The end of the road.
It was a back alley like any other, narrow and dark, and the aging, uneven asphalt glittered in the rain. The garage doors formed a canyon of blank anonymity, their trashcan ornaments placed with suburban care at regular intervals on either side of her as she moved toward her quarry: the lone, warm, glowing porch light that shone out like a beacon, welcoming those who walked the night, drawing them in, a trap for the unwary.
Van Helsing was getting more inventive in his murderous methods.
Traveling Light 