The Flicker in the Fern Room

It was a sweltering November evening in my rented cottage on the outskirts of Nelson, New Zealand. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth from the garden that pressed against the old sash windows. I was sprawled on a sagging armchair, the sweat cooling on my skin in the faint breeze from the ceiling fan, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures. The house was quiet except for the occasional groan of the timber as it settled.

Then nature called, and I padded to the bathroom in my bare feet. The floorboards were cool, a welcome relief. When I returned, I noticed the fluorescent light above the kitchen sink was stuttering, its pale tube casting erratic pulses of light onto the counter. ‘Damn starter,’ I muttered, reaching for the switch. It was already off. I flicked it on, and the light steadied to a steady hum. Curious, I switched it off again. For a good fifteen seconds, the tube kept flickering, as if refusing to die.

A sudden, profound cold enveloped me. It wasn’t the chill of a draft; it seeped into my bones, and I felt every hair on my body stand on end. The goosebumps were so intense they were almost painful. I stood frozen, watching the dark kitchen, the light continuing its ghostly stutter. A strange, electric taste filled my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. Not knowing what else to do, I spoke to the empty room, my voice a thin croak: ‘Are you watching the show with me?’

In that instant, my two dogs, old and lazy Jack Russells usually asleep by the door, erupted into frantic barking. But it wasn’t their usual alert bark for a possum or a passerby. Their barks were deeper, more guttural, almost desperate, and they were directed at the corner of the room where I had been sitting—the corner opposite the kitchen, near the potted fern that had seen better days. I watched the fern’s drooping fronds quiver, though no breeze touched them.

The light finally died, plunging the kitchen into darkness. The dogs’ barking subsided into low, worried whines. The cold lifted as abruptly as it had come, leaving a lingering dampness on my skin. I stood there, heart hammering, for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, I forced myself to move, switching on a lamp and checking the entire house with a flashlight. Nothing was out of place.

The documentary ended, the screen going to static. As I reached for the remote, I noticed something on the windowsill behind the fern: a tiny, perfect circle of frost, still glistening in the warm air. I had never seen frost in November. I didn’t sleep that night, and the next morning, I found the fern completely withered, as if all the life had been sucked out of it overnight. The dogs refused to enter the kitchen, and I never felt truly warm in that cottage again. I moved out a month later, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I still feel that cold breath on my neck, and I hear the faint, static-laced whisper of something that never quite learned to speak.