Leave the Light On

Leave the Light On

The rain began at dusk, soft at first, a delicate tapping on the roof, but by midnight it had grown into a full, furious assault. The kind of storm that makes the house groan, the kind that keeps even the most devoted sleepers awake.

Claire was not planning to sleep anyway.

She sat curled in the old armchair in the living room, a blanket around her shoulders, the soft amber glow of the floor lamp bathing the room in a fragile warmth. Every other light in the house was off. She had learned long ago that darkness pressed closer when it knew you were alone.

Tonight, the lamp would stay on.

It was an old habit. She had been leaving the light on every night for exactly five years—ever since Daniel vanished. No goodbye, no note, just an empty bed and a phone that went straight to voicemail. The police had searched for months, but the only thing they’d found was his car, abandoned on a rural road an hour outside town.

It was her mother who first suggested keeping the light on. “In case he finds his way back,” she’d said. “A light in the dark can guide a lost soul home.”

Claire didn’t believe in omens or spirits, but she did believe in rituals. Rituals kept you sane. They gave you the illusion of control. So, every night, before she went to bed, she made sure the lamp in the living room was on.

Except she wasn’t in bed tonight. She couldn’t be.

Because tonight marked exactly five years since Daniel disappeared—and earlier that afternoon, someone had slipped an envelope under her front door.

No address. No name. Just two words scrawled in black ink:

“Tonight. Wait.”

She had thought about calling the police, but she hadn’t. Some part of her, the part that still woke in the night reaching for a space that was no longer warm, wanted to believe.

The clock read 12:47 a.m. when she heard it—footsteps on the porch.

Her pulse stumbled. She pulled the blanket tighter, leaning forward, straining to listen. The storm made it hard to be sure, but yes—there it was again. Slow, deliberate steps, water dripping from heavy boots.

Then, a knock.

Three firm raps against the door.

Claire rose on trembling legs, every muscle taut. Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

“Who’s there?”

For a moment, only the storm answered. Then, a man’s voice—low, hoarse, and achingly familiar.

“Claire. It’s me.”

She froze. Her mouth went dry.

“Daniel?”

“Yes.”

Her mind fractured into a thousand questions—Where have you been? Why didn’t you call?—but none made it to her lips. She crossed the room in quick, urgent steps and unlocked the door.

The man who stood on her porch was soaked to the bone, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from the collar of his coat. His eyes were shadowed, but there was no mistaking them.

It was Daniel.

She stared at him for a heartbeat, then another, before flinging her arms around him. He smelled like rain and something faintly metallic, like coins in the palm of a damp hand.

“You’re alive,” she whispered into his coat.

“I told you I’d come back,” he murmured.

She pulled back to look at him. He was thinner, sharper somehow, and there was a hollow tension in his face she didn’t remember.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Somewhere I couldn’t leave. Not until tonight.”

She wanted to demand more, but there was a finality in his tone that stopped her. He stepped inside, glancing toward the lamp in the corner.

“You kept the light on,” he said, almost to himself.

“Every night,” she replied.

His lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Good. It matters, more than you know.”

They sat together on the couch, the storm outside roaring in steady waves. She made tea, though he didn’t touch his cup. Instead, he stared into the lamplight as though memorizing it.

“I can’t stay long,” he said suddenly.

Her stomach dropped. “What do you mean? You just got here—”

“There are rules. I broke one already, just coming here.”

“What rules? Daniel, what are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for her hand, his grip ice cold. “Do you remember the night before I disappeared?”

She nodded slowly. “We argued.”

His gaze softened. “I wasn’t angry at you. I was afraid. I thought I could keep it from touching you, but I was wrong.”

“Keep what from touching me?”

He hesitated, then said, “The dark. Not just the absence of light—the kind of dark that notices you back.”

Her skin prickled. “You’re not making sense.”

“Claire, listen to me. Tonight, when the light goes out, don’t look at the windows. Don’t open the door. And no matter what you hear, don’t follow me.”

She stared at him, heart pounding. “Why would the light go out?”

His eyes darted to the lamp. “Because they’ll come for me again.”

Before she could press him, a sound came from outside—a slow, dragging scrape along the side of the house.

Her breath caught. “What was that?”

Daniel stood, his shoulders tight. “It’s too soon,” he muttered. “They shouldn’t be here yet.”

He turned to her. “Promise me you’ll keep the light on.”

She nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she understood the stakes.

The scraping moved to the front porch. The doorknob rattled.

Daniel stepped back, his voice urgent. “Claire—now!”

She lunged for the lamp, gripping its base as though she could hold the light in place by force alone.

Then—darkness.

The power cut so abruptly the hum of the lamp seemed to echo in its absence.

Something heavy moved outside the window.

She felt Daniel’s cold hand brush hers one last time. “Don’t look,” he whispered.

Then he was gone.

She couldn’t tell if he’d moved toward the door or simply vanished in the dark, but she knew—bone-deep—that he wasn’t in the room anymore.

The storm quieted, unnaturally fast. In its place came a faint, wet whispering, like many mouths murmuring at once.

She clenched her eyes shut, fists balled in the blanket. Minutes—or hours—passed before the power surged back, the lamp flickering to life.

The room was empty. The floor by the door was wet, but there were no footprints.

Daniel never returned.

And still, every night since, Claire leaves the light on.

Not for him to find his way back—she knows now he won’t.

But because the dark knows her name.