The Flicker at Hollow Creek

In the summer of 2008, my cousin Della and I were staying at our grandmother’s farmhouse near Hollow Creek, a speck on the map in eastern Kentucky. The night was flawless, a full moon casting silver light on the tobacco fields, the sky peppered with stars. After supper, Della suggested we visit old Man Corbin, a reputed moonshiner who lived up the holler, to get some provisions since the general store closed at dusk. I’ve never been one for such errands, but the night was too sweet to waste indoors, so I agreed.

We drove along the gravel road, the truck’s headlights cutting through the darkness. Corbin’s place was a ramshackle cabin with a tin roof, nestled in a copse of pines. Della hopped out, leaving the engine running, and ambled to the porch. I stayed in the cab, leaning against the window, watching the sky. The moon was so bright I could see the outlines of the hills, and the air smelled of pine and damp earth.

As I admired the constellations, I noticed a movement at the cabin’s window. A face, pale and indistinct, pressed against the glass. I assumed it was Della, checking on me, maybe waving to say ‘all good’ before she entered. The porch light flickered on and off, like a faulty bulb, and I chuckled. ‘Della, you old joker,’ I murmured, thinking she was playing with the switch.

She returned to the truck, carrying a Mason jar of clear liquid and a pack of cigarettes. ‘Here you go,’ she said, handing me a shot glass. ‘Corbin says hi.’ I took the shot, the liquor burning pleasantly down my throat. As we sat there, Della fumbled for her phone in her pocket. ‘Must’ve left it inside,’ she said, letting out a sigh. ‘Give me a sec.’ She started to get out, but I grabbed her arm.

‘Wait,’ I said, my eyes fixed on the porch. The light flickered again, but this time faster, stuttering like a broken strobe. I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘Is someone else in there?’ I asked. Della laughed. ‘Corbin’s the only one. He’s a bit odd, but harmless.’ But something felt off. The flickering became a frantic rhythm, and I noticed the silhouette at the window had not moved. It was still there, staring.

‘Della,’ I whispered, my voice trembling, ‘that’s not Corbin.’ Della followed my gaze and froze. ‘No, it’s his wife, Mary. She’s probably just curious.’ But as the light continued to flick, I saw the figure’s head tilt unnaturally, as if it were listening to something we couldn’t hear. The cadence of the flickering began to mimic a pattern, a deliberate code: three short, three long, three short. I had a sudden, sickening realization that it wasn’t a malfunction—it was a warning.

‘Della, we need to leave. Now,’ I said, my hand on the door handle. But Della was already reaching for her door. ‘I can’t just leave my phone,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll be quick.’ She stepped out, and I watched her walk towards the porch. The porch light went dark, plunging the cabin into blackness. ‘Della?’ I called out, but my voice was swallowed by the night.

I waited, the truck’s engine humming, the minutes stretching. I honked the horn, but no response. Panic seized me. I grabbed a flashlight from under the seat and got out, my legs weak. As I approached the porch, I noticed the door was ajar, and a cold draft seeped out. I called Della’s name, but only crickets answered.

I stepped inside, the floorboards groaning. The interior was dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through dusty windows. Shelves lined with jars and bottles held strange liquids. At the far end of the room, a rocking chair moved slightly, as if someone had just vacated it. On the floor lay Della’s phone, its screen cracked. I picked it up, and the screen flickered to life, displaying a text from an unknown number: ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

Then I heard it—a faint, rhythmic clicking, coming from the kitchen. I followed the sound, my flashlight beam dancing across the walls. In the kitchen, I found a wooden table covered in candles that had been lit and extinguished, the wicks still smoking. On the table was a device made of tin cans and wires, connected to a switch that was rapidly toggling itself, flickering the porch light. Beside it lay a note, scrawled in a shaky hand: ‘The light is a language. It speaks the truth. It told me you were coming.’

I stumbled back, my heart racing. Where was Della? I searched the cabin, but there was no sign of her or Corbin. The only door to the basement was locked. I rattled it, but it wouldn’t budge. I shouted her name, but silence.

I fled to the truck, my hands trembling as I fumbled for the keys. As I drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and the porch light flickered one last time—a long, pause, a short—an imitation of a heartbeat. The next morning, the police searched the cabin, but found no trace of Della or Corbin. The house was empty, as if no one had lived there for years.

The only evidence was the strange contraption, which the sheriff dismissed as junk. But I knew better. The light had been speaking to us, and we hadn’t listened. Now, every time I see a flickering bulb, I feel a cold knot in my stomach, because I know that somewhere, someone is still trying to communicate, trying to warn others about what lurks in Hollow Creek.

I never saw Della again. The only thing I have left is her phone, which still works, its screen flashing a single message every night at 3:33 AM: ‘The light is always watching.’