The Constant Flicker

I was twelve when the lights in the attic began to fail. Not the bulb—that was fine, a steady sixty watts that hummed when the house settled. It was the switch. Every night, at exactly 1:47 AM, it would click off on its own. My dad said it was a faulty wire, but I knew better. The house was old, and old houses have their moods.

My room was in the attic, a converted space with sloped ceilings and a single window that looked out onto the oak tree. I hated that room, but it was all I had. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind. And every night, the light would die.

At first, I’d just get up and flick it back on. But then I started noticing something else. The closet door would be slightly ajar, even though I always closed it. And the chair in the corner, the one with the stack of old magazines, would be turned to face the bed, as if something had been sitting there, watching.

I told my mom, but she said I was imagining things. ‘It’s just the house settling,’ she’d say. ‘You’re a teenager now—your mind plays tricks.’ So I tried to ignore it. But sleep became a luxury. I’d lie awake, my heart pounding, waiting for the click.

Then one night, I woke to find the light off, and the chair was not empty. A figure sat in it, all in black, tall and thin, with long arms that rested on its knees. It didn’t move, didn’t breathe. I couldn’t see a face, just shadows. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it was a dream. When I opened them, it was gone.

The next night, I decided to confront it. I left the light on and waited. At 1:47 AM, the switch clicked, and the room went dark. In the blackness, I heard a floorboard creak. Then another, closer. My body went rigid. A cold hand touched my ankle, and I screamed.

I scrambled out of bed, ran to the light switch, but it wouldn’t turn. The bulb flickered, and in the intermittent light, I saw it standing by the door—a tall, thin figure, its head tilted as if studying me. And then I realized: it wasn’t just in my room. It was in the whole house.

I ran downstairs, but every room was dark. The kitchen light flickered when I entered, and there it was again, in the corner, its long fingers brushing the counter. I fled to my parents’ room, but the door was locked. I pounded, but no one answered. I could hear my own voice, but it sounded far away, like I was underwater.

Then I woke up. It was morning. The light was on. I was in my bed, drenched in sweat. My parents were downstairs, making breakfast. I told them about the figure, but they just exchanged a look and told me I’d had a nightmare.

But I knew it wasn’t a nightmare. Because that night, when I went to the bathroom, I saw a handprint on the mirror—too large for any of us, and it smelled of damp earth. I tried to clean it, but it wouldn’t come off. It stayed there for weeks, even after I scrubbed it.

Eventually, I stopped trying to sleep. I’d stay up, reading, watching the switch. But the clicking stopped. The figure stopped. Until the night I least expected it.

I was at my desk, doing homework, when the light flickered. I looked up, and there it was—this time, it had a face. It was my face, but older, hollow, with dark pits for eyes. It smiled a thin smile and pointed a long finger at my chest, just over my heart. Then it dissolved.

I ran out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I grabbed a knife, my hands shaking. I turned from the window to the phone, and there it was again, reflected in the glass, standing behind me. I spun around, but nothing was there. My own reflection in the window stared back at me, but for a split second, it wasn’t my face—it was that hollow version, and it mouthed a single word: ‘Mine.’

I stayed with my parents for the rest of the night, even though they’re not real to me anymore. I think that thing has been with me since I was born. I just couldn’t see it until I tried to ignore it. Now, sometimes, I see it in mirrors, or in the corner of my eye, always getting closer. I don’t know what it wants, but I know its name. I painted it on the wall of my room, in black: ‘The Constant Flicker.’ And I started leaving all the lights on in the house, even in the daytime. Because when the lights are all on, it’s easier to believe it’s just the wiring. But in the dark, when the switch clicks, I know it’s there, just beyond the light, waiting.