GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE MAN WHO STANDS ACROSS THE STREET

Story and art by Justine Norton-Kertson
(This story can also be read on r/nosleep Reddit)

***

I know how this sounds.

I know how I sound.

You probably think I’m another paranoid insomniac spiraling into delusion from lack of sleep. I wouldn’t blame you. A few weeks ago, I would’ve said the same about someone like me.

But that was a few weeks ago.

There’s a man who stands across the street from my house every single night at exactly 2:17 AM. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just stands there. Watching.

At first, I thought he was some drunk wandering home too late, or a tweaker looking for unlocked cars. My neighborhood’s not bad, but it’s not exactly crime-free either. It was easy to dismiss the first night I saw him. I glanced out the front window while grabbing water from the kitchen, saw a figure under the streetlamp, and figured he’d be gone by morning.

And he was. When I woke up later that morning, he was gone.

But the next night, at the same time—2:17 AM—he was there again. Same spot. Same stiff posture. Same unnatural stillness.

I stared at him for a long time, waiting for some movement. Shift his weight. Scratch his face. Light a cigarette. Something.

Nothing.

I turned away to grab my phone and snap a picture, but when I looked back, he was gone.

It was weird, yeah, but I still didn’t panic. I figured I just missed him walking off.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

For seven nights straight, I woke up—always at 2:17 AM, like my body knew—to see him standing there, under that flickering streetlamp. Perfectly still. Watching my house.

Not watching the street. Not just… loitering.

Watching me.

I decided to take a video. I left my phone recording by the window, angled perfectly to capture the sidewalk. I figured if I could show someone—anyone—they’d obviously believe me.

I didn't wake up that night. I watched the footage the next morning.

Nothing.

No figure. No movement. Just the empty street and that old, half-burnt-out streetlight buzzing like always.

I thought maybe I’d angled the camera wrong. So I tried again the next night. This time, I stayed up watching from behind the curtain and hit record as soon as he appeared.

I watched the footage again.

Still nothing.

The man I saw with my own fucking eyes didn’t show up on camera.

That’s when I started asking friends over. If I couldn't catch him on camera, then someone else standing next to me, right here in the room... they'd have to see him too.

My buddy Greg came by for a late-night beer. I kept it casual, waited till 2:17 AM.

The man appeared.

Without taking my eyes off him, I told Greg to look out the window. He came over and stood next to me. I asked if he could see the man standing there across the street.

He squinted and said no. I asked if he was sure, keeping my eyes on the man standing right there under the street lamp. Then Greg asked me if I see a man standing there, and he said it in that way that let's you know someone thinks you're nuts.

I could’ve screamed. The guy was standing right there. I described him in detail—tall, lean, wearing a long dark coat. Hands at his sides. Head tilted just slightly upward like he was staring at the second floor. My bedroom.

Greg laughed it off, but I could tell I’d freaked him out. He didn’t finish his beer. Haven’t heard from him since. Over the next few nights, I tried again with different people—neighbors, coworkers, even my cousin. Same result every time. I could see him. No one else could.

I even brought binoculars one night. I don’t know why I thought that would help. I guess I wanted to see his face, confirm he was real. But what I saw wasn’t a face. It was… I don’t know how to describe it. The proportions were all wrong. It was too long, like it had been stretched vertically. The skin was grayish-blue and smooth, like wax. And his eyes—

No. Not eyes. Just black pits sunken into his head.

As soon as I looked too long, he turned his head—slowly—and looked directly at me. I dropped the binoculars, backed away from the window. I don’t even remember going back to bed that night.

That’s when I called the police.

They humored me. They checked the street. Drove around. Took my statement. I showed them the footage of nothing, told them about the time, the pattern, everything. One officer asked if I was under stress. Another started suggesting mental health resources. I tried not to lose it in front of them. They said there are all kinds of people out that late. That is it was probably just a someone drunk or on drugs.

They left with some “we’ll keep an eye out” line and I knew they wouldn’t be back.

The next night, I woke up at 2 AM and waited.

2:17 AM hit, and the man wasn’t under the streetlight. I looked down at my watch. Still 2:17.

I looked back out and he still wasn't there, under the street light.

No, he was closer. He stood at the edge of my lawn, halfway between the sidewalk and the street. Still staring. Still silent. Still utterly... still.

That was the first night I didn’t look away. I sat at the window and stared back. For an hour. Two. I don’t even remember falling asleep, but when I woke up, it was morning. And he was gone.

I checked the lawn. No footprints.

Then, two nights later, he was there again, closer, just outside the window. Right beneath it. Not moving. Not even blinking.

That’s when I started locking everything. Doors, windows, vents. I sealed my bedroom window with fucking duct tape. I bought a security system. Set up cameras around the house. Got a baseball bat and a big ass kitchen knife and kept them both by my bed.

That was the first night I heard footsteps in the hallway.

I live alone.

That thought hit me like ice in my spine. I sat up in bed, clutching the knife in one hand, the bat in the other, heart pounding in my ears.

The footsteps were slow, deliberate. Not heavy, not shuffling. Just… soft. Steady. Confident. They moved past my bedroom door and into the kitchen. Then silence.

I didn’t sleep that night. I didn't get up and check to see who was there or what it was. I didn’t even move. I just sat in bed, frozen, waiting. Listening. Hoping.

When the sun rose, I forced myself to search the house. Every window was locked. Every door still sealed. Windows still duct taped from the inside. No signs of a break-in. But the kitchen floor had a set of muddy footprints. Bare feet. Large. Too large.

That night, I didn’t set up the cameras. I didn’t check the window. I just sat in bed, holding the knife with white knuckles, too afraid to blink.

And yet somehow, I must’ve fallen asleep. Because I woke up at 2:16 AM, and my room was ice cold.

The man was standing at the foot of my bed.

No glass between us. No window. No streetlamp.

Inside.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I just watched him, tall and still, pale and eyeless, towering over me in the dark.

Then he lunged.

A flash of motion—faster than anything that size should be able to move. His hand came down, and a jagged, filthy fingernail ripped through my arm, from shoulder to elbow. I screamed—finally, I screamed—and he hissed. Not a breathy sound. It was low and gurgling, like wet leaves rustling inside a throat.

He slashed again—this time across my face, just beneath my right eye. I felt the heat of blood pour down my cheek.

And then—just like that—he was gone.

I sat there panting, bleeding, shaking like a leaf in a storm. The knife was still in my hand, unused. The clock on my nightstand read 2:18 AM.

I cleaned up the wounds. I figured I'd probably need stitches in my arm, probably my face too. But that could wait. Instead, I went back to the police. I showed them my arm, my face. The cuts were deep, angry, and real. The officer barely looked at them before narrowing his eyes and asking if I did it to myself.

What? No! Fuck you, I said to him. I told him, the guy was in my fucking room, that he—

But the cop just cut me off, calling me sir like he actually had any respect for me before proceeding to grill me with questions about whether I'm taking any medications, or had any thoughts about harming or killing myself.

That’s when I knew I was fucked.

They thought I was losing it. I could see it in their faces. One officer radioed something in—probably trying to get me put on a psych hold. I could feel the room closing in.

I don’t know how, but somehow I managed to talked my way out of it. I made up some excuse, laughed it off, said it was a cat scratch and I’d just had a rough week. I told them I appreciated their concern and promised I’d see a therapist.

They let me go.

But not before one of them leaned in and told me the next time they saw me like that, I'd be sticking around a lot longer.

That was three nights ago.

He hasn’t come back. Not under the streetlamp. Not on my lawn. Not inside.

But that doesn’t mean he’s gone.

I sit by the window every night now. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat much. I just watch. The streetlight flickers like always. The camera’s long since been turned off. There’s no point anymore.

Every night, at 2:17 AM, I stare out into the dark and wait. Sometimes I think I see a shadow flicker in the corner of my vision. Sometimes I feel a breath on my neck and turn to find nothing. Sometimes I wake up with that burning sensation in my arm, as if the wound’s been touched.

Whatever he is, I don’t think he’s human. I don’t think he’s bound by doors or windows or even time. He could be waiting. He could be inside me. He could be somewhere just beyond the veil, watching.

I don’t know when he’ll show up again. But I know—I know—he’s not done with me.

And next time, I'm not sure I’ll survive.