The Broken Standby Light

The house was a crumbling Georgian manor on the edge of the Yorkshire moors, inherited by my Aunt Vera after the previous owner had vanished without a trace. It was Christmas, and my cousin Iris and I had been sent to stay for the week while our parents helped Aunt Vera clear out the attic. I was given a room on the second floor, a cavernous space with peeling wallpaper and a single iron bed. The only light came from a small television in the corner, its standby light a dull red. I fell asleep to the hum of the old house, but woke at 3 AM, my mouth dry from too much mulled wine. I lay in the dark, watching the red light, when it began to flicker and fade, then grow brighter, as if a power surge was going through it. The air in the room turned cold, and I heard a sound—a faint, rhythmic scraping, like a fingernail dragging across plaster. It came from the wall behind the TV. I sat up, my heart pounding. The scraping stopped. Then the light flickered again, and this time, I saw a shadow pass between the TV and the wall, though nothing was there. I told myself it was the wind, the old house, my imagination. I switched on the bedside lamp, but it only buzzed and stayed dark. I lay back, pulling the covers to my chin, and tried to focus on the red light. At 3:15, the light flickered three times, then went out entirely. The room was pitch black. I fumbled for my phone, but the battery was dead. I was about to call out for my mother when I heard a whisper, right next to my ear, in a voice that was not human: ‘You’ll be the last one.’ The next morning, my mother found me huddled in the corner, my eyes fixed on the darkened TV. I told her what I’d heard, but she dismissed it as a bad dream. However, when we went down to breakfast, Aunt Vera mentioned that the previous owner had died in that very room, and the cause of death was unknown. She also said that the television had never worked since they moved in, and the standby light had been burnt out for years.