The Light That Flickered

Sam never imagined he'd leave the city, not for good anyway. But after Lisa's abrupt departure last year, their two-bedroom apartment downtown felt too cramped, too expensive, and way too loud for him and little Annie. So, here they were. A rustic cottage at the edge of Rhodeford, the town he'd found by accident during one of those frantic, late-night internet searches when he couldn't sleep. It was affordable, lonely, clean. At least, that's what the ad said. "Daddy, can we paint my room purple?" Annie's request would have made him smile under different circumstances. But the relentless pressure of doubling down as both father and mother made it hard sometimes. "We'll see, bug," Sam replied, getting another box through the peeling-painted door. Part of him wondered if he'd have enough money left to afford paint after fixing whatever that funny smell in the kitchen was. It was that night, the first night, when it happened. The noise, more like a slow grinding, started somewhere around 2 a.m. He thought it was Annie rummaging through boxes at first, but she was fast asleep when he checked. "Maybe just the house settling," he told himself. Yet, as nights turned into weeks, little things wouldn't stop. The flickering lightbulb in the hallway only added to Sam's growing anxiety. One evening, as Sam made tea, Annie suddenly appeared, pulling on his shirt sleeve. "Daddy, someone turned the lights off," she whispered, her eyes round like saucers. "No, honey… remember, the power switch is a bit funny." But she was insistent. "No! The lady in my room. She told me. She says the dark is her friend." Sam knelt and hugged her close, hoping she wouldn't notice his hands' slight trembling. He chalked it up to the stress of being a single parent mixed with nerves adjusting to a creaky old house. Yet, as the weeks passed by, Annie’s playful mentions of a 'lady' began pushing Sam closer to the edge. Desperate for answers, he dove into the town's archives when time allowed. What he uncovered strained logic: the previous tenant — a woman about Lisa's age — had vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but overdue rent. No suspect, no leads, just vanished. That very night, shadows loomed longer. Harvest moon peeking through gnarled branches, casting unnerving silhouettes across Annie's bedroom wall. Once, she grabbed him, saying, "The lady's sad, Daddy. She misses her family." Sam tried writing it off as childhood imagination, but the perpetual fear gripping him begged to differ. It all came to a head at dusk one brisk evening. Sam sat with a guarded Annie in the living room, absorbed in the old family photo album they'd chanced on during unpacking. Flashlight in hand, he prepared to confront this haunting presence head-on. That wonky hallway light flickered vehemently before cutting out entirely. A chill wind circulated the house, whispering forgotten secrets. Gathering his nerves, Sam climbed the stairs. "Show yourself!" he demanded, though the tremor in his voice barely backed his bravado. In response, the temperature seemed to plummet. There, ahead in Annie's room, an ethereal form hung in the corner placidly. An overwhelming, mournful loneliness surged from her otherworldly form. As the light flickered back on, so, it seemed, did clarity. Maybe this spectral woman ached for closure, for family, for the life she walked away from. Kneeling, Sam whispered secrets to the shadows. He spoke of love lost and the raw ache of fractured families. Behind him, Annie, crouched near the door, knew instinctively who this woman was. The light flickered once more, then relaxed into a warm glow. The chill faded, like whispered words on a breeze. Sam emerged from his heart's dark corners that night, holding Annie close. Both father and daughter understood, at some visceral level, that they'd formed an unseen bond with the mysterious lady, acknowledging her lonely state. Each nighttime hum her gentle reminder that even in darkness, light exists. They slept peacefully for the first time in months, knowing they're no longer alone.