The Flicker of the Vanishing Bulb

The Blue Ridge Motor Lodge had been a bustling vacation spot in the 1970s, but now it was just a forgotten strip of cracked asphalt and rusting cabins, swallowed by the encroaching pines. My family and I were ‘off-grid’ enthusiasts, and for the summer, we had claimed the old lodge as our basecamp. My parents took the big cabin with the wraparound porch; I got the smallest one, farthest from theirs, tucked against the treeline. It had a single window, a creaky double bed, and a lamp with a pull-chain, its shade yellowed with age.

At first, the isolation was a comfort. But as dusk settled, the woods seemed to press closer. The air inside my cabin grew heavy, and the only thing that kept the unease at bay was the harsh glow of the lamp and the low murmur of my radio. I couldn’t sleep without them. Even the radio’s static was better than the silence.

One night, as I lay on my back, my skin began to prickle—a faint, electric tingling that started at my spine and radiated outward. It felt like the kind of static you get before a lightning strike, or the sensation of being watched by someone just over my shoulder. I turned my head sharply, but the room was empty. The feeling vanished, only to return the moment I faced the ceiling again. It was a persistent, maddening loop.

Then the lamp flickered. Three times. The bulb buzzed, its filament glowing orange and then failing. The room plunged into a darkness so thick it felt solid. My breath caught. I fumbled for the pull-chain, but the lamp was dead. The radio crackled and died too, leaving only the sound of my heart beating in my ears. I lay there, frozen, until the first gray light of dawn seeped through the window.

In the morning, I examined the lamp. The bulb was intact, but it had been turned—screwed in so loosely that a single touch would break the connection. The bulb itself was scorched black on one side, as if something had gripped it. My father laughed off my fear. ‘Just an old lamp,’ he said. But he couldn’t explain why the bulb showed no sign of malfunction, or why the brand-new LED bulb I replaced it with went dead a week later, its glass cracked from the inside out.

That week, I tried everything to feel safe. I slept with my back against the wall, facing the door. I left the lamp on and the radio turned up. But the tingle never left. It grew stronger, crawling up my neck, wrapping around my skull. I began to sleep in the same position as always, because facing a wall felt worse.

One night, I woke in the dark, the radio silent. The lamp was off. My heart hammered as I reached for the pull-chain. The chain was sticky. I pulled it, and the light came on. In that first flash, I saw her: a woman made of shadow, her fingers wrapped around the bulb, her face inches from mine, her breath a cold draft on my cheek. She was smiling—no, she was sorry. She was apologizing for the flicker, for the loose bulb, for the watchful nights.

I screamed. My parents came running. The lamp was on, the bulb glowing warmly. There was no shadow-woman, no loose bulb. But the next morning, when I woke, the lamp was off, and on the glass of the window, written in the dust, was a single word: ‘Stay.’

I packed my things and left that day. My parents thought I was being ridiculous, but they didn’t see the bulb, cracked again, or the way the radio played a song about waking up in the woods. I’m writing this from the back seat of our truck, heading away from the lodge. But even now, in the daylight, I feel the tingle at the back of my neck. And when I close my eyes, I see the shadow-woman, and I know she’s not saying sorry for the flicker. She’s saying sorry for what’s coming. And the only word I can’t get out of my head is the one she scratched into the glass: ‘Stay.’