The Bulb’s Revenge

My father passed away twelve years ago, but the house where I grew up always felt wrong. It sat on a hill overlooking the town, its gables like crooked teeth against the sky. Even as a child, I avoided certain rooms, especially the upstairs bathroom with its cracked tiles and the way the light flickered without reason. After Dad died, my brother Marcus moved in, and I visited only out of obligation.

The night Dad died, my other brother, Paul, had a strange accident. He was in his own bathroom, and the light bulb fell from its socket, striking his head and leaving a thin cut. We all laughed it off as a freak occurrence, but I never forgot the way Paul’s face went pale, or how he refused to talk about it.

Years later, my wife Clara and I attended a summer gathering at Marcus’s place. I had warned Clara about the house’s unsettling atmosphere; she never went anywhere alone inside, not even to the bathroom. But as the evening wore on, with the fire crackling in the backyard, she decided she needed to go. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she said, and I joked, ‘Be careful of the ghosts. Dad never got to meet you.’ She laughed nervously and walked inside.

A few minutes later, Clara returned, her face ashen, her hands trembling. In a shaky voice, she told me, ‘In the bathroom, the light bulb fell out of the socket and hit my head.’ She showed me a small red mark on her temple. I felt a chill run down my spine. That was the same bathroom where Paul had his accident. I tried to reassure her, saying it was just old wiring, but she insisted, ‘It’s your father, isn’t it? He’s trying to tell us something.’

I dismissed it, but the coincidence gnawed at me. Later that night, after Clara fell asleep, I crept upstairs to the bathroom. The bulb was back in its socket, glowing dimly. I stood there, staring at the reflection in the cracked mirror, when I heard a faint whisper: ‘You never came to my funeral.’ I spun around, but the room was empty. The light flickered once, then went out.

I ran downstairs, my heart pounding. I told Marcus what had happened, and he turned pale. ‘He’s still angry,’ he said. ‘He always hated that you moved away and never visited him when he was sick.’ I had no reply. I had been too busy with work, with my own life, to make the long drive to see my dying father. Regret filled me.

As I stood there, the house seemed to groan around us. The lights in the kitchen flickered, and a door upstairs slammed shut. Clara woke up, frightened, and we decided to leave. As we drove away, I looked back at the house, its windows dark. In the rearview mirror, I saw a figure standing in the upstairs bathroom window—a tall, thin silhouette that could only be my father. And for a moment, I thought I saw it raise a hand, holding a light bulb.

The next morning, I got a call from Marcus. He had found a note in the bathroom, written on a scrap of paper in my father’s handwriting: ‘You should have been here.’ I haven’t been back to that house since, but I can still feel the sting of that bulb on my own head, as if my father is reminding me of the one thing I can never undo.