I was walking through the building at work today when I saw something so unexpected, in such an unexpected place, that it unnerved me instantly.
Once I was driving through rural Nevada at night on roads windy enough that it was impossible, or at least dreadfully unsafe, to go faster than 25 miles an hour. I checked my mirror, looked back at the road, and almost screamed at the sight of a black dog ahead in the road, illuminated at the edge of my headlights.
I have no idea why it jolted me so badly. A dog in the road? Not exactly terrifying. But unexpected and sudden.
I walked past two rows of books today when I caught something out of the corner of my eye. About one foot away from the corner of my eye. I turned to see a man of about 30 years, with shoulder-length red hair. He was standing completely still in the middle of the aisle, hands held slightly out at his sides.
He had several inches of hair crammed into each side of his mouth–this was the hair from his head. He was chewing it like it was gum. His eyes looked at mine. He chewed. And then I kept walking.
A couple of minutes later I passed by again on an errand and he was still there. The hair was still crammed into his mouth.
Bizarre. And sudden and unexpected.