhelmeing that you feel it staring back into you, right in the eyes somehow. Suddenly the panic overtakes you. You slam the door shut and rush back across the lawn, out of the weak street light and into the equally weak porch light punctured by the silhouette of your unaware dog. You get inside along with the dog, turn and stare uneasily into the black silky summer night one more time, and finally sigh in relief and shut the door, clicking the deadbolt. I know. I was there, as I always have been. Just beyond the feeble street light, at the edge of the vast rolling mouth of black that swallows the earth every night. Staring. Watching. Waiting… Credit To: Zach Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.