This story was sent in by Derek J. from The Midwest.
It was early fall when this happened, one of those nights where the air is cool enough that you can see your breath if you exhale slow. I had this habit back then of sitting on my back porch around midnight, smoking one last cigarette before heading in. The backyard behind my place wasn’t anything special—just a square of patchy grass, a couple of old maples, and the same wooden privacy fence everyone in my subdivision had. At night it usually felt peaceful, quiet in a way you don’t get during the day.
That night I was tired from a long shift, too wired to go straight to bed, and the porch was my little reset button. I remember checking the time—just after 12:30 a.m. The neighborhood was completely still. A dog barked a few blocks over, but aside from that, it was silence.
I had just finished half the cigarette when I noticed a pale little glow drifting across the far end of my yard. At first I figured it was nothing—maybe a neighbor letting their dog out, or headlights from someone turning onto a side street. But the light didn’t behave like normal light. It moved low to the ground, slow and deliberate, like someone sweeping a flashlight but doing it with almost exaggerated care.
Then it stopped completely. Just sat there, hovering near the base of my fence.
I leaned forward, squinting. The glow was soft, almost bluish, and it didn’t flicker the way a flashlight usually does when someone walks with it. Part of me wondered if it was a phone screen. But if someone was standing there, I should’ve seen a silhouette or at least the top of a head over the fence.
I sat there for a few seconds, trying to come up with a normal explanation. The house behind me had teenagers; maybe one of them snuck out and was sitting in the yard messing with their phone. Maybe it was a reflection from inside my own house—even though the angle didn’t make sense.
Still, something about it put a knot in my stomach. It felt like the light wasn’t just drifting—it was searching.
When it started gliding sideways along the fence line, that knot tightened. It would move a couple feet, pause like it was checking something, then slide again. The motion was too smooth to be somebody walking normally. And I realized then that there was no sound. No footsteps on leaves, no voices, nothing.
I finally called out instinctively—just a sharp “Hey!”—more to break the tension than anything. The second my voice cut through the yard, the glow snapped out, like someone had pinched it shut.
I stood up fast, adrenaline hitting before I even processed it. I walked out into the yard, cigarette still burning between my fingers, and scanned every corner. The grass was untouched. The alley behind my fence—empty. No cars had driven by. No gates were open. No movement, no rustling trees, nothing.
The only thing that made me pause was a faint chemical smell near the back fence, something sharp and plasticky. It was subtle enough that I wondered if I imagined it. At the time I didn’t connect it to anything, but later on I would.
I told myself it was probably just some weird reflection or maybe a phone on a drone or something. But the explanation didn’t stick, not when I replayed it. The height didn’t match a drone, and the movement felt too controlled, too… aware.
I tried to shake it off and headed inside for the night, but I left the back porch light on. I remember checking the lock twice, which I never did back then. Probably three times if I’m honest.
Two nights later, something else happened that made that light make a lot more sense.
I was taking out the trash just before midnight, dragging the bin around the side of the house toward the gate. As I rounded the corner, I heard quick footsteps in the alley—soft, hurried, like someone trying to move quietly but still in a rush. I froze, hoping it was just someone walking their dog late.
Then I saw a faint bluish glow slip behind the fence at the very back of my yard—the same shade, the same shape. This time it wasn’t drifting; it was tucked low behind the boards, like someone crouching with their phone cupped in their hands.
Before I could do anything, the steps sped up, and the glow moved away down the alley until it disappeared entirely. I didn’t see a face. I didn’t hear a voice. But the speed of those footsteps told me the person didn’t want to be seen.
That was the moment it clicked—the glow hadn’t been floating or gliding on its own. Someone had been in my yard the first night, or right up against the fence, holding something with a soft blue light. Maybe a phone, maybe something else. And that plasticky smell I noticed? Probably from whatever device they were using.
The thought that someone had been watching me while I sat there half-asleep on my porch made my skin crawl. I didn’t smoke out there for the rest of the week.
I thought about calling the police, but what was I going to say? That I saw a weird light twice? That I heard footsteps in an alley that’s open to the public? There was nothing they could actually follow up on.
The alley stayed quiet after that, and nothing else happened. But I never went back to sitting on my porch at night the way I used to. Now I do the last cigarette on the front steps where there are streetlights and neighbors who can see me if something’s off.
And every once in a while, when I’m locking up before bed, I’ll catch myself checking the backyard through the window—just to make sure nothing is drifting along the fence line, laying low in the dark, waiting to see if I’ll come sit outside again.