The Circuit-Breaker at No. 9

In the autumn of 1983, my brother Daniel and I were driving through the ochre hills of Northern Transvaal, heading to a remote railway outpost called Kameelfontein. He had been transferred there as a junior signalman, and his new wife, Miriam, was already complaining about the isolation. When we finally reached the town, it was a cluster of low, flat-roofed buildings under a relentless sun, and the railway house assigned to them sat at the end of a dusty lane, its red-brick walls stained with decades of rust and soot.

Inside, the house was a relic of a bygone era. The floorboards creaked underfoot, the walls were covered in a floral wallpaper yellowed with age, and the air smelled of mothballs and damp. The kitchen had a coal stove that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and the only source of heat in the living room was a small, black cast-iron fireplace. But the worst part was the electricity. The wiring was exposed and crumbling, and the main switchboard, a daunting panel of fuses and switches, was mounted in the hallway. On their first night, as Daniel flicked the lights on, the bulb in the living room flickered and then died. He went to the panel, opened the metal door, and found a row of ceramic fuse holders. One of them was branded with a single word: ‘NO. 9’.

Daniel was not a superstitious man. He shrugged it off, replaced the fuse, and the lights returned. But the next night, the same fuse blew again, and again the night after that. Miriam grew uneasy, pleading with him to find a permanent solution. Daniel, however, was pragmatic. He bought a box of fuses and kept them on a shelf.

One evening, after a particularly grueling shift, Daniel collapsed on the sofa. Miriam was reading a book, when they heard a faint scratching sound from the hallway, near the fuse panel. Daniel ignored it, but Miriam sat up, her eyes wide. ‘It’s just a rat,’ Daniel grumbled. But Miriam insisted, ‘No, listen. It’s rhythmic. Like fingernails.’ Daniel sighed and went to investigate. He opened the panel, and there, on the fuse for circuit no. 9, was a small piece of folded paper, yellowed and fragile. He unfolded it. It read, in spidery handwriting: ‘You are sitting in my chair.’

Daniel’s blood ran cold. He turned to look at the sofa, which he had just vacated. Miriam was now standing, holding the book to her chest. ‘What is it?’ she whispered. He showed her the note, and she gasped. They decided to ignore it, thinking it was a prank from one of the railway workers. But the next morning, they woke to find the fuse for no. 9 lying on the floor, snapped clean in half. And the note was missing.

The disturbances grew. Lights flickered at odd hours, the faint sound of footsteps would cross the ceiling at night, and the scent of cheap cigars would waft through the rooms without a source. Daniel, ever rational, began to investigate the history of the house. He found a railway record book in the station office that listed previous occupants. He discovered that a signalman named Pieter van der Merwe had lived there in the 1950s. He was known for his strictness, his bushy mustache, and a habit of smoking a particular brand of cigar. He died in the house, of a heart attack, in 1961, while sitting in his favorite armchair. That armchair, Daniel realized, had been left in the house. It was in the corner of the living room, underneath the window.

Daniel moved the armchair to the garage, but that night, the scratching returned. This time, it was louder, more insistent. Daniel went to the panel, and the note was back. It read: ‘My chair is where I belong.’

He tried to burn the note, but the fire refused to catch, and the paper remained intact, curling at the edges. In a fit of anger, he ripped it to shreds, but the next morning, it reappeared, smooth and unmarked. Miriam was terrified, begging him to call a preacher. Daniel, however, decided to take a stand.

He recalled that the signal box at the railway yard had an old wooden chair that was said to be cursed. He had dismissed this as local gossip, but now he began to wonder. He went to the yard and examined the chair. It was made of dark oak, with intricate carvings of vines and thorns. He decided to bring that chair home, to replace the one in the living room, thinking it would confuse the ghost. He placed it in the same corner and moved the old armchair to the dump.

That night, as they sat reading, the new chair began to rock on its own, slowly back and forth. Daniel froze. The rocking grew more violent, and then it stopped abruptly. A chill swept through the room. On the wall above the chair, a pattern began to form in the dust, like invisible fingers tracing letters. It spelled: ‘You are not welcome.’

Daniel finally agreed to call the local pastor, a stout man named Reverend Botha, who arrived with a Bible and a bag of salt. He performed a prayer, sprinkled salt in every corner, and declared the house clean. He also suggested they replace the entire fuse panel, as it was ancient and faulty. The electrician came the next day and ripped out the old panel, installing a modern breaker box. Daniel noticed that the old fuse no. 9 was left on the workbench, and he threw it in the trash.

For a week, the house was quiet. Light and stable, no scratching, no smells. Miriam began to relax, and Daniel congratulated himself on conquering the ghost through rational means. But on the seventh night, as they were about to go to sleep, the new breaker box made a loud click. Every breaker flipped to off, plunge the house into darkness. Daniel went to reset them, but they wouldn’t stay on. He heard a low chuckle behind him. He spun around. The hallway was empty. But on the wall, scratched into the paint, was a single number: 9.

Daniel lost his mind that night. He grabbed a crowbar and tore the breaker box from the wall, exposing the raw wires. He screamed at the walls, demanding the ghost to leave. Miriam fled to the neighbors, and Daniel was found the next morning, sitting in the dark, clutching a charred piece of paper. The paper, despite being burned, still read: ‘I am still here.’

They moved out within a month, breaking their lease. But the haunting followed them. No matter where they went, no matter how new or modern the house, the number 9 would appear. In the street address, in the license plate of a car, in the number of a hotel room. Daniel’s personality changed. He became paranoid, withdrawn. He quit his job and started drinking. Miriam left him.

I saw Daniel for the last time in 1984, in a psychiatric hospital in Pretoria. He was sitting in a chair, staring at a blank wall. He whispered to me, ‘I should have never looked at the panel. Now it’s always watching.’ As I left, I saw a small, faded number 9 painted on the door of his room. I never visited again.

Years later, I learned that the old railway house in Kameelfontein had been demolished. The land was cleared, and a new signal system was installed. But the electricians who worked there refused to use circuit no. 9, saying it always tripped, always caused problems. They said it was as if something was still there, waiting.

And I believe it. Because sometimes, late at night, when my own house is silent, I hear a faint scratching at the back of my mind, like fingernails on a fuse box, and I know that no matter where I go, I’ll always carry the memory of that number. It’s not just a circuit. It’s a door.

And I don’t think it’s ever fully closed.