Dave had come to East Hollow, New Hampshire earlier this year, in the summer. He'd taken a job at a local bar where he worked until closing time. Not great hours but, beggars can't be choosers, right? He didn't have a car, or more importantly, he'd lost his license. Again. This time he thought he might not get it back. So he walked home from the bar at night alone. This wasn't the kind of town you had to worry about being mugged in. Plus he didn't mind getting a little space after being cooped up in that stuffy, stink-ass bar for 8 hours.

There was only ever one minor problem with the walk home. One street, which made the difference between a 15 minute walk and a 30 minute walk. And here he was. He always hated walking this street. He knew it was stupid, but this street creeped him out. But it was the fastest way home from work and he wasn't some pussy, so he usually took it.

He knew why the street creeped him out so much too. He would never tell anyone, because then they would think he was a pussy, but he knew. It was the lamppost. How stupid was that? But there it was. It was the lamppost. For some bizarre reason, there was one, old, leftover gas lamp halfway down the street - like the DPW guys had somehow accidentally missed it when they replaced all the rest of the old gaslights in the town with streetlights. The lamp itself was a long, black metal thing with curved spikes that sprouted outward from the center of the top and bottom and it hung off a curved arm from a black metal chain. The light that shone from its glass windows bordered by square black frames was harsh and seemed it could never decide if it was orange or yellow. The lamppost itself was a heavy, fluted, black metal with an ornate base.

Every time he looked up at the lamp as he passed, he couldn't help but think of an overextended mouth in a scream like that macabre Edvard Munch painting by the same name. And every time he thought this he told himself, "Jesus man, it's a streetlight. Stop being such a pussy." But every time he passed into the pool of yellow-orange light cast by the lamp, he felt...wrong, like the air became heavy. And he always swore he could smell a vague scent of sulfur which was gone as soon as he noticed it. Some nights, when his imagination seemed to be running particularly wild, he actually crossed the street when passing the lamp - and always wondered if someone was behind him snickering because they knew he was creeped out by a friggin' street light.

Tonight was a bad one though. That black, yawning lamp looked particularly creepy tonight. And there was a chill in the air from the onset of his first fall in New England. In fact it was more than just a chill, it was getting goddamned cold. The town had that empty, barren feel to it that New England towns get in the fall. So did the street tonight.

He stopped and contemplated going the long way. Actually stopped and stood there, wary eye upon that gas lamppost, thinking how he really didn't want to walk by or anywhere near that thing right now. But he also really didn't want to walk a half hour in this cold. He closed his eyes and released an irritated sigh. This was so stupid - how could he actually be... He heard the metallic clinking sound of a chain coiling onto pavement and snapped his eyes open.

The spiky black gas lamp was hanging at eye level, careening toward him, bouncing as if someone were running with it, growing larger as it approached. It's black chain still connected to the ring at the top, hung down to the ground and undulated with the bouncing of the lamp, making those metallic, clinking sounds against the pavement. He stood, paralyzed by dumb disbelief. Somewhere in the distance he heard a distorted moaning, like someone screaming through water.

"Hwah!" was the only thing he could make come out of his mouth. His mind wasn't working, not in control of his body anymore. System overload, about to shut down. Like a deer in the headlights - except he was a man in the lamplight. Fear spilled through him and covered him like red wine spilled over a white table cloth.

The distorted screaming became louder as the thing approached. It was only a few feet away now. He felt heat and an acrid sulfur burned the inside of his nose and throat as he drew in breath to add his scream to the garbled, horrible sound he was hearing. The last ludicrous thing that went through his mind, right before the bouncing, glaring lamp eclipsed his vision was, "This is what happened to Ichabod Crane."

***

Three days later an article appeared in the Hollow Times.

"A local East Hollow man has been reported missing by coworkers. Last seen leaving work three nights ago, David Johnson was expected back at work the next night but has not returned since, coworker Janine Randolph told the Hollow Times. As most Hollow residents know, unsolved disappearances are unfortunately not uncommon..."