The Amber Light

I’d agreed to help Marta move out of her place, but not because I believed her stories. Marta was prone to dramatic flights of fancy, and when she claimed the house was haunted, I figured it was just her anxiety playing tricks on her. Still, the way she described it—the cold dread that wrapped around her like a wet blanket, the shape that loomed in the corner of her bedroom—made my skin prickle. Last Saturday, I drove to her place in the outskirts of Tucson, where she’d rented a small adobe house with a sagging porch and a yard full of overgrown mesquite. The sun was already high when I arrived, and the heat shimmered off the asphalt. Marta was waiting on the porch, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she said, gripping my arm. ‘I can’t stay another night.’ We started loading boxes into my truck. The house was cluttered, but we worked in silence, the only sounds the shuffle of cardboard and the distant hum of a neighbor’s AC. Every few minutes, Marta would glance over her shoulder, as if expecting something to appear. I tried to keep my focus on the boxes, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. The interior was dim, the windows covered by heavy curtains that blocked out the desert sun. The air was thick, stale, and smelled faintly of dust and old wood.

We were halfway through the bedroom when I noticed the door to the closet was slightly ajar. It hadn’t been open before. I walked over to close it, but as I reached for the knob, a wave of nausea hit me. The room seemed to tilt, and for a moment, I heard a low, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and saw a flicker of amber light in the crack of the closet door. It vanished as soon as I blinked. I told myself it was just the sun reflecting off something, but my hands were trembling. Marta came in and saw me standing there. ‘You feel it too, don’t you?’ she whispered. I didn’t answer. I just pushed the door shut and grabbed the next box, eager to get out.

The move took most of the morning. By the time we loaded the last box, we were both exhausted and drenched in sweat. Marta locked the front door and handed me the key to return to the landlord. As we stood by my truck, I felt a strange reluctance to leave the house. It was as if something inside was calling me back. I turned to look at the place, and for a split second, I saw a silhouette in the window of the bedroom—a tall, gaunt figure, standing perfectly still, its head tilted as if watching us. The amber light from before flickered around it, casting an eerie glow. My blood ran cold. I blinked, and the figure was gone. Marta was already in the passenger seat, her face buried in her hands. I got in and started the engine, my hands slippery on the wheel. As we drove away, I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. I glanced in the rearview mirror, and the house seemed to shrink in the distance, but I could have sworn I saw the curtains in that bedroom move again.

I dropped Marta at her sister’s place, and she hugged me tightly, her eyes filled with gratitude and something else—pity. ‘You believe me now, don’t you?’ she said. I nodded, not trusting my voice. I drove home alone, and the whole way, I felt a creeping unease, as if the heat in my car was coming from something more than the engine. That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events. I was a skeptic, a rationalist, but I couldn’t explain what I saw. I started to feel a sense of dread, the same kind Marta described, as if a heavy weight pressed down on my chest. I turned on the light, but the room felt darker than it should. My wardrobe door was slightly open, just like that closet had been. I got up to close it, but I hesitated. I could see a thin sliver of darkness inside. And then, a flicker of amber light. I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, my heart pounding. I realized, with a sickening certainty, that the thing hadn’t been in the house—it had latched onto me, waiting to follow me home. I haven’t slept with the closet door closed since, and I’ve started leaving every light in my apartment on. But the amber light still appears in the cracks, waiting, patient. I know it’s just a matter of time before I see the figure standing in the corner again.