The Third Lamppost From The Left
There's something about it that gives Janet the creeps.
Written for the Inanimate Objects TIF disruption October 2025.
There was something about the third lamppost from the left on the even numbers side of Sinclair Street that always made Janet uneasy. It wasn't something she could put her finger on. The street itself was unremarkable; lined with a row of identical post-war semi-detached brick-built houses with angular bay windows on each side. Flat-topped privet hedges leaned over brick wall boundaries. Fuel-efficient cars sat like smug cats in each driveway, and some of the houses had pitched Dormer additions poking out of their neat slate roofs.
Her own home was number 42d; the landlord had broken the house's interior up into self-contained studio flats. He never really bothered with its upkeep—as long as they kept paying the rent, he was happy. Since her income would not allow an upgrade at that point, she was stuck with it.
Every morning, her route to the number 37 bus stop took her past that lamp. It didn't matter which side of the street she was on; she could feel it leering hungrily at her as she passed it by. Rain or shine, when she felt the scurrilous heat of its gaze upon her she would quicken her steps, drawing her jacket tighter as she passed. It was always the last one to go out as the sun climbed the sky.
Every evening, she could feel its shadow reaching out for her, trying to grab her.
The worst thing about it was having to keep this secret to herself. Who could she tell? What could she say? How in the world could she ever explain the chill that seized her spinal column, sadistically stroking a thin finger up to her neck each time she passed it?
It seemed to know her moods; if she felt confident, she didn't notice it so much, but if she was unhappy, it would consume her thoughts till she was out of its shadow.
As autumn crawled towards winter, dragging the remains of the inconsistent summer behind it, the lamppost’s influence grew with the shortening days. Janet started looking for ways to get home without passing it. She gave herself an extra half hour in the morning, walking to the other end of the street to try the parallel one. When she took the right turn, she looked for another right turn to take her to Lombard Street, where the bus stop was. The next right turn was a cul-de-sac. The next one curled into a vehicle repair shop’s yard. She couldn't afford an Uber, so she had to walk right back the way she came; right up Sinclair Street, past the exultant lamppost, which seemed to wink off with an unspoken ‘I told you so.’
The next day, she tried looking for a parallel road on the left of Sinclair Street. Several promising routes presented themselves, but she ended up walking back up Sinclair Street again. Google Maps told her that her neighbourhood was laid out like a grid. Street view confirmed it, so why could she never traverse these streets on foot without ending up back where she came from?
There had to be a way out of this. She packed a bag and made some calls. Each one went to voicemail. She sent emails. No response. WhatsApp messages went unanswered. Facebook updates continued; she sent messages. On her second break, she checked and found no responses. Fair enough, they were no doubt at work.
After work, she checked her phone. Nothing.
Bile rose in her throat. A chill crept up her spine, permeating her whole being. Her heart hammered her ribs like a Japanese drummer. She trembled, her lower lip wobbling, as tears welled behind her eyelids.
The dam burst.
Janet sobbed, stumbling to the seats in the empty reception room, heedless of the bags she had dropped in the doorway. After the emotional storm had passed, she steeled herself for the journey home; she had no money for a hotel, bed and breakfast, or anything like that. Per all the accommodation websites, they were all full anyway.
‘Don't keep it waiting,’ she told herself sardonically.
She trudged to the bus stop and waited for the bus, pulling her coat a little tighter around herself, her bag slung over her holder. It took forever to arrive, and when it did, it was full and passed her by. An echo of fury mingled with her frustration. She tried to push it out but it persisted. When the next bus finally arrived, she got on, trying to make sense of the déjà vu that was closing in on her through every sense, every thought, every memory. She recited her times tables to ground herself, heedless of the other passengers. A sense of impending doom built up inside her as the stops picked off the minutes. Each flash of passing headlights ticked off the second.
‘Any minute now.’
Beeeeeep!
A minicab swerved past, almost scraping the bus.
The bus driver cursed; a string of epithets describing the circumstances of the other driver's conception and birth.
Why was she saying them with him like a football fan chanting for his team? She knew every word.
The Indian restaurant on the corner of Linley Avenue; she remembered wanting to go in there—and being so distracted by the sign that had recently changed, she almost missed her stop. She rang the bell.
She almost stayed on the bus. She almost rode it to its terminus and thought of getting out there to look for somewhere far enough from Sinclair Street to stay for the night, tucked into a cardboard box or something.
The bus stopped. She got off, conscious of the other passengers looking anywhere but at her.
‘This is ridiculous!’ she said to herself. ‘I'm afraid of a bloody lamppost! Who ever heard of such a thing?’
She walked resolutely onwards, as if to the scaffold, metaphorically refusing the bag over her head. She would face this dreadful thing with dignity and determination.
Janet counted the shops, restaurants, and takeaways on Lombard Street, taking comfort from familiarity. She breathed in the scents of the vinegar, the spices, and the other smells that wafted past on the faint autumn breeze.
Sinclair Street. The black edge sat on the white sign like the cap the judges of long ago wore when they sentenced someone to death.
This is it.
She turned the corner.
There it was, waiting for her.
Why was it that one that gave her the creeps?
This time, she would not creep along the odds side, the privet leaves brushing against her as she walked along. This time she would march right up to it and kick it. Whack it with her bag. Slap it. Show it that she refused to be afraid of it for a minute longer.
There it was.
She could feel the glow of its light; a warning beacon high above her.
Two and four, six and eight, ten and twelve.
One.
Each footfall felt like a step towards the edge of a cliff. She stopped to take a breath and put a hand on the first lamppost. This one felt alright. Just a lamppost lighting her way, but ahead of her lay something ancient and hungry. She fought the urge to flee.
Fourteen and sixteen, eighteen and twenty, twenty two and twenty four.
Two. There was something on it.
Dread tightened its grip on her; she found it hard to breathe, but she went on nonetheless.
Twenty six and twenty eight, thirty and thirty two, thirty four and thirty six.
Three.
She froze. What was that attached to its grey aluminium side?
Flowers?
Curiosity bade her take a closer look, but she couldn't move. A darkness that the light couldn't keep out welled up inside her. She knew what was written on the card sticking out of the corner. She knew it was her name. She clenched her fists.
“Show me,” she gasped, looking up at the lamp.
Look.
She dragged her foot forward and forced her hand up to touch the card. It burned her fingertips. The world faded out of focus, then came back. She looked down. At her feet lay a lump of navy blue crowned with dark brown curls that sparkled in the dim yellow light where the grey was taking over.
“Is that me?”
No response.
She steeled herself, took a breath, and bent down. It didn't hurt. Her knees folded neatly, almost touching the ground. She put her hand on the ersatz wool of the cheap overcoat, then moved the hair aside. The aging face was darkened, flushed; the eyes partly open. Blood had pooled on the ground around the button nose.
Janet sank, flattening out, merging with the corpse. The light went out.