The Intensifying Light

March 4, 2026

by Griffin

The year after my mother passed, I found myself drawn to her old farmhouse in the remote hills of Vermont. It had been empty for months, but I needed to clear it out before selling. One crisp October evening, I was packing up her belongings in the bedroom that faced the long dirt driveway. I was taking pictures of the room to remember the place, not for me, but for my sister who lived across the country and couldn’t make the trip. I snapped a few shots with my phone, aiming at the bed and the old wardrobe.

When I glanced at the screen, my breath caught. The last photo showed a small, glowing orb hovering just above my left shoulder. I hadn’t felt anything, hadn’t seen anything in the room. I wiped the lens, thinking it was dust, and took another photo within seconds. The orb was not only still there; it was larger, brighter, more defined, like a small spotlight that had turned on. My hands trembled as I lowered the phone.

I tried to rationalize it. Dust, a bug, a reflection from the window. But the window was behind me, and the orb was definitely in front. I took another photo, and this time it was almost solid, a perfect sphere of white light. The smaller orbs in the background, which I had dismissed as mote, remained unchanged, but the main one seemed to pulse, as if drawing energy from the room.

I spent the next hour examining the images on my computer, zooming in, adjusting contrast and brightness, doing everything I knew in photo editing. The orb persisted, defiant. I even did a negative exposure, and there it was, a black void against white, just as clear. I called my sister, but she laughed, said it was a glitch. I wanted to believe her.

That night, I decided to stay, thinking I’d pack more boxes in the morning. I set up a small cot in the living room, trying to ignore the bedroom where I’d seen it. I didn’t sleep well. Every creak of the old house made me jump. Around 2 AM, I heard a soft hum, like a distant electrical wire, coming from upstairs. I grabbed a flashlight and crept up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. In the center of the room, floating at eye level, was the same orb, now glowing so brightly I had to shield my eyes. It hovered there, almost breathing, and then it shot toward the ceiling, disappearing through the roof.

I ran outside, shivering in the cold night. Above the farmhouse, I saw a pillar of light, widening like an opening door. The orb was back, but now it was the size of a beach ball, and inside it, I could see a shape—the silhouette of a woman, my mother, her hand reaching out toward me. I stumbled backward, my heart pounding. The light intensified, and I felt a pull, as if it wanted me to step into it. I shook my head, turned, and ran to my car, driving until sunrise without looking back.

I never returned to the farmhouse. I sold the photos to a paranormal archive, but the last one I kept. In it, the orb is no longer a sphere but a swirl of light, and within that swirl, if you look closely, you can see the farmhouse, and the faint outline of a woman at the window, watching. I don’t know what I saw that night, but I know it wasn’t dust. It was something that wanted me to cross over, and I fear it’s still waiting for me to come back.

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