She Waits When the Lights Go Out

It started with the rain.

Not a gentle drizzle, but a torrential downpour, slamming the roof and windows like an army of fists. Claire sat curled on the couch with a steaming cup of tea, wrapped in a fleece blanket, her golden retriever Max sprawled at her feet. The comforting silence of being home alone on a Saturday night was something she’d always enjoyed.

Until tonight.

At exactly 10:47 PM, the doorbell rang.

Claire’s spine stiffened. Her phone showed no alerts. No texts. No missed calls. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Max bolted upright, a growl rumbling from his chest.

She stood slowly, her socks silent on the hardwood as she approached the door. A silhouette stood outside, framed in the distorted glass of the side panel—a woman, soaked to the bone, hood pulled low.

Claire called through the door.

“Can I help you?”

The woman’s voice was barely audible over the rain. “Please… I had an accident. My phone's dead. I just need to come inside. Just for a minute.”

Claire hesitated. Everything inside her screamed no. Her gut twisted in a way she couldn’t explain.

“I’m sorry,” she replied firmly. “I can call someone for you.”

The woman paused, then slowly turned her head toward the peephole. For a moment, their eyes met—though somehow, the woman’s eyes looked wrong. Too wide. Too black. As if something else was staring back through her.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m already inside.”

Claire blinked. The porch was empty.

Max began barking wildly, pacing between the door and the hallway that led to the kitchen.

Claire spun around—and saw it.

The kitchen window.

It was open.

She was sure she had locked it.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the fireplace poker, her only weapon, and moved through the dim light of the house. Every shadow looked alive. Every floorboard creaked like it was warning her.

And then—upstairs—a thud.

Max ran toward the sound.

Claire swallowed hard and followed, ascending each stair as if it might be her last.

At the top of the landing, the hallway lights flickered once.

Then again.

Then died.

Total darkness.

Only the glow of her phone screen lit the way. She passed the guest bedroom—door ajar. Her own door—wide open.

She stepped inside.

Nothing.

She turned toward her closet. The door was cracked, ever so slightly.

She raised the poker. Her hand shook as she reached for the handle. Behind her, a cold breath ghosted across her neck.

She spun.

No one.

Then came the whisper.

“Claire…”

She dropped the poker and bolted, nearly tripping over Max, who barked and ran ahead of her, back down the stairs.

She reached the living room, panting, heart drumming like a war beat in her ears.

I’m losing it, she thought.

And then the television turned on.

Static.

No signal.

Then, flickering images. A hallway—her hallway. The upstairs. On the screen, a woman in a soaked hoodie stood silently, staring directly into the lens.

Claire dropped the remote. Her breathing became shallow.

The doorbell rang again.

Ding-dong.

She didn’t move.

Ding-dong.

The lights in the room buzzed, then died completely.

The room was black.

Max was silent.

The only sound was the pounding of her own heart.

Then, a voice, inches from her ear.

“I told you. I’m already inside.”

Claire screamed and ran for the basement. She slammed the door shut behind her, flipping the deadbolt and collapsing against it. The basement was freezing, the air thick with dust and fear. She crawled behind the boiler, cradling Max in the dark, shaking uncontrollably.

Her phone screen lit up.

1 New Message: UNKNOWN

“You can lock the doors. But I never use them.”

Suddenly, footsteps creaked above her—slow, heavy. They moved from the living room to the kitchen. Then, they began descending the stairs.

But not the main stairs.

The basement stairs.

Claire backed into the corner, whimpering, clutching Max.

The steps stopped halfway.

Silence.

Then came the softest whisper.

“Do you want to see what I look like in the light?”

The single hanging bulb above her head flickered on.

There she was.

Not soaked anymore. Not even human.

Her skin was gray, her mouth unnaturally wide, filled with rows of tiny, pointed teeth. Her eyes were endless pits of darkness, and yet they glowed—like mirrors reflecting the void.

Claire didn’t scream.

She couldn’t.

The last thing she heard was Max growling—before the light went out again.

Three Days Later

Police found the front door wide open, lights off, tea cold on the table.

No signs of forced entry.

Claire was never found. Nor was Max.

But in the footage retrieved from the home's smart security system, the last image was chilling.

A woman in a soaked hoodie, smiling into the camera.

Behind her, the front door closing by itself.