The Lamp That Never Went Out

The storm had arrived without warning. Rain pounded the rooftop like fists, and the wind screamed through the cracks of the old wooden house. Lightning tore through the sky every few seconds, flooding the room with brief flashes of white light. Inside the house sat a twelve-year-old boy named Kashif, alone, cold, and clutching an old book he could barely read.

The power had gone out hours ago. The only thing keeping the darkness away was a small oil lamp sitting on a corner table. The flame inside it danced steadily, casting long shadows across the walls. That lamp had been in the house for generations. Kashif's grandmother, Nani, used to say, “Never let this lamp go out. It remembers things.”

Back then, Kashif thought it was just a spooky story old people liked to tell. Now, sitting alone in that creaking house, her words felt like a warning.

Nani had died the previous winter. Since then, the house had remained empty. Tonight, Kashif’s parents had to attend a wedding in another town. They had left him here just for one night. “You’re a big boy now,” his father had said. Kashif had nodded at the time, but as the night deepened, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Every sound felt louder in the silence. The wooden beams groaned. The wind scratched at the windows like fingernails. Sometimes, Kashif thought he heard footsteps upstairs. But that couldn’t be. The upstairs had been locked for months. No one had gone up since Nani passed away.

Still, the fear wouldn’t leave him. He tried to read the book in his lap, but the words wouldn’t stay still. They danced and twisted like smoke. His eyes drifted again to the lamp.

That’s when the flame flickered.

Once. Twice.

Then almost went out.

Panicking, Kashif rushed to it. His hands trembled as he picked up the small bottle of oil and poured it into the lamp. Some oil spilled, but he didn’t care. He lit a match, and the flame sprang back to life.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

But then—knock. knock. knock.

Three sharp knocks echoed from upstairs.

Kashif froze. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for another sound.

NothingHe whispered to himself, “It’s just the wind.”

But wind doesn’t knock.

A few moments passed. Then came a sound even stranger—whispering.

It was low, like someone talking from behind a wall, or underwater. He turned the lamp toward the stairs. The whispering stopped instantly. The silence that followed was heavier than the storm outside.

Kashif sat back down, wrapped his blanket tightly around him, and kept the lamp close. He didn’t want to go near the stairs. He didn’t even want to look at them.

At midnight, something changed.

The glass on the lamp began to fog up. The shadows it cast grew longer and moved even when he didn’t. One shadow, right beside him, didn’t match his body. It moved when he stayed still. It stood still when he moved.

His chest tightened. The air around him felt heavy, like the house was watching him.

Then—the upstairs door creaked open.

Slow. Loud. Like it hadn’t been touched in years.

Kashif didn’t want to go. But something inside him—curiosity, fear, or maybe the voice of the lamp itself—made him stand up. He held the lamp tightly and climbed the stairs, one step at a time.

The upstairs hallway was colder than the rest of the house. The walls seemed taller. The light from the lamp barely reached the corners. Everything smelled like burnt flowers and dust.

At the end of the hall stood a tall mirror.

Kashif stopped. That mirror hadn’t been there before.

It was old, with a carved wooden frame and cloudy glass. He stepped toward it slowly. The lamp in his hand grew dim, the flame shrinking even though the oil was full.

He looked into the mirror.

And his heart skipped a beat.

The reflection staring back at him was not his.

It looked like him. Same face. Same height. Same clothes. But the skin was pale, the eyes too dark, and the expression was… empty.

The reflection raised one hand and pointed at the lamp.

Kashif looked down.

The flame inside the lamp was turning black.

“You forgot,” the reflection whispered.

Kashif took a step back. “Forgot what?”

“You let the lamp die. Even for a second. That’s all it takes.”

“I lit it again!” Kashif shouted.

The reflection smiled—but there was no kindness in it. Only sadness.“Too late,” it whispered.

Suddenly, the floor beneath Kashif cracked. The hallway twisted. The mirror shattered—but there was no sound. The lamp fell from his hands. Just before it hit the ground.

Everything turned dark.

The Morning After

Kashif woke up on the living room floor. The storm had passed. The early morning light filtered through the windows. The lamp sat beside him, burning gently like nothing had happened.

The front door opened, and his parents entered.

“Kashif!” his mother cried. “Are you alright?”

He nodded slowly. “I think I had a bad dream,” he whispered.

But then he saw it.

On the wall near the staircase—where the mirror had been—was a large, black handprint.

And the wood under it was still warm.

Moral

Some lamps don’t just burn oil.

Some lights don’t chase darkness—they guard it.

And some rules are not meant to be broken, even for a second.