The Thing in My Backyard Only Appeared During Lightning Strikes
I’ve lived in the same house for seven years.
It’s quiet.
The kind of neighborhood where nothing unusual ever happens.
The houses back onto a small wooded area.
A line of trees separates the neighborhood from several miles of undeveloped land.
Most nights, I barely notice they’re there.
Three months ago, a storm rolled through.
The weather forecast warned about severe thunderstorms, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Around 11 p.m., I was sitting in my living room watching television when lightning illuminated the backyard.
For a split second, I saw someone standing near the tree line.
Tall.
Motionless.
Watching the house.
Then darkness returned.
I stood up immediately and looked out the window.
Nothing was there.
I even stepped outside.
The yard was empty.
I convinced myself it had been a tree branch or a trick of the light.
Then the next flash came.
And he was back.
This time I knew exactly where to look.
The figure stood at the edge of the woods.
Too tall.
Too still.
The proportions looked wrong.
Not like a person standing naturally.
The lightning vanished.
So did he.
I couldn’t see him anymore.
A few seconds later another flash lit up the yard.
The figure was closer.
Not much.
Maybe ten feet.
But definitely closer.
My stomach dropped.
I stared into the darkness between flashes.
Nothing.
The next strike illuminated the yard.
Closer again.
I locked every door.
Closed every blind.
And spent the rest of the night pretending I wasn’t terrified.
The next morning, I checked the backyard.
No footprints.
No broken branches.
Nothing.
For weeks I told nobody.
The story sounded ridiculous even in my own head.
Then another storm arrived.
This time I was ready.
I set up my phone and pointed it toward the backyard.
At 10:43 p.m., lightning struck.
The figure appeared.
Exactly where I remembered.
Flash.
Closer.
Flash.
Closer again.
Flash.
Closer.
I captured everything on video.
Or at least I thought I did.
When I reviewed the footage later, I noticed something strange.
The figure wasn’t moving between lightning strikes.
It was moving during them.
Frame by frame, the thing changed position only while the yard was illuminated.
Not during the darkness.
During the light.
I uploaded the footage to a video-analysis forum.
Most people accused me of faking it.
One user didn’t.
Instead, he sent a private message.
The message contained only one question:
“Has it reached the fence yet?”
I stared at the screen.
I hadn’t mentioned a fence.
I hadn’t mentioned distances.
I hadn’t even explained the layout of the yard.
Yet somehow he knew.
I replied immediately.
No answer.
His account disappeared an hour later.
The next storm arrived two weeks later.
This time the figure stood directly behind the fence.
One lightning strike revealed it.
The next strike revealed something worse.
It wasn’t looking at the house.
It was looking directly at my bedroom window.
I stopped sleeping.
Every storm became a countdown.
Each time it appeared, it was closer.
Tree line.
Fence.
Yard.
Patio.
One night I measured the distance between appearances.
It moved approximately thirty feet during every storm.
Thirty feet closer.
Every single time.
Eventually I calculated something.
There had been eight storms.
At its current pace, one more would bring it to the back door.
The following week, a severe weather warning was issued.
I left town.
Checked into a hotel.
Turned my phone off.
I wasn’t taking any chances.
The storm arrived shortly after midnight.
I watched it through the hotel window.
Rain.
Thunder.
Lightning.
For the first time in months, I felt safe.
Then my phone buzzed.
A security-camera notification from my house.
I opened it.
The backyard camera had captured a lightning strike.
The figure stood directly outside the back door.
The next image showed it reaching toward the handle.
Then the camera feed ended.
The following morning, I drove home with police.
The back door was locked.
No signs of entry.
No footprints.
Nothing.
Just silence.
I almost convinced myself it was finally over.
Then I checked the front porch camera.
The final image recorded before sunrise showed the front door.
The figure wasn’t outside anymore.
It was inside.
Standing in the hallway.
Looking directly into the camera.
Last night another storm passed through.
I didn’t look outside.
I didn’t check the cameras.
But at exactly 2:14 a.m., someone knocked on my bedroom door.
Three slow knocks.
From inside the house.