The Flicker of the Empty House

My eldest brother, Daniel, never speaks of it. But I grew up with the story, passed down like a family heirloom wrapped in fear. It happened in the old house on Bramblewick Lane, a place with peeling wallpaper and a staircase that groaned even when no one was on it. Daniel was sixteen and home with a fever while the rest of us went to the drive-in theater. He claimed he was fine, but my mother insisted he stay behind, tucking a blanket around him on the couch.

The evening was warm and still. Daniel dozed, the television murmuring in the background. Then, without warning, the screen blinked to black, and the room plunged into darkness. He thought it was a power cut, but then the light in the hallway flickered back on, casting a murky glow. He heard a giggle—high and childish, like a game. The light clicked off. On. Off. On. Off. The rhythm quickened, as if someone were having a tantrum with the switches.

Daniel pulled the blanket over his head, his fever making everything seem sharper, more menacing. He heard footsteps—soft, pattering, like bare feet on hardwood—moving from the hallway to the kitchen. Then the faucet turned on, a steady stream of water, and the refrigerator door slammed. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for it to stop.

When our car pulled into the driveway, Daniel was sitting in the corner of the living room, knees to his chest, sobbing. He wouldn’t let go of my mother for an hour, his face buried in her shoulder, whispering, ‘Don’t leave me again. She plays with the lights. She plays with the lights.’ We never knew who ‘she’ was. Daniel refused to elaborate, and we never stayed in that house long enough to find out.

Years later, after I had moved out, I became curious. I was at a garage sale two towns over, and an old woman was selling a box of photographs. One photo caught my eye: a girl of about eight, standing in front of a house I recognized as Bramblewick Lane. I asked the woman about it. She smiled sadly and said, ‘That was my daughter, Emily. She loved that house. She died there in 1972, playing hide-and-seek in the attic. Fell through the floorboards.’ I told her about Daniel’s experience, and her eyes lit up. ‘Oh, Emily was a mischievous one. She used to flicker the lights to get attention. She must have been bored that night, wanting someone to play with. I’m sorry if she scared your brother, but she never meant any harm.’

That night, I dreamt of Emily. She was standing in a dark hallway, her hand on the light switch, grinning. ‘You’re like him,’ she said. ‘You’ll leave too. But I like this game.’ I woke with a jolt, my room pitch black. For a moment, I thought I saw the faint outline of a child in the corner, but when I reached for the lamp, it flickered once and steadied. I haven’t told my brother, but sometimes, when I’m alone in my apartment, the lights will flicker for a second, just one, and I know she’s found me. And I wonder if she’ll ever let me go.