The Crank Signaler

My father, Elias, was a man of routine and quiet observation. After he passed, I moved into his old house, the one with the crooked porch and the garden he never finished. I told myself it was practical, but I think part of me wanted to keep his presence close. And it was there, in the creaks and drafts, that I started to sense him. The way the kitchen door would swing slightly, the smell of his tobacco in the hallway, the flicker of the porch light at odd hours. I knew it wasn’t just memory; it was him, checking up on me like he used to do when I was a child and he’d peek into my room before bed.

To confirm, I remembered an old trick from a show I used to watch. You take a flashlight, the kind you twist to turn on, and set it so that one more turn would engage it. Then you ask whatever presence is there to twist it on. It’s like a Morse code from the other side, but less fragile than a Ouija board. I found a small, sturdy one in the kitchen drawer, next to the takeout menus and expired coupons. It was my father’s, with a faded sticker of a fishing lure on the side. I put in fresh batteries, which I bought on the way home, just to rule out any trick of the light.

My wife and kids were upstairs, watching a movie, their laughter drifting down like muffled rain. I slipped down to the basement, the steps groaning under my weight. The basement was unfinished, cluttered with boxes and his old tools. I set the flashlight on a paint-stained workbench, facing me, and stepped back. I took a breath, feeling silly, but also desperate. ‘Dad,’ I said, my voice echoing off the concrete. ‘If you’re here, turn on the flashlight.’ Nothing. I waited, counting my heartbeats. The furnace kicked on with a hum. Then, a click and a soft creak. The flashlight flickered, then glowed steady, its beam cutting through the dust motes.

My skin prickled. I asked it to turn off, and it did, the light dying with a soft twist. We did this back and forth, a silent conversation. Each time it turned on, I felt a warmth, a reassurance. I asked him to blink twice if it was him. The light blinked twice, slow and deliberate. I laughed, a choked sound. I asked him to give me a sign that he was okay. The light turned on and off three times, then paused, then one long blink. I thanked him, and the light stayed on steady, as if he was proud.

I wanted to know more. I asked him about the house, about my mother, about the things I never got to say. The light answered with a pattern, but I couldn’t decode it. So I brought down a notepad and pen, and I asked him to spell out words: one blink for ‘A’, two for ‘B’, and so on. It was slow, but after an hour, I had a message. ‘I AM HERE. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.’ My hands trembled. I asked him who else was here. The light flickered, then went out. I waited, but it didn’t return.

I started to do this every night, after the family was asleep. I’d sneak down to the basement, carrying the flashlight like a holy relic. We’d communicate for hours, me asking about his life, his regrets, his secrets. He told me he was at peace, that he was proud of me, but there was something he couldn’t tell me, something he was afraid of. I pressed him, but the light would go erratic, flashing in panicky bursts. One night, he spelled out a name: ‘Miriam’. My grandmother, who died before I was born. He said she was here too, but she was angry. I asked why. The light turned off and I felt a cold draft. When I tried to turn it on, it wouldn’t. I replaced the batteries, but it was dead.

The next night, I tried again, but the batteries drained within minutes. I bought more, but they died too. I realized it wasn’t the batteries; it was the presence. My father was weakening, or something was blocking him. I remembered the old rule: don’t invite spirits in, but I had. And I wasn’t just inviting; I was asking for contact. I grew paranoid. The house felt heavier, the shadows longer. My kids complained of nightmares, and my wife said she felt watched. I didn’t tell them about the flashlight; I was too ashamed.

One night, I was alone, at the workbench, when the flashlight flicked on by itself, without me touching it. The beam was wrong, harsher. I asked, ‘Dad?’ The light blazed steady, unblinking. Then it spelled out, ‘NOT HIM.’ My heart stopped. ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ I typed. The light flickered. ‘HE LET ME IN.’ I felt the temperature drop. The light swung to point at the stairs. A silhouette stood there, a tall, thin shape, darker than the shadows. It moved with a creak, like old wood. I grabbed the flashlight, and it went out. I ran upstairs, slamming the basement door behind me.

I told my wife we were moving. She didn’t understand, but she trusted me. We packed in a fever, the kids crying, and I could feel that presence watching from the walls. As we left, I threw the flashlight in a dumpster at the end of the street. I thought that would end it. But that night, in our new apartment, I saw a light flicker from the closet. A small, steady glow. I opened the door. The flashlight was sitting on the floor, its beam pointing at me. And it turned on and off, slow and deliberate, a message I knew by heart: ‘YOU CANNOT LEAVE.’