The Girl in the Laundry Light

I was fifteen that autumn, and the house we rented on the edge of Whitaker’s Field always felt like it was holding its breath. My mother, a woman who could find a ghost in a sunbeam, had filled my head with tales from her childhood in the Kimberley—of red dust and ancient whispers—until I slept with a nightlight and a nervous habit of checking under my bed. That Sunday evening, the one that started it all, was damp with the promise of rain, the kind of gray that made the streetlights hum all day.

We’d watched the eight o’clock movie, some black-and-white thing about a woman with a secret, and I’d drifted off on the couch. When I woke, the house was silent, my mother’s chair empty, and the narrow hallway to my room seemed longer than usual. I shuffled to my bed, pulling the covers to my chin, listening to the groan of the old pipes. Then I remembered: my school uniform was still in the hamper, and my mother, that meticulous soul, would not let me go to school in a wrinkled shirt. I called out to her, but she was already in the laundry room off the kitchen.

‘Don’t you worry, love, I’ll have it dry by morning,’ she said, her voice muffled by the hum of the washing machine. She refused my offer to help, shooing me back to bed with a wave of her hand. I lay there, the rhythm of the machine a lullaby I couldn’t quite embrace. The clock radio glowed 11:15 in angry red numbers. I rolled over, determined to sleep, and that’s when I heard something that was not the washing machine—a soft, deliberate breathing, right next to my ear.

My blood turned to ice. I opened my eyes slowly, afraid of what I’d see. There, at the foot of my bed, stood a girl. She was small, maybe seven or eight, wearing a sailor suit—blue skirt, white top with a red kerchief, and a little cap perched on her head. The red glow of the clock digits reflected in her wide, dark eyes, making them look like pools of dried blood. I blinked, certain she was a trick of my tired mind, but she remained. I blinked again, and she took a step closer, the floorboards creaking softly. My mother’s stories came flooding back—the ones about children who appeared to the living just before something terrible happened.

I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The girl tilted her head, a faint smile curling her lips. ‘You’re not sleeping,’ she said, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘I’ve been watching you. You like the light.’ She gestured to the clock radio, and I realized she meant the red glow. I shook my head, finally finding my voice. ‘Who are you?’ I whispered. Her smile widened. ‘I’m not sure anymore. I used to have a name, but it fell out of my pocket. Can you help me find it?’

I should have run, called for my mother, but my legs were useless, frozen under the sheets. The girl reached out a hand—pale, almost translucent—and touched the edge of my blanket. ‘It’s cold in here,’ she said. ‘Will you share your warmth?’ And then she laughed, a sound like water going down a drain. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing her to vanish, and when I opened them, she was gone. The washing machine had stopped. The house was silent again, but I knew it was a lie. I lay there, trembling, until dawn leaked through the blinds, and my mother found me curled in a ball, the covers twisted around me like a cocoon.

I told her what I’d seen, and she went pale, clutching the crucifix around her neck. ‘There was a girl,’ she said slowly, ‘who drowned in the quarry behind the old mill, back in the sixties. She was wearing her school uniform—navy and white, with a red scarf. They never found her body.’ I asked her how she knew, and she said, ‘Because I saw her too, when I was your age. Here, in this very house. She likes the red glow, the numbers on the clock. She counts them.’ I stared at her, horrified. ‘Did you help her?’ I asked. My mother shook her head. ‘I didn’t know how. But you might. She seems to have taken a liking to you.’

That was thirty years ago, and I’ve never told another soul this story. But every time I see a clock radio glowing red in a dark room, I think of her—the girl in the laundry light, still counting, still waiting. And I wonder, sometimes, if she’s found her name yet, or if she’s still out there, searching for a warm bed to crawl into. I can only hope she doesn’t find mine.