The Hollow Night Light

When I was about twelve, I slept in a small room at the back of our house, a narrow space that had once been a pantry. My bed was pushed against the far wall, beneath a single window that looked out onto the overgrown garden. My mother’s sewing machine stood in the corner, draped with a dusty cloth, and a tall wardrobe loomed beside the door. My father, a night watchman, had peculiar habits. He would come home at odd hours, and often, in the deep hours, he would tiptoe into my room to check on me. He would adjust the blankets, tuck the corners, and fiddle with the window latch—sometimes cracking it open a finger’s width, sometimes sealing it shut, depending on the temperature he felt. He also snored, a low rumble that I could hear through the thin walls.

One January night, the cold seeped through the glass, and I had pulled the quilt up to my chin. I woke in the pitch dark, my eyes adjusting to the faint glow of the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. As usual, I lay facing the wall, my back to the room. I stirred, rolling onto my back, and then to my right side, facing the window. Just as I settled, I felt a draft on my neck, and I reached up to pull the blanket higher, but it was already snug. I blinked, and my gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where the wardrobe stood. There was a faint, sickly yellow light seeping from beneath its doors—a light that I had never noticed before.

I remember thinking it odd, but I was sleepy, so I closed my eyes. Then I heard a sound, not my father’s snore, but a soft, repetitive tap, like a finger drumming on wood. It came from inside the wardrobe. My heart began to pound. I tried to call out, but my throat felt tight. I forced myself to sit up, and as I did, the tapping stopped. The light under the wardrobe flickered, then went out. I lay back down, convincing myself it was the streetlight, or a branch against the window. But the window faced the garden, and no tree grew there.

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, the clock on the nightstand read 3:33 AM. The room was colder, and I could see my breath. The window was open, though I was certain it had been shut. My blanket had slipped off, and I shivered. As I reached to pull it up, I noticed the wardrobe door was ajar, and inside, in the faint glow of the streetlight, I saw a figure—a thin, hunched shape, wrapped in a tattered shawl, like an old woman. It was motionless, facing the wall. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to ten, and when I opened them, it was gone. The wardrobe door was closed again.

I wanted to run to my parents’ room, but my legs felt heavy, as if weighted. I managed to swing my legs out of bed, and as I stood, I heard the tapping again, now from under my bed. I froze. The tapping became a scratch, like fingernails on the floorboards. I bolted for the door, but as I grabbed the handle, it was ice cold, and the door wouldn’t budge. I pulled and pulled, and then I heard a voice, low and gravelly, right behind my ear: ‘It’s not time yet.’

I remember screaming, but no sound came out. Then, as suddenly as it began, the room was silent. The window was shut, the blanket was back on me, and the wardrobe was closed. My father was standing in the doorway, his face pale under the hall light. He asked if I was alright, and I told him I had a nightmare. He sat with me until I fell asleep, and in the morning, I told my mother. She laughed it off, saying the house was old and made noises. But from that night on, I never slept with my back to the room. And I never opened that wardrobe again. Years later, when we moved out, I went through it one last time, and in the back, behind a loose panel, I found a child’s drawing of a woman with hollow eyes, and the words ‘Let me out’ written in a shaky hand. I never found out who drew it, but I knew that light under the door, that tapping, and that voice were not my imagination. They were a remnant of something that had been waiting, and I had only just glimpsed the hollow night light that endured in that forgotten corner.