The Flickering Circuit

I never believed in the supernatural, not really. I was a man of science, a technician who could trace a faulty wire or a failing capacitor in seconds. But three weeks ago, my cousin Lena convinced me to watch a documentary about a supposed demonic possession. It was cheesy, full of shaky cameras and overblown sound effects, but something about the way the girl on screen twisted her face and spoke in that guttural tone stuck with me. I couldn’t sleep that night, and since then, my world has been unraveling at the seams.

It started in my apartment’s bathroom. The light above the mirror would flicker, just a subtle strobe effect, whenever I stepped in. I thought it was a faulty ballast, but when I looked at it directly, it would steady itself. It was as if it was shy, performing only when my back was turned or when I was washing my hands, staring into the sink. I checked the wiring, replaced the bulb, even swapped out the entire fixture. Nothing helped.

The flickering began to follow me. At my sister’s house, the hallway light did the same. At the grocery store, a ceiling panel stuttered as I walked beneath it. My coworker, Priya, noticed it during a meeting, her eyes narrowing as the fluorescent tube above my head blinked erratically. She asked if I was carrying some sort of electromagnetic device. I laughed it off, but inside, a cold dread was coiling tighter.

Last Tuesday, my mother came to visit. She was in the bathroom, and I stood in the doorway, cautioning her about the light. As I spoke, it began to flicker—faster, more aggressive. My mother stepped back, her face pale. ‘That’s not normal,’ she whispered. ‘It’s like it’s reacting to you.’ She crossed herself—she’s not even religious—and I felt my heart drop.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. At 3:33 AM, the bathroom door clicked open on its own. I got up, my feet cold on the floor, and peered inside. The light was on, but it was flickering violently, casting stroboscopic shadows that seemed to dance in the shape of a hand. The air grew thick, and I heard a faint whisper, not in my ears, but in my mind: ‘You see me now.’ I slammed the door shut and didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

Since then, I’ve noticed a pattern. The flickering isn’t random; it’s triggered by my presence, but also by moments of high emotion. When I’m angry, it screams. When I’m sad, it dims. And when I’m afraid, it pulses like a heartbeat. I’ve tried to avoid lights altogether, but they find me. Even the LED on my laptop blinks erratically when I’m near.

Yesterday, I called an electrician, a no-nonsense woman named Rosa. She ran diagnostics, checked every circuit, and found nothing wrong. As she was leaving, she looked me in the eye and said, ‘You have something attached to you. It’s not the wiring.’ She refused payment and left me with a warning: ‘Don’t let it feed on your fear.’

But it’s hard not to be afraid. Last night, as I was about to fall asleep, the bathroom door creaked open. The light flickered one final time, then went dark. In the pitch black, I saw a silhouette—a woman, her hair hanging over her face, her fingers long and twisted. She raised a hand, and the light flickered again, revealing her smiling mouth, far too wide. ‘You’ve been carrying me for weeks,’ she said, her voice dry as dust. ‘Now I’m ready to come out.’

I woke up this morning in a cold sweat. The bathroom light is still off, but I can hear a faint buzzing from behind the mirror. I’m writing this in the last light of day, because once the sun sets, I know the flickering will begin again. And this time, I’m not sure it will stop when I leave the room. It’s not the lights that are haunted. It’s me. And I think she’s been waiting for me to figure it out—so she can finally step into the light.