The Constant Glow

In the autumn of 1998, my father and his new wife bought an old farmhouse on the outskirts of a quiet town in upstate New York. The place had been vacant for years, and the real estate agent was eager to unload it. My older brother, Sam, was fifteen, my younger sister, Lily, was eleven, and I was eight. We piled into the station wagon and drove out to see it.

The house sat at the end of a long gravel drive, surrounded by overgrown fields and a forest that seemed to press in from all sides. The moment we stepped through the front door, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the October air. The rooms were bright, with large windows and pale walls, but the light seemed to struggle to fill the corners. It was as if a permanent dusk had settled inside.

We each picked our rooms. Sam and I took the two bedrooms on the second floor, and Lily got a small room next to my parents’ on the ground floor. I chose the one at the end of the hall, with a view of the woods. That first night, I unpacked my belongings and arranged them on the dresser. I had a little collection of smooth stones, a snow globe from a trip to the city, and a small plastic dinosaur. I placed them in a neat row and went to sleep.

I woke in the middle of the night to a soft clicking sound. I lay still, listening. It came from the dresser, like tiny footsteps on the wood. I flicked on my bedside lamp, but the room was empty. The stones were still in their row, but the dinosaur had fallen over. I shrugged it off and went back to sleep.

Over the following weeks, the events grew more noticeable. I often felt a weight on my legs at night, as if a cat had curled up, but when I looked, there was nothing there. I had a nightlight that always stayed on, but sometimes I would see a shadow pass across the wall, even though nothing was in the room. The door to my room, which I always closed, would be open a crack in the morning, and once I found it swinging gently back and forth, even though there was no draft.

I started to feel uneasy, but I believed it was my imagination. Then one night, I heard a voice from the corner of my room. It was a low murmur, like someone reciting a list. I sat up, my heart pounding. The voice seemed to come from the radiator in the corner. My father had shut off the heat at night, but the pipes still hummed. I told my parents, but they said it was just the water pipes. I tried to believe them.

A few days later, Lily came to me with a worried look. She said she had been hearing the same sounds in her room at night. She described the same faint footsteps and the feeling of being watched. We compared notes and found that the events always happened around the same time, right after midnight.

One night, I decided to stay awake and wait. I lay in bed, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house. At exactly 12:03, I heard the distinct sound of something scraping against the floor in the hallway. I crept to my door and opened it a crack. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint glow from my nightlight. I saw a small, dark shape disappear into the bathroom at the end of the hall. I waited, but nothing emerged.

The next morning, I found the bathroom door locked from the inside, even though no one had been in there. I had to use a hairpin to unlock it. The room was empty, but the medicine cabinet was open, and a bar of soap had been placed on the edge of the sink, perfectly balanced.

I decided to talk to the previous owner. I found his number in an old directory and called. He was an elderly man named Mr. Hargrove. When I asked about the house, he grew silent. Then he said, ‘You have to ignore the constant glow. It’s been there since I was a boy. It’s not harmful, but it draws things.’ When I asked what he meant, he said, ‘The light in the attic. It never goes out. That’s what they come for.’ He hung up.

I had never been to the attic. There was a pull-down ladder in the hallway ceiling, but I had assumed it was just storage. That afternoon, I unfolded the ladder and climbed up. The attic was cluttered with old furniture and boxes, but in the center, on a small table, was a lantern. The flame inside was steady, clear as glass. It cast no warmth, but it illuminated every corner of the attic.

As I watched, the flame flickered, and the shadows in the corners seemed to pulse. I felt a cold breeze wash over me, and I heard the same murmuring voice from my room, now clearer. It was saying my name. I backed away, descended the ladder, and pulled it shut.

That night, I told my father about the lantern. He laughed and said it was probably just an old oil lamp. But when he went into the attic, he found nothing. No lantern, no table, only dust. He looked at me strangely and said I was too imaginative. I wanted to argue, but I saw that he was scared. He just didn’t want to admit it.

The events escalated. I began to see a figure in my periphery, a tall, thin shape that would vanish when I turned. My parents started hearing footsteps in the hallway at night. The dogs would bark at the attic door, their hackles raised. One day, my mother found a pile of small bones in the corner of the kitchen, and we had no idea where they came from. The last straw was when Lily came down crying, saying she had seen a face in her bedroom window, a gaunt face with hollow eyes.

We moved out a week later. We never returned to get the rest of our things. My father hired a moving crew to pack everything, and they refused to go into the attic, saying they felt a cold presence there. When we asked them about it, they said it was as if something was watching them, and they left a few items behind.

Years passed, but I never forgot the house. I did some research and found out that a farmer had lived there in the 1800s. He had a wife and a daughter. The daughter died of fever, and the wife drowned in the well, and the farmer hung himself in the barn. Some said he left the lantern burning in the attic so his daughter would always have light, even in death.

Now, as an adult, I sometimes wake in the night and see a faint glow coming from the hallway of my apartment. It’s just a small light, but it never goes out. And I know that the house, wherever I go, carries a piece of it with me. The constant light, calling to something that never sleeps.

I’ve stopped trying to escape. Instead, I’ve learned to ignore it, to live with the weight on my legs and the whispers at midnight. But I know it’s waiting, watching, and one day, the glow will draw me back to that house, and I will finally understand what it wants.