The Kerosene Lamp

Old Mrs. Harlow had always been particular about the lights in the farmhouse, but after her husband, Ezra, passed, the house itself seemed to adopt his habits. He had been a frugal man, a product of the Depression, and he’d roam the rooms at night, clicking off any bulb he deemed wasted. The family had laughed about it, the way he’d grumble about the ‘electric bill’ and the ‘wasteful glow’ of a lamp left on in an empty hallway. But now, Ezra was gone, and the house still did his bidding.

It started with the Christmas tree, the first year after his death. His widow, Agnes, liked to sleep on the old sofa in the living room, lulled by the flicker of the TV and the cheerful twinkle of the tree lights. She’d drift off with them casting their warm, colored patterns on the ceiling. But every morning, she’d wake to a room plunged in darkness. The tree was unplugged, the cord yanked from the socket and lying on the hardwoods as if the plug itself had been ripped out with a spiteful twist. At first, she thought it was a faulty timer or a mischievous grandchild. But the kids swore they never touched it, and no timer was involved. Agnes would plug it back in each evening, and each morning, it would be undone.

My cousin Theo and I were the ones who started seeing the pattern. It wasn’t just the tree. We’d be in my room, huddled over a game console, the TV blaring, when suddenly the screen would go dark with a snap. No stand-by, just off. We’d check the surge protector, and it was fine. The same thing would happen to Agnes’s TV in the living room, always after she’d fallen asleep, the volume too loud for a sleeping woman. Then the lights in the hallway would flick off as we walked them, as if some invisible hand was following our wastefulness. The house was no longer just a refuge; it was a disciplinarian, enforcing Ezra’s old rules from beyond.

The breaking point came on a stifling August night. Power outages were rare that far out, but the heat had made us careless, and we’d left every light on in the upstairs, a beacon of profligacy. I was in my bedroom, reading by the small bedside lamp, which was the only thing I’d left on, but the hallway lights were a blazing testament to our ignorance. I heard the click of the switch, a familiar, dry sound, and the hallway went dark. Then, a second click, and my lamp flickered. I sat up, adrenaline humming, and saw the lamp’s shade trembling. The room felt cold, despite the heat. The lamp turned off with a soft pop.

I sat in the dark, heart pounding. And then I heard it: a slow, shuffling drag in the hallway, like slippers on wood. The sound stopped at my door. A thin sliver of light appeared under it, but it wasn’t the warm glow of a bulb—it was an eerie, bluish-white, like a dead TV left on static. The door handle creaked, but no one entered. I held my breath. The light under the door vanished, and I heard the shuffle retreat, then silence.

The next morning, I found Agnes in the kitchen, pale. She told me she’d seen the kerosene lamp, the one that had belonged to Ezra’s father, an ancient brass thing that had sat in the attic for decades. It was glowing on the dining room table, a ghostly flame. No one had lit it, and there was no reason it would be there. She’d blown it out, but as she did, she felt a cold breath on her neck, and a voice, Ezra’s voice, whispered, ‘Waste not, want not.’

We tried to leave. We packed our bags, but every door and window we opened would slam shut, and the lock would click. The house wouldn’t let us go. We were trapped with the spirit of a man who hated waste, and he was intent on curing us of our extravagance. The lights would turn on and off at will, the TVs would crackle to life and die, and the smell of kerosene began to seep from the walls. The final straw was when we all gathered in the living room, desperate and afraid, and every single light in the house surged to full brightness for a blinding, painful second, then plunged us into a darkness so complete we couldn’t see our own hands. In that blackness, we heard the scratch of a match, and a single flame ignited in the center of the room—the kerosene lamp, sitting on a small table that wasn’t there before. Its wick sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows that didn’t move in sync with our bodies. And then, a voice, not Ezra’s, but something older, came from the flame: ‘You should have listened.’