The Broken Illuminations

In the autumn of 2011, I was freshly remarried and had just moved into a modest two-bedroom apartment in the Al-Nuzha district, near the bustling Sharq market. The place was clean and airy, but the landlord had a habit of leaving odd trinkets from previous tenants, like a collection of faded postcards and a rusty wind chime. I spent my days unpacking boxes and painting the walls a warm beige, while my new wife, Lena, was away visiting her family for a few weeks. The apartment was quiet, but I didn’t mind; I had my books and a small television that picked up only two channels.

One evening, a single bulb in the hallway flickered and died. I fetched a new one from the kitchen drawer, climbed onto a stool, and twisted it in. But as I turned it, the glass cracked in my hand with a sharp pop. I tried another, and the same thing happened. A third, and the filament shattered. I stared at the shards on the floor, my heart thumping. I knew a thing or two about superstitions from my grandmother, who always said to say ‘Bismillah’ before any undertaking. It was a silly habit, but I tried it on the next bulb. To my surprise, it screwed in smoothly and glowed warmly, casting soft light across the hallway. I laughed at my own nonsense.

The rest of the week was uneventful. I cooked simple meals, read old novels, and watched the news. But then, I started noticing small things. The wind chime in the living room would tinkle softly even when the windows were shut. My keys, which I always placed in a ceramic dish by the door, would be found on the kitchen counter. Once, I felt a cold breath on my neck while I was shaving, but when I turned, there was nothing.

Then the bulbs started failing again, but only in the room we had designated as the spare bedroom—the one we hadn’t fully unpacked yet. I would replace a bulb, and it would flicker and die within hours. I tried changing the fixture, but the problem persisted. One night, I went in there to look for a box of winter clothes. As I rummaged through a cardboard box, I found a small, leather-bound journal tucked beneath a stack of old sweaters. It didn’t belong to us; it must have been left behind by the previous tenant. The pages were yellowed, and the handwriting was spidery and cramped.

Curiosity got the better of me. I sat on the edge of the bed and read. The journal described a man who had lived here in the 1980s. He wrote about a recurring dream: a light that would not break, no matter how hard he tried. He would smash bulbs, but the light would remain, hovering in the dark corners of the room like a malevolent eye. The last entry, dated three months before he moved, read: ‘I have tried everything. The light is always there. It wants me to see. It wants me to look at what it shows me, but I am too afraid. I will leave this place, but I fear it follows.’

I closed the journal, my hands trembling. I had never believed in ghosts, but this was too coincidental. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind chime. At around 2 AM, I heard a faint hum coming from the spare room. I tiptoed to the door and peeked inside. The room was dark, but in the center, near the ceiling, there was a soft, bluish glow—a ball of light that pulsed like a heartbeat. I blinked, and it vanished.

My wife, Lena, returned the next day. I didn’t tell her about the journal or the glow, hoping it would all go away. But the incidents escalated. Every bulb we bought shattered within a day, no matter where we installed it. Lena grew pale and started hearing whispers in the vents. We argued about staying, and I considered moving, but I was stubborn. One evening, as we sat in the dark, the television flickered on by itself, and the screen showed static. Then, a faint image formed: a man’s silhouette, his arms outstretched, and a thin wire wrapped around his neck. Lena screamed, and the TV went black.

I finally decided we had to leave. I told Lena to pack while I called a moving company. As I dialed, I noticed the spare room door was ajar, and a soft light spilled from it. I approached and pushed it open. The entire room was bathed in that bluish glow. In the center, on the floor, was the journal, open to a page I hadn’t read before. It read: ‘The light is a gateway. It shows you the truth, but truth is unbearable. If you see it, you will never unsee. Beware the broken illuminations.’

I slammed the book shut and grabbed Lena. We fled the apartment that night, leaving everything behind. We moved to a small house on the outskirts of town, and for weeks, we tried to forget. But I still dream of that light. And last night, I saw it reflected in the bathroom mirror, pulsating gently. I know now that it followed us. It always does.