Where The Streetlight Ends is an illustrated horror anthology that reimagines the nostalgic terror of 90s "gateway horror" for the digital age. Written by Bradley Butts, this collection of ten original short stories explores the liminal spaces where safety fades into the unknown.
Blending old-school folklore with contemporary anxieties, the anthology features tales such as "The Filter," where a beauty app physically reshapes the user's face, and "The Doodle," in which a bored student's drawing gains malevolent sentience. Other stories explore themes of mimics in the Appalachian woods and dark web games that bleed into reality.
Each story is accompanied by a full-page, black-and-white illustration, creating an atmospheric reading experience designed for Young Adult and Adult horror fans alike.
Where The Streetlight Ends is an illustrated horror anthology that reimagines the nostalgic terror of 90s "gateway horror" for the digital age. Written by Bradley Butts, this collection of ten original short stories explores the liminal spaces where safety fades into the unknown.
Blending old-school folklore with contemporary anxieties, the anthology features tales such as "The Filter," where a beauty app physically reshapes the user's face, and "The Doodle," in which a bored student's drawing gains malevolent sentience. Other stories explore themes of mimics in the Appalachian woods and dark web games that bleed into reality.
Each story is accompanied by a full-page, black-and-white illustration, creating an atmospheric reading experience designed for Young Adult and Adult horror fans alike.
The U-Haul felt like a hermetically sealed capsule of parental optimism and my own suffocating dread. Dad, ever the pragmatist, whistled as he navigated the unfamiliar streets of Oakhaven, a town whose very name sounded like a folksy euphemism for "middle of nowhere." Mom, in the passenger seat, offered placid observations about the quaint architecture, her voice a thin veneer over the unspoken acknowledgment of my silent, seething resentment. This was the summer before my senior year. My senior year. The year that was supposed to be a triumphant lap, filled with the comfortable camaraderie of lifelong friends, the thrill of graduation parties already being whispered about, the collective mischief of senior pranks, and the almost mythical rite of passage that was prom.
Instead, my senior year was being irrevocably tainted, rebranded by a military transfer. Oakhaven High loomed in my imagination not as a place of new beginnings, but as a monolith of social anxieties and shattered expectations. This move wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a cruel joke, and the punchline, I would soon discover, was far darker and more enduring than I could have ever anticipated. The memories forged that year wouldn't be of laughter and celebration, but of a creeping horror that still, to this day, coils in the pit of my stomach and steals my sleep.
The first few weeks of school were a blur of forced smiles and solitary lunches. Oakhaven High was a labyrinth of unfamiliar faces and established cliques that seemed as impenetrable as fortress walls. I found my sanctuary, if you could call it that, in a small, overlooked alcove near the echoing expanse of the cafeteria. It was a recessed space, shadowed and usually empty, with a peeling linoleum floor and a grimy, painted cinder block wall. Here, I could retreat into my headphones and a book, creating a fragile bubble against the overwhelming noise and the subtle, appraising glances that new kids always attract. I ate my pre-packaged sandwiches with mechanical indifference, counting the minutes until the bell signaled the next class, the next exercise in anonymity.
It was about two weeks into this self-imposed exile, on a typically dreary Monday morning, that I first saw it. Scrawled onto the cinder block wall beside my usual uncomfortable plastic chair was a doodle. It was almost insultingly basic: a perfect circle for a head, two dots for eyes, and a wide, almost manic, toothless grin. Stick figure arms waved with an unnerving cheerfulness. Beside it, a roughly drawn speech bubble contained a single, neatly printed word: “Hello!”
My first reaction was a flicker of surprise, quickly followed by a wry amusement. Some underclassman, probably. Or maybe a bored student with a penchant for minimalist art. The sheer audacity of defacing school property for such a benign message was almost endearing. On a whim, feeling a strange, uncharacteristic urge to engage, I pulled a thick black Sharpie from the depths of my backpack. My own handwriting, stark and a little shaky, mirrored the greeting: “Hello!” I added a tentative exclamation point, a small nod to the doodle’s own exuberance.
The next morning, Tuesday, I approached my alcove with a sliver of anticipation I hadn’t felt since the move. And there it was. My own Sharpie greeting was gone, vanished without a trace, not even a smudge or a hint of paint-over. The wall looked exactly as it had the day before, pristine in its griminess, except for the doodle. It was still there, but subtly altered. One stick arm was now bent, hand on a non-existent hip, and one eye seemed to wink. The new speech bubble read: “Nice to meet you! What’s your name?”
A shiver, not entirely unpleasant, traced its way down my spine. This was… peculiar. The cleanliness of the wall was the most baffling part. How had my writing been removed so perfectly? I scanned the area. No scent of cleaning fluid, no obvious signs of fresh paint. I briefly considered the janitorial staff. Perhaps one of them was an aspiring artist with a secret playful side and access to the school’s industrial-strength cleaning supplies. It was a stretch, but the only logical explanation I could conjure.
Dismissing the unsettling questions, I uncapped my Sharpie again. I wrote my name, Alex.
And so began our silent, bizarre correspondence. Each day, I’d find a new message, a new pose for the stick figure. “How was your weekend, Alex?” it might ask, the doodle now sporting a jaunty tilt to its head. “What’s your favorite class?” another day, its stick-figure hands clasped behind its back as if in polite inquiry. The doodle itself was always rendered with an almost unnerving precision, the lines crisp and clean, as if freshly drawn moments before my arrival. When I tried to ask questions about my anonymous correspondent – “Who are you?” or “Why do you do this?” – the answer was always the same, cheerful and evasive: “I’m your friend!”
I started to look forward to these morning exchanges. It was a secret, a tiny spark of something interesting in the otherwise monotonous landscape of my new life. The anonymity was part of the charm. I pictured a quirky art student, or maybe someone shy like me, finding a unique way to connect. The janitor theory still lingered, mostly because the perfection of the erased messages and the redrawn doodle was so hard to explain otherwise. Who else could so meticulously clean and repaint a small section of wall every single day?
Then came the following Monday. The shift was palpable, even before I read the text. The doodle was no longer smiling. Its circular eyes were narrowed, topped with angry, downward-slanting eyebrows I hadn’t seen before. Its stick figure arms were planted firmly on its non-existent hips, a posture of pure indignation. The speech bubble, usually so lighthearted, now carried a distinct edge: “Where were you?”
It stopped me cold. A prickle of unease spread through me. “Where was I?” It was the weekend. Did this person, this janitor or student, seriously expect me to come to school on a Saturday and Sunday to continue our wall-based chat? It was absurd. And a little… intense. “It was the weekend! WTF?” I scrawled back, my annoyance overriding my earlier amusement. The charm of our secret correspondence was beginning to fray.
That day, the unease lingered. I found myself glancing towards the alcove as I passed it on my way to lunch, a knot tightening in my stomach. Against my better judgment, I decided to eat there. Maybe it was a desire to reassert some control, or simply a morbid curiosity to see if my disgruntled message had elicited a response.
I rounded the corner and my breath hitched. The doodle was there, as expected, but the message had changed again, even since that morning. My “WTF?” was gone, the wall wiped clean once more. The doodle now looked… desperate. The angry eyebrows were still there, but the mouth was a downturned curve, a caricature of sadness. The text was even more unsettling: “Don’t leave me again! Friends don’t leave friends!”
Okay, this was officially crossing a line. This wasn’t quirky anymore; it was veering into creepy. Whoever this was, they were either playing a very strange prank or they were genuinely unhinged. The idea of a school janitor being this invested was suddenly far less amusing and far more concerning. I felt a cold dread wash over me. This "friend" was possessive, demanding. I hesitated, then wrote, decisively, “Goodbye.” I even added a small, sad face emoticon, a petty jab to mirror its own melodramatic display. That was it. I was done.
For the next few weeks, I actively avoided the alcove. I forced myself to brave the bustling cafeteria, finding a table near a group of kids who seemed to share my interest in obscure indie bands and Japanese anime. Slowly, tentatively, I began to make actual, human friends. There was Maya, with her vibrant pink hair and sharp wit, and Liam, quiet but observant, who could dissect the plot of any sci-fi movie with surgical precision. They were a lifeline, pulling me away from the solitude that had made the doodle feel like a viable companion. The memory of the wall-dwelling entity began to fade, relegated to a weird, slightly unsettling anecdote I hadn’t yet shared.
Then, one Tuesday morning, about three weeks after my last “conversation” with the doodle, it came roaring back into my life with a vengeance. I was at my locker, fumbling with the combination, when I finally swung the metal door open. My stomach plummeted. The inside of my locker was a scene of utter chaos. Books were torn, pages ripped out and scattered like grotesque confetti. My notebooks were defaced with angry, jagged scribbles. A half-eaten apple I’d forgotten about was smashed against the back wall, its browning pulp oozing down the metal. And there, drawn with what looked like the same black marker, was the doodle.
It was more detailed this time, horrifyingly so. The simple dot eyes were now wide, glossy, and disturbingly human-like, with tiny, meticulously drawn tears leaking from them. Its mouth was stretched into an agonized howl. The text beside it, scrawled in a shaky, desperate script, read: “Why did you leave me? We were friends.”
A wave of nausea hit me. This wasn’t a prank anymore. This was targeted. This was a violation. How did they know which locker was mine? How had they gotten into it? My hands trembled as I stared at the pathetic, weeping face on the metal. Shaken, I slammed the locker shut and found Maya and Liam by the library entrance. My voice was unsteady as I recounted the events, starting with the initial "hello" and culminating in the trashed locker. They listened, Maya with a frown of concern, Liam with his usual thoughtful silence. “That’s seriously messed up, Alex,” Maya said, her pink eyebrows knitting together. “You gotta show us.” “Yeah, let’s see this psycho doodle,” Liam added, a rare spark of indignation in his eyes.
A part of me was relieved to share the burden, to have someone else validate my fear. We walked back to my locker, a small knot of righteous anger and apprehension forming between us. I took a deep breath, braced myself for the mess, and pulled the door open. My locker was pristine. Perfectly clean. My books were neatly stacked, notebooks pristine, the apple gone. Even the faint, lingering scent of old gym socks seemed to have vanished. There was no doodle, no torn pages, no sign of the earlier violation. The only thing out of place was the faint, metallic smell of industrial cleaner.
Maya and Liam exchanged a look. It was a look that spoke volumes – skepticism, a hint of annoyance. “Alex,” Maya began gently, “are you sure you didn’t… imagine it? Or maybe you’re just messing with us?” “No! I swear!” I insisted, my voice rising in panic. “It was there! The doodle, the mess, everything!” Liam just shrugged. “Okay, man. Weird.” They didn’t believe me. I could see it in their eyes. They thought I was either lying for attention or cracking under the pressure of being the new kid. The isolation I’d fought so hard to escape came crashing back, heavier and more suffocating than before. How could it have been cleaned so quickly, so thoroughly? It was impossible. I felt like I was losing my mind. I grabbed all my books and belongings from the locker, stuffing them haphazardly into my backpack. I wouldn’t use it again. I couldn’t.
The following week, the horror escalated. I walked into my second-period History class, and a hush fell over the students already seated. Several were gathered around my desk, whispering and pointing. My heart hammered against my ribs. As I approached, I saw it. My entire desk surface was covered in furious, overlapping scribbles of the same phrase: “You’re a bad friend! Bad friend! BAD FRIEND!” And in the very center, pressed flat with sickening finality, was a large, squashed cockroach. Its legs were splayed out, its antennae bent at odd angles, its carapace cracked. The way it was crushed, its limbs askew, eerily mimicked the stick-figure posture of the doodle.
This time, there were witnesses. My teacher, Ms. Davison, a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, hurried over. “What in the world is going on here?” she demanded, her gaze sweeping from the defaced desk to my pale face. The whispers died down, but the stares continued. I felt exposed, a specimen under a microscope. “I… I don’t know,” I stammered, but then the words tumbled out – the doodle on the wall, the cleaned-up messages, the trashed locker that magically fixed itself, and now this. I sounded unhinged, even to my own ears. Ms. Davison listened patiently, her expression growing more concerned. “Alex,” she said softly after I’d finished, “this is very serious. Show me this doodle on the wall you mentioned. And your locker.” A flicker of hope ignited within me. An adult, a teacher, she would help. But when we went to the alcove, the wall was blank, just grimy, peeling paint. No sign of any doodle, past or present. My old locker, when I reluctantly pointed it out (I refused to open it), looked utterly unremarkable from the outside. Ms. Davison tried the handle; it was locked. “Perhaps,” she suggested gently, her earlier concern now tinged with a professional skepticism, “you’re feeling a lot of stress from the move, Alex? Sometimes, when we’re overwhelmed, our imaginations can play tricks on us.” The implication was clear: she thought I was either making it up or genuinely delusional. I felt a flush of shame and frustration. “It was real,” I mumbled, defeated. “I’ll have maintenance clean your desk immediately,” she said, her tone now more brisk. “And if anything else like this happens, you come straight to me. But perhaps consider talking to the school counselor as well.”
The desk incident was the talk of the grade for a few days, but teenage attention spans are notoriously short. Soon, a new piece of gossip or a minor scandal pushed my story into the background. I kept my head down, focusing on my classes and clinging to the fragile friendships with Maya and Liam, though a new awkwardness now existed between us. I never mentioned the doodle to them, or anyone else, again. The fear of being labeled a freak, or worse, crazy, was too strong.
Several weeks passed without incident. A fragile sense of normalcy began to return. I started to tell myself that maybe Ms. Davison was right. Maybe it had been stress. Maybe I’d embellished things in my mind, blown some minor pranks out of proportion. The alternative – that a sentient, malevolent drawing was stalking me – was too terrifying to contemplate.
Then came the encounter in the fourth-period bathroom. I’d chosen a rarely used one on the older side of the building, hoping for solitude. The tiled room was empty, echoing with the drip of a leaky faucet. I went into a stall, the scent of stale disinfectant heavy in the air. As I latched the flimsy metal door, my blood ran cold. There it was. Scrawled across the entire inner surface of the stall door, rendered in terrifyingly vivid detail, was the doodle. But this was no simple stick figure. It was monstrous. Its circular head was contorted in a silent scream, the black eyes wide with a predatory madness. Its stick-figure hands were no longer waving or accusatory; they were clawing at its own face, tearing away imaginary flesh. Jagged, sharp teeth filled its once-toothless grin. And all around it, scrawled in thick, furious strokes, were the words: “I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU!”
My breath hitched. Pure, unadulterated terror seized me. This was not imagination. This was real. I had to get rid of it. My hand shot out, grabbing a wad of coarse toilet paper. I started scrubbing at the drawing, at the hateful words. As the paper scraped against the painted metal, the black ink began to smear. But beneath it, a horrifying transformation occurred. The black lines smudged into a wet, viscous red, the color and consistency of fresh blood. Panic flared. I scrubbed harder, desperately trying to wipe away the nightmare. The more I wiped, the more the red spread, as if the door itself was bleeding. It wasn’t ink; it felt thick, sticky. My hand was now covered in the gruesome red substance. It looked like I’d plunged my hand into an open wound. I stumbled back, a choked cry escaping my lips, and fled the stall. I ran to the row of sinks, cranking on the cold water, frantically trying to wash the red stain from my hand. But the water seemed to make it worse, spreading the crimson smear up my arm, staining the white porcelain of the sink like something out of a slasher film. Soap had no effect. It just swirled with the red, creating a sickening pink lather. My heart was a wild drum against my ribs. I looked like I’d been butchering an animal. I grabbed a handful of rough paper towels, trying to scrub the color off, but they just soaked through, turning a horrifying shade of bloody red. One of the paper towels, damp and stained, bore a faint, nightmarish impression – the doodle’s screaming face, rendered in the bloody residue.
That was the breaking point. I bolted from the bathroom, clutching the stained paper towel, and ran. I didn’t stop running until I burst through the front door of my house, gasping for breath, my mind reeling. My mom was out. It took what felt like an eternity of frantic scrubbing with harsh household cleaners to finally remove all traces of the red stain from my skin, leaving it raw and aching. The paper towel, with its terrifying red visage, I burned in the metal trash can in the backyard, watching the smoke curl into the indifferent sky, a prayer for this nightmare to end.
School became a place of constant, gnawing anxiety. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every blank wall a potential canvas for my tormentor. I avoided bathrooms, ate lunch quickly in the most crowded part of the cafeteria, and flinched at any unexpected drawing or piece of graffiti. The stain on the bathroom stall door, when I dared to peek a week later, was gone. Vanished, like all the other messages. There was no trace of red, no hint of black. Just the old, chipped paint.
Then, one morning, about a week after the bathroom incident, as I sat tensely at my second-period desk, I noticed a tiny, folded piece of paper tucked into the corner groove where the desktop met the metal frame. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. It was a small, neat note, written in the familiar, clean script. “I’m sorry…goodbye.” Next to the words was a tiny, perfectly drawn broken heart. That was the last message. Days turned into weeks, and then a month. Nothing. No doodles, no threats, no unsettlingly clean walls. The oppressive weight of fear began to lift, replaced by a wary, fragile relief. Maybe… maybe it was finally over.
The next semester began with a tentative sense of hope. I was still jumpy, still overly aware of my surroundings, but the constant, paralyzing terror had receded. I focused on my grades, on my friendships with Maya and Liam (who, bless them, seemed to have forgotten my "episode"), and on the rapidly approaching graduation. One late afternoon, as I was heading out of the building, I saw a younger kid, probably a freshman, standing in that familiar, shadowed alcove by the cafeteria. He was hunched over, a marker in his hand, writing something on the wall. A jolt of icy recognition shot through me. Was this him? My tormentor? The source of all that fear? Anger, cold and sharp, momentarily overrode my caution. I strode towards the alcove, my fists clenching. I was going to confront him, demand an explanation, an apology, something. As I got closer, I saw the wall. There it was – the simple, circular head, the dot eyes, the wide, toothless smile, the waving stick arms. The classic, original doodle. And the boy, this unsuspecting freshman, was carefully writing his own “Hello!” beside it. A wave of nausea and a profound sense of dread washed over me, so potent it nearly buckled my knees. This wasn’t my stalker. This was… the next victim. I stopped dead in my tracks. Every instinct screamed at me to warn him, to tell him to run, to never come back to this spot. But what would I say? That a drawing on the wall would haunt him, torment him, drive him to the brink of madness? He’d think I was insane. Just like everyone else had. The fear, the helplessness, the certainty of not being believed – it was all too much. I turned and walked away, the boy’s oblivious scribbling a fresh stab of guilt in my gut. I couldn’t get involved. I just couldn’t.
About three weeks later, the announcements started. First, hushed rumors in the hallways, then a somber address over the school intercom. The boy, a freshman named Michael, had been reported missing. He’d left for school one morning and simply… vanished. Police were investigating. Grief counselors were made available. A cold dread settled deep in my bones. I knew. I knew what had happened to him, even if I couldn’t prove it, even if no one would ever believe it.
A few days after Michael’s disappearance became official news, I was walking to first period, my gaze fixed on the floor, trying to block out the sympathetic murmurs and the posters with his smiling face that had begun to appear on the walls. I stumbled slightly, stopping near my old alcove to retie a loose shoelace. As I straightened up, my eyes were involuntarily drawn to the wall. The original doodle was still there, its cheerful smile now seeming utterly grotesque, demonic. But it wasn’t alone. Next to it, drawn in the same clean, precise style, was a new doodle. This one also had a circular head, but its features were subtly different, a caricature that was chillingly familiar. Its eyes were wide with terror, its mouth a rictus of a scream. It looked, unmistakably, like a stick-figure version of the missing boy, Michael. Above the two figures, in that same neat, emotionless script, was a new message. A question. “Do you want to be our friend?” I didn't scream. I didn't run. I simply stood there, frozen, the cold of the cinder block wall seeping into my soul. The question hung in the air, a promise and a threat, a testament to a horror that was patient, persistent, and always looking for a new friend. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the core, that it would never truly be over.
Bradley Butts’ horror anthology, Where The Streetlight Ends, is a strange but brilliant combination of classic supernatural campfire tales and postmodern existentialist terror. It reminds us that when it comes to paranormal horror, evil can be found in any form, in any setting, and in any time.
The best stories are:
“The Doodle”
Alex, a high school student, has written conversations with a sentient doodled figure on the wall.
The conflict between The Doodle and Alex are chilling as The Doodle recognizes and uses Alex's loneliness for friends and skepticism against him. The Doodle is a character that intentionally starts out as welcoming and friendly. There are moments where its presence is almost adorable like when it tells Alex that it is his friend.
It becomes possessive and sinister when it feels abandoned by Alex. For example, it doesn't understand the concept of weekends when Alex is not in school. The smiley face becomes a frown and the wide curious eyes are narrowed in anger. It defaces Alex's notebooks and desks, calls him a bad friend, and threatens to kill him.
Alex's curiosity and eventual terror are multiplied because for a long time believes that he is having conversations with a human who is sending secret messages. His insistence that he is stalked by a human adversary is a means to gain control of this creepy situation. If he attributes it to a human something that can be stopped by normal means like expulsion or arrest. A supernatural presence in the form of a living drawing resists being defeated or contained so could stalk a human in perpetuity.
“The Strange Sound”
A sound affects all who hear it, particularly most of the student body of a high school.
This story recognizes the value of not displaying or telling much and leaving our imagination to do the heavy lifting. We are not given specifics of what the sound is as witnesses compare it to a hum or a whisper. We aren't told where it comes from, why certain students are affected, or what the whispers actually say that upset those who hear it.
The physical, mental, and emotional changes are the focus. The narrator's friend, Sara is one of the first to hear it and she goes from a bright curious teen to a catatonic zombie. She becomes languid, inert, lethargic and is devoid of energy and vitality.
The sound affects other classmates until over half of the student body is afflicted leaving friends, classmates, educators, families, and the entire town at a loss. The physical and mental impact of an unexplained phenomena affecting almost an entire generation cannot be overstated as the kids deal with the mysterious strain of this phenomena and their surviving loved ones have to cope with the loss and aftermath.
“Hangman on the Dark Web”
An innocent round of the spelling game Hangman becomes all too real for the young man playing it on the confidential and exploitative Dark Web.
Many of the stories deal with the fear that can be found through modern technology. This and the next story deal with that subject. This one attacks online fascination with the ghoulish, violence, forbidden, bizarre, and morbid particularly on the Dark Web.
The game goes from a spelling time waster to a psychological trap. The Gamemaster reveals personal information that the Narrator never said. Instead of a generic stick figure in the noose ready to meet its maker, the figure is all too familiar to the helpless Narrator. The only thing that he can do is play to rescue the doomed character.
While many of the stories don't have much of an explanation of where the creepy events originated, this story provides a few hints.
The puzzle’s resolution, a famous literary quote, provides a clue. It indicates that the Narrator brought this disaster on himself for being overly curious, not cautious enough, and meddled into dark places where he doesn't belong. To quote the movie Wargames, “The best way to win is not to play.”
“The Filter”
Chloe uses a new filter on her selfie and her picture and face go through painful changes.
This is the second tech related story and covers another online obsession: using AI and filters to improve one's appearance and to make them look more attractive and flawless to followers.
As Chloe changes her picture, she finds her face becoming painfully distorted to match the image. It does not skimp in describing the torture as her eyes enlarge, her skin is stretched, and her bone structure is manipulated. She is in agony.
Most readers would probably wonder why Chloe doesn't stop altering the filter but it appears that she can't. She is compelled and addicted to changing her appearance and can't stop even when she wants to. She is deprived of her personality and free will and turns into something that only exists to be looked at.
“The Beckoning Call of Black Hollow”
David visits an abandoned wooded area for his forestry studies and is frightened by the local monsters.
After covering modern sensibilities with two tech heavy stories, this one returns to basics. It's a campfire tale about the monsters in the woods with some interesting twists. This story has a strong ominous atmosphere. Everything from the winding trees, the magnified sounds and smells, and the chill in the air already gives an unsettling energy even before the creepy stuff happens. Of course once they start, it gets worse.
David hears disembodied voices call his name and imitate people in his life to draw him outside to respond. He was warned not to respond to the voices and or go outside to see where they are coming from. This is advice he follows to the letter proving that he has more intelligence and common sense than most horror protagonists. It reminds readers that sometimes what you suspect and hear can be just as frightening as what you do see.
The monsters themselves are a slight letdown as the approaching feelings and voices were much scarier than their physical presence. However, they are clearly inspired by the most recent infamous monsters that have haunted the Internet and social media communities for a few years now. It adds a current sheen to old tales by saying that the monsters might change appearance but the fears are the same. The fears of loneliness, isolation, the dark, insanity, and the possibility of evil. Those will never leave.