The House with the Permanent Light

The old man across the hall, Mr. Abernathy, had a voice like gravel grinding on concrete and a face etched with decades of disapproval. He had cornered Elara on her move-in day, pointing a gnarled finger at the window of her third-floor apartment.

“You’ll be leaving that light on, then,” he’d rasped. “They all do.”

Elara had just shrugged, more focused on wrestling a heavy box of books out of her hatchback. It had been an odd statement, almost a prophecy. Now, two weeks later, the prophecy was proving to be true.

It was just past ten on a Tuesday night. The city outside her window had quieted, the streetlights casting a hazy orange glow through the rain-streaked pane. Elara sat on the floor of her living room, a half-unpacked box of kitchen utensils beside her, a cup of herbal tea steaming in her hand. She was trying to read, to lose herself in the familiar world of a well-loved novel, but her mind kept snagging on the strange, persistent sounds of the old building.

Every apartment complex had its quirks, she knew. This one, a relic of the late 1920s with its parquet floors and high ceilings, seemed to have more than its share. The pipes moaned and groaned like a sea monster in a cave. The radiators clanked with a rhythm that was equal parts industrial and unsettling. And then there was the floor above her. The top floor.

It was a soft, rhythmic thud, like a broom handle tapping against the ceiling in a steady, measured beat. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. It had started a few nights ago, a new addition to the building’s symphony of decay. At first, she thought it was a neighbor. But she was on the top floor. The landlord, a woman who looked permanently exhausted, had assured her that the attic was empty, just storage for old furniture.

Elara had moved into this new city with a sense of hopeful anonymity, a desire to be swallowed whole by a bustling metropolis where she was just another face in the crowd. She’d told herself she needed a clean slate. But a clean slate, she was learning, was often just a blank page waiting for something to be written on it. And the silence of her new apartment, broken only by the building’s groans, was deafening.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed a second later by a low rumble of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. She flinched, spilling a few drops of tea on the worn rug. The overhead light in her living room flickered, a nervous twitch before holding steady.

She sighed, setting her book down. Her tea was cold. The quiet, interrupted only by the rain drumming on the window, felt heavy. She looked at the blank wall opposite her, then at the unpacked boxes. The city had promised a new beginning, but so far, it felt a lot like a waiting room.

Slowly, she stood and walked into her bedroom. Her bedside lamp was a small, ornate thing she’d found at an antique store. Its bulb cast a soft, golden light, a warm contrast to the sterile, flickering overhead lights. She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. The tapping sound was gone for the moment, but the unease remained, a cold knot in her stomach.

She found herself reaching for the switch. Her finger hovered over it for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she pulled her hand back and turned the light off. She wasn’t a child. She wasn’t afraid of the dark.

The room plunged into a deep, velvety blackness. The rain outside seemed to amplify, the patter against the glass growing louder, more frantic. The shadows, which had been benign with the lamp on, now seemed to press in from all sides. The furniture, previously familiar and solid, became amorphous shapes with unknown intentions. The closet door, which she had sworn was closed, now seemed to be ajar, a sliver of darkness promising an even deeper void within.

She couldn’t do it. A profound, almost primal fear welled up inside her. It wasn’t a fear of what was in the dark, but a fear of the dark itself, the endless expanse of it. With a quick, sharp gasp, she reached out and flicked the lamp back on.

The light flooded the small space, and the shadows retreated, shrinking back into corners. The furniture became furniture again. The closet door, she saw, was indeed slightly ajar. She got up and pushed it shut with a firm click. The relief was palpable.

She didn't turn it off again. She lay there, the golden glow a small, but powerful, circle of warmth in the cold, rain-swept night.

The storm raged on. Thunder cracked, and the wind howled around the corners of the building. The tapping from the attic returned, now more insistent, a frantic series of clicks. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. It sounded less like a rhythm and more like a plea.

And then, she heard it.

It was a whisper. Faint at first, carried on a gust of wind that rattled her windowpane. It sounded like a name. Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs. She strained to listen, telling herself it was just the wind, just the building settling. But the sound was distinctly human.

It came again, this time a little clearer. A soft, sibilant voice that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“…alone…”

The word hung in the air, a phantom sound. The blood drained from her face. She was not a believer in ghosts or spirits. She was a woman of science and reason. But the rational part of her brain was a distant, unreachable shore. Her body, her primitive, panicked self, was in control.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling the covers over her head, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She clutched the warm, solid light of the lamp, the only thing that felt real and safe in the apartment.

Then, the power went out.

The building plunged into a complete, absolute darkness. The lamp, thankfully, had an old-fashioned battery backup, a feature she hadn’t even known it had. The light didn’t waver, a defiant little beacon against the oppressive night. But now, it was the only light. The only thing in the entire building, it seemed, that held the darkness at bay.

The whispering stopped. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than the noise had been. Elara felt a new kind of fear, a fear of being watched. She had never felt so utterly, completely alone.

The wind rattled the windows again, and with it, a new sound came. A soft, shuffling noise, like bare feet on the floorboards. It wasn’t coming from the attic anymore. It was coming from inside her apartment. From the living room.

She couldn’t stay in bed. She couldn’t hide under the covers like a child. Something was in her apartment, and she had to know what it was. Her curiosity, mixed with sheer terror, forced her to act.

She reached for the lamp, its polished wood warm beneath her trembling fingers. Holding it like a shield, she crept out of her bedroom. The light bobbed in her hand, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The shuffling sound had stopped, but a new one had taken its place. A low, mournful sigh that seemed to originate from the area near the fireplace.

She took another step. Her heart was a drum in her ears. The shadows around her seemed to coalesce, to take on new and frightening shapes. The light was small, but it was enough. It was her focus, her anchor.

She reached the living room. The fireplace was a dark, gaping maw. There was nothing there. Just the dust motes dancing in the beam of her lamp. Her fear began to recede, replaced by a deep sense of frustration. She was losing her mind. She was letting the sounds of an old building and the solitude of her new life get to her.

She was about to turn back when she noticed it. A tiny, almost imperceptible piece of paper tucked into the corner of the fireplace mantelpiece. It was a note, folded in two.

Her hands shaking, she reached out and pulled it free. The paper was old, yellowed at the edges. She unfolded it carefully, the sound of the crackling paper loud in the sudden silence. The note was written in a spidery, elegant script.

“If you hear me, don’t be afraid.”

Elara’s breath hitched. She read on, the light from her lamp illuminating the words.

“The pipes will moan, and the floors will creak, but the one you need to watch for is the quiet one. My little resident, who doesn’t like the dark. The tapping is her way of saying hello. The whispering is her way of feeling less alone. She is a shy and gentle thing, and all she asks for is a little light to keep her company in the long nights.

Leave a lamp on for her. Just one small, warm light. It’s all she needs to know she’s not forgotten.”

The note was signed simply, "Eleanor."

Elara read it again, her eyes tracing the delicate loops of the old woman’s handwriting. The fear was gone, replaced by a feeling she hadn't expected. A profound, almost overwhelming sense of peace. The knot in her stomach unwound.

She walked back to her bedroom, holding the note in her hand. The power flickered back on with a quiet pop. She didn’t turn off the lamp. She didn’t want to. She placed the note on her nightstand next to the lamp, its warm glow illuminating the words.

She lay back in bed, listening to the rain, the pipes, the old house groaning and settling around her. The tapping didn't return that night, but Elara felt a quiet companionship in the darkness. She wasn't alone anymore. Eleanor and her shy little resident had seen to that. The lamp, she realized, was not just a defense against the dark. It was a bridge. A connection. A permanent light left on for a weary traveler, a kind gesture passed down through the years, a whisper of a promise to a lonely soul.

She smiled to herself, finally feeling at home.