The Lowest Animal

I used to love horror films.

It started when I was eight, sneaking out after bedtime to watch Halloween with my older brother Simon. Cross-legged in front of our boxy old TV, Carpenter’s eerie piano theme tapping out across the room, I was hooked. I didn’t sleep for a week, convinced Michael Myers was behind my bedroom curtain.

Sure, Myers isn’t exactly realistic—catching up to his victims with that measured walk. But have you ever heard of Ted Bundy? Richard Ramirez? Ed Gein? These men existed—if you can even call them men. They stalked, hunted, and brutalized. They were real monsters wearing human faces. To me, that’s always been scarier than any poltergeist or phantom.

Mark Twain once said: “Of all animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it.”

Before I go on, you should know—I lead an unremarkable life. On the verge of thirty, I’ve lived in the same small town all my life. No kids, no drama, no criminal record. Just a modest job, a mortgage, and a quiet two-bed townhouse.

I liked things that way. Predictable. Safe. Which is why what happened makes no sense to me. I hold no grudges, no enemies. I stayed in my lane and played my own tune.
But in the end, it didn’t matter. Darkness found me—and for all I know, it marked me like a reader dog-ears their favourite paragraph: to revisit later, when my guard is at its lowest.
Last winter, real evil came for me. And it ruined the genre forever.

_______________

I left the office late on that icy November evening. The IT company I worked for had purchased a series of new routers, and the task of logging the devices in our tracking systems had taken longer than expected. It must’ve been almost 7pm when I locked up the large double glass doors and hurried out to the car. I sat in the driver’s seat with the heater on full blast, listening to Madonna’s greatest hits while the windscreen gradually defrosted.

I called mom on hands free on the drive home, staring vacantly at the silhouettes of the pines flashing by the car as she complained about one of dad’s obnoxious friends. By the time I parked at the top of the driveway and hung up the call, I was exhausted. I’d been on my feet organising stock all day, and hadn’t had a moment’s rest. I pocketed my phone, determined to shut off from technology for the night, and maybe that’s what saved my life.

I killed the motor, got out of the car and breathed in the cool evening air. It was a cloudless night, and I remember thinking how quiet it had suddenly become. I scanned the street. Stillness clung to the air and a smattering of streetlights barely held back the dark. Strange. Usually at that time you would see at least a handful of families through their kitchen windows, laughing around dinner tables.

I locked the car and made my way to the house; the only sounds were my feet rhythmically crunching against gravel on the driveway. I looked at the neighbouring houses on either side of me. They slouched in the darkness like sleeping giants, their windows sealed behind drawn curtains. Turning my attention to my house, the first seeds of doubt took root. It was just as dark as the other houses, just as quiet, only it wasn’t asleep. Its attention was on me, watching. I don’t know why I stopped in my tracks. I can’t really explain it. I just knew that it was a bad idea to keep going. That I wasn’t alone anymore.

Breathing shallowly, I examined the front door for signs of a break in. Everything looked normal. Just as I’d left it. The doormat was in place, though I silently cursed myself for leaving the spare key in such an obvious hiding place. The screen door was closed and the porchlight off. All of the lights in my living room were also off, and I could see no movement inside. The stairs to the second floor lay partly in shadow, but looked empty. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn. Bedroom window—check. Bathroom window—check. Study window—check…wait a minute. Was the shadow at the base of the curtain from my Monstera plant? I thought I’d recently moved the plant next to my desk, but I couldn’t be sure. I stood, frozen to the spot, staring at the square study window, searching for any signs of movement.

Just as I had convinced myself that it had all been my imagination, I saw the left side of the curtain softly flutter and fall back towards the window. Thoughts, emotions and imagined scenarios flew through my mind, but one perched stubbornly, refusing to let go. The movement had been too smooth, too precise—like someone had just released the curtain from behind it. Watching. Waiting for me to come inside.

The shadow by the base of the window had shifted ever so slightly, I was certain. A tightness gripped my chest. Moths battered against the walls of my stomach, frantic and relentless. Fighting against every instinct to run, I turned my back to the house and forced myself to walk slowly toward the car. My hands fumbled, but I managed to still them long enough to open the door, slide into the seat, and jam the key in the ignition. The engine caught, and I drove, eyes trained on the mirror, until the house was a distant blur behind me. Only then did I pull over and kill the lights. I realized I’d been holding my breath for some time. I sucked air in ragged gasps as I dug in my pocket, fingers trembling, and reached for my phone to call the police.

I sat in the car, time stretching and bending. It felt like hours, and I started to feel foolish. Surely the wind had caused the curtain to move. Or maybe my best friend Sarah had let herself in and was playing a prank on me. From that distance, the house looked empty. Quiet. But I had seen someone’s shadow in the window. I had felt someone’s eyes on me. My thoughts spiralled. What if they saw me looking up? What if they left through the backyard, and were creeping towards me at that very moment? I checked that the car doors were locked, sitting low in the seat.

Faint flashing red and blue lights in the distance brought me back to the present, and I glanced at the car’s radio clock. It had only been 15 minutes. The police cruiser slowly pulled over to where I had parked earlier. I frantically wiped at the fogged-up windscreen, as two officers got out of the cruiser and turned on flashlights. I rested my hands on my neck, aware that sweat had pooled under my arms, yet my fingers were ice cold.

I couldn’t sit still. Unable to stand the suspense, I got out of the car and stood in the shadow of a large nearby cedar. The police walked up to my front door, taking the key from under the mat. Their flashlight beams warped in the frosted porch window, casting writhing shadows around the front garden. I steadied myself on the cool trunk of the cedar, breathing in the chilled air.

For an agonizingly long time, the police made their way through my home, turning on lights as they went. My heart thundered, wildly, as I fought to clamp down on the panic. When the police finally emerged, they weren’t alone. They ushered someone in front of them, wearing handcuffs. I felt an odd sense of relief. Part of me was grateful—it hadn’t all been in my head. But the relief quickly turned to dread. The intruder made no attempt to resist. He seemed oddly relaxed. As they approached the cruiser, he looked up, his head lolling to the side. I pressed against the tree trunk as he locked eyes with me. And what I saw chilled me to my bones. His face betrayed no anger or spite. Instead, he smiled—a slow, unsettling grin, baring his teeth like a child proudly displaying a drawing. It was the smile of someone utterly unhinged.

An hour later I drove to the police station. In a windowless grey room across from the burly arresting officer, I recounted the events from the evening, I thought his presence would comfort me. He was clearly taking it seriously, yet that just made the situation all the more real. I told him everything, oversharing my emotional state and conversation with my mom. When I described how I’d stopped before the front door, aware that someone was watching, I asked why the intruder didn’t leave before the police came. He looked at me for some time, then slowly described the scene.

Earlier that evening, a man in his mid-thirties entered my home. They suspected that he used my spare key to let himself in, as there was no forced entry. He brought zip ties, gloves, and took an assortment of knives from my kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, while he cleaned the blades. He then went upstairs to the study, where he neatly prepared the knives from largest to smallest, like he was setting a sick dinner table for one. He drew the curtains, turned off the lights, and patiently waited for me to come home.

The officer hesitated, before continuing.
The intruder didn’t flee because he wasn’t a burglar. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the officer picked up a folder from the metal desk between us, and laid out several polaroid’s. They were of me, but I wasn’t aware the photos were taken. They were candid shots at the grocery store, getting out of my car, and when I saw the last one, my hand flew to my mouth as I stifled a cry. It was taken from my backyard. I had fallen asleep, sunbathing on a warm summer’s day.

_______________

It’s been 6 months since that night. My therapist said it would help if I wrote this all down, and it has, actually. We’ve talked it over a hundred times, but it feels good to have it down on paper. Seeing the words makes it feel…contained. Like maybe if I trap the story here, I can stop living in it.
The new place helps. The state-of-the-art alarm system keeps every door sealed tight, and Mr. Bojangles, my new best friend, sleeps downstairs. He looks every bit the ferocious Rottweiler, no one would guess he’s the cuddliest boy.

Of course, I had to move. The police eventually got a conviction—Corey Stanmore. No criminal record. No connection to me. Just a stranger. He was charged with trespassing and unlawful entry with malicious intent. The court ruled that he was mentally unfit to stand trial. He’s currently staying indefinitely at a psychiatric facility, a few hours away. I’ve done a lot of research on that place. It looks secure. Guards at all entry points. Doors that automatically lock from the inside.

People tell me how lucky I was. Lucky I saw the curtain shift. Lucky I didn’t go inside. Lucky the police came in time. But the way I see it, luck didn’t save me, it chose me. Oh, sure, I was lucky. Lucky enough to be seen by the wrong person, at the wrong moment, for no reason at all. I wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was in my place. My driveway. My home. And he chose it, like a snake, flicking its tongue, picking up a scent. I can never truly relax. Every time I walk home from the grocery store, I feel eyes on me. When I open a cupboard, I half expect a stranger to lunge out. The moment he chose me, everything changed. Now, I can never stop looking over my shoulder.

I should go, Mr Bojangles is probably getting hungry, it’s past his dinner time. He’s usually up here by now, his head at my feet, looking up with those soft brown eyes. But I haven’t seen him for a while. That’s weird, I’ll go and check on him. Huh. The stairwell lights off. I thought I’d left it on. I’ll be right back…

Credit: John Graham

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Please note the author of this Creepypasta does NOT give permission for this story to be reproduced in any medium