Leave the Light On

It started with the wind.

The shutters on the old farmhouse banged open and shut in the gusts like the frantic heartbeat of the night. Rain slapped against the windows as thunder rolled somewhere off in the dark hills. Inside, the house groaned with each blast of wind, an ancient structure battling time and weather alike.

Claire was alone.

She always said she liked the quiet of the countryside, but that night, the silence between the bursts of thunder felt loaded—like something was waiting in the dark just beyond the windowpanes.

She hadn’t planned to stay the night. Her original idea was to check on the property—her grandparents’ place—maybe grab a few photo albums and keep moving. But the weather had other ideas, and the roads had washed out behind her.

So, she stayed.

The farmhouse still smelled like cinnamon and cedar. It was in better condition than she remembered. Someone had been maintaining it, though the caretaker had never answered any of her emails or calls. She only knew his name—Eli—from the small checks left behind in drawers: “For upkeep,” written in neat script.

The storm outside surged again, and Claire flinched as a branch scraped hard against the glass of the kitchen window. She turned off her phone’s flashlight and lit the old oil lamp on the kitchen table. Its golden glow was soft, warm, and somehow reassuring.

That’s when she noticed it: a single bulb above the hallway door glowing faintly.

The house had no power.

Claire stared, frowning. She walked over, looked up, and confirmed it: the light was on. But how?

She flicked the hallway switch—off, on, off again. The bulb didn’t flicker. It stayed lit, warm and yellow and quiet. As if it had always been burning.

She left it on.

The hours dragged slowly, and the storm didn’t let up. Claire wandered the house, pulled blankets from closets, and unearthed more than she expected. Old letters. Faded photographs. One frame caught her attention: a picture of her grandmother, young, standing beside a man Claire didn’t recognize.

Not her grandfather.

They looked…close.

She flipped the photo over.

Summer, 1975. Eli and me.

Eli?

Claire narrowed her eyes. The caretaker? That couldn’t be right. He would have to be in his seventies or eighties now. But something about the man in the photo didn’t look old enough to match the timeline.

She set the picture down and turned back toward the hallway—and froze.

The hallway light had gone out.

She didn’t hear a switch flip. Didn’t hear the bulb pop or burn out. One moment it was on, and now it wasn’t.

Claire walked slowly to the hallway, heart thudding. She reached up and flipped the switch again.

Nothing.

She turned to head back to the kitchen—and saw it.

A light.

Flickering faintly from the attic.

Claire had always been scared of the attic. As a child, she’d imagined all sorts of monsters living behind that small, square door in the ceiling. But now, the pull cord hung down, inviting her like a whisper.

It was the only place in the house she hadn’t looked.

She reached up and pulled.

The ladder unfolded noisily. Dust rained down. She grabbed the oil lamp, stepped cautiously onto the first rung, and began the slow climb.

The attic smelled of mothballs and cold wood. It was pitch dark except for the glow of her lamp and the flickering, dying light coming from an old television set—plugged into nothing.

Claire stood still. The static on the screen buzzed silently. She stepped closer and saw her own reflection staring back at her in the black-and-white snow. She moved to touch the screen, but the lamp flickered violently.

The light went out.

Darkness wrapped around her like a glove. She stumbled backward, heart racing. Then—a voice.

Soft. Female. Familiar.

"Leave the light on."

Claire whipped around. "Hello?"

Silence.

She fumbled with the lighter and relit the oil lamp. The room snapped back into view. The television was dark now, blank.

And someone was standing behind her.

She screamed, falling backward and nearly dropping the lamp. But when she looked again, the figure was gone.

She didn’t sleep. She couldn’t.

The storm outside showed no sign of mercy, and the wind howled like wolves circling something wounded. Claire sat in the living room, wrapped in a quilt that still smelled faintly of her grandmother’s perfume.

Her thoughts spun in endless circles: the unexplained light, the photo, the voice.

And then she saw the hallway light turn on again.

Not flickering. Not fading.

Just…on.

She stood up slowly and walked toward it. The house held its breath with her. The bulb glowed softly above the door. This time, she didn’t try the switch.

She walked under it.

Something buzzed in the air—static on skin, a shift in pressure. Claire paused, turned slowly, and looked back into the living room.

It was different.

The wallpaper had changed. The chair her grandmother used to sit in was back, though it had been removed after her death. A record player hummed softly in the corner, playing something faint and scratchy.

And her grandmother was there.

Sitting in the chair.

Claire stopped breathing.

The old woman didn’t look surprised. She smiled. “You left the light on.”

Tears sprang to Claire’s eyes. "You're not—this isn’t possible."

Her grandmother patted the armrest. "Sit, baby. We don’t have much time."

Claire crossed the room in a daze and dropped to her knees. She reached out, but her hand passed through the figure like smoke.

"I’m sorry," her grandmother said. "We tried to keep it from you."

"Keep what?"

"Eli. Your grandfather wasn't your only family here. There were... others who protected this place. Watched over it."

Claire shook her head. "I don’t understand."

Her grandmother looked up. The light in the hallway flickered.

"When I died, Eli stayed. Not just to care for the house, but to guard it. There are doors in this house. Ones you don’t see. Ones that only open at night."

The air thickened. Claire’s ears rang. She could hear something moving—behind the walls, under the floor.

"You’re in one now," her grandmother whispered.

Claire turned toward the hallway. It had grown longer. Darker.

Something was coming down it.

Her grandmother's voice grew firmer. "Leave the light on. It’s the only way you’ll find your way out."

The figure vanished. So did the chair. The music stopped.

The hallway was closer.

Claire didn’t think. She grabbed the lamp and ran.

Back up the attic steps. Through the bedrooms. Down into the cellar.

Wherever the thing was coming from, she knew it didn’t want her to leave. The storm outside had quieted—but the house inside had awakened.

In the cellar, the light caught something carved into the far wall. A door.

She approached, heart pounding.

A hand grabbed hers.

She shrieked—but it was a man. Middle-aged, pale, real.

“Claire?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“I’m Eli.”

She stared, stunned. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” he said. “I’ve been here the whole time. Waiting. Guarding the door.”

Claire stepped back. “What is this place?”

“It’s where they come through. The ones who try to take what isn’t theirs. The house is older than your grandmother. Older than me. It remembers. It protects.”

Claire looked up at the carvings again. Symbols. Ancient ones.

“I’m not supposed to be here.”

“No,” Eli said. “But now that you are, you have to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Leave the light on. Or close the door.”

Behind her, the hallway stretched, impossibly long. Shadows crawled down the walls.

“Make the choice,” Eli said.

Claire looked at the lamp. Then at the carvings. Then at the hallway full of shadows and lost time.

She understood now.

The light wasn’t just light.

It was memory. It was protection. It was love left behind.

She walked to the center of the room, placed the lamp on the floor, and lit every wick.

“Leave the light on,” she said.

Eli nodded. “Then we hold the door. Together.”

The storm outside stopped completely.

But the house stayed awake.