Every Year, A Man Stands At The End Of My Street. We Are Not Allowed To Acknowledge Him

  

 

We don’t talk about him anymore. Not out loud. Not even in whispers. But he’s always there.

At the very end of our street, where the cracked asphalt fades into weeds and the last streetlamp flickers like it’s clinging to life, he waits.

The man.

Tall. Too tall, like his bones grew just a little too far, leaving his arms to hang awkwardly low, his fingers grazing the air just above his knees. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run, doesn’t knock on doors like a normal person. He just… stands there. And sways.

It’s not like the easy sway of someone shifting weight from one leg to another. No. His movement is jerky, unnatural, like a puppet’s strings being tugged by a hand that doesn’t quite understand how humans are supposed to move. He’ll tilt his head one way, then bend too far, as if his neck should’ve snapped, before jerking upright again.

And though the shadows swallow his face, you can feel his eyes. Always. Always watching.

The first time I saw him, I thought it was just some drunk who’d wandered into the neighborhood. I was ten years old, peeking out of my bedroom window at two in the morning, and I told myself he’d stumble off soon. But he didn’t.

He stayed there until the sun came up.

That was when I realized he wasn’t some drunk. He wasn’t anything normal.

The neighbors knew. They’d all known for longer than us. Their curtains stayed shut after dark. Porch lights stayed off. Children weren’t allowed to play outside past seven.

I asked my father once why no one called the police. His face went pale, and he shook his head.

“The police came once.”

That was all he said. His voice cracked on the last word, and he didn’t look at me when he said it. I was old enough to know not to ask again.

Over time, the rule spread. It wasn’t written down anywhere, but everyone in the neighborhood knew it, even the littlest kids.

Ignore him.

Don’t speak to him. Don’t acknowledge him. Don’t even admit you see him. If you follow the rule, you’ll be fine.

At least… that’s what we believed.

But rules are harder to follow when curiosity gnaws at you. And fear, as strange as it sounds, makes you want to look. Makes you want to check that the thing you’re afraid of is still where it’s supposed to be.

That’s how it happened to me.

It was nearly 3AM, and I couldn’t sleep. My room was hot, the sheets sticky with sweat, and my mind kept buzzing with unease. I don’t know why I did it, but I got up and pulled the curtain back just a little, just enough to peek out.

He was there.

Swaying under the dying light.

I stared at him. I told myself it was safe to look, as long as I didn’t say anything, as long as I didn’t do anything. Just a glance, I thought. Just long enough to prove to myself that he was real.

I don’t know how long I watched. Seconds, maybe minutes. And then… he stopped.

The swaying ceased. His crooked body straightened.

And his head snapped in my direction.

I dropped the curtain so fast I nearly ripped it off the rod. My breath caught in my throat. My chest burned from holding it in. For the rest of the night, I sat frozen in the dark, praying, bargaining, begging in silence that he hadn’t noticed me.

When the sun rose, I convinced myself it was nothing. A trick of the light. My tired mind playing games.

But when I stepped outside to grab the newspaper, I saw them.

Footprints.

Long, dragging footprints in the dirt.

And they led from the end of the street… right to the space beneath my bedroom window.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t call for my parents. I just stood there, staring at the marks in the soil until my father came outside and saw them too. He didn’t speak. He just grabbed my arm and yanked me back inside, slamming the door shut behind us.

That was the day I truly understood the rule.

You can’t give him attention. Not even a glance too long. He wants it. He feeds on it.

And maybe that’s the only reason we’re still alive—because we’ve learned to pretend he isn’t there.

But here’s the problem no one talks about: pretending is harder than it sounds.

Every time I hear the streetlamp buzzing late at night, I think of him. Every time the house settles and the walls creak, I imagine footsteps dragging closer. Every time I close my eyes, I feel his gaze through the glass.

Ignoring him doesn’t make him disappear. It just makes you doubt yourself.

And doubt is dangerous.

Because the longer this goes on, the harder it is to resist the urge to look.

I’m starting to wonder if that’s the real test. Not whether we acknowledge him… but whether we can resist the temptation not to.

And what happens when someone finally breaks? 

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Credits