The Lamp at the Edge of the Field

At the edge of the Petersen’s farm, there stood a solitary lamp post that had been dead for years. I used to think it was just a rusted relic from a time when the field was a parking lot for a drive-in theater. But since I moved into the old farmhouse that came with the property, that lamp has become the center of my sleepless nights.

It began with a flicker. One night, as I was reading a thriller for my literature class, the lamp sputtered to life, casting a sickly orange glow across the cornfield. I thought it was a wiring fault, so I ignored it. But then my book started to shake. Not a violent quake, but a subtle tremor, as if something beneath the floorboards was humming. I put the book down, and the lamp went out. I picked it up again, and it blazed to life, brighter than before. It was as if the lamp was responding to my attention.

I tried to ignore it, but the pattern became undeniable. Whenever I would settle into a reading trance, the lamp would buzz and flare, and my focus would shatter. It was almost like a child trying to get my attention. But what child would be out in a cornfield at night? The Petersens had no kids; they were an old couple who moved to a retirement home. The next-door neighbor, a farmer named Old Man Halsey, told me that the field had a history. Decades ago, a girl named Emily had disappeared there, and they never found her body. He said her spirit still roamed the rows, waiting for someone to find her.

I laughed it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every night, the lamp would turn on at precisely 2:13 AM, and I would wake from a dead sleep, my heart pounding. Sometimes, I would see a figure at the edge of the field, just beyond the light, a small shape that seemed to waver like heat rising. I told myself it was a deer or a stray dog, but the shape was too small, too deliberate.

One night, I decided to confront it. I grabbed a flashlight and walked out to the lamp. The air was cold, and the cornstalks rustled with a noise that wasn’t wind. I reached the lamp and examined it. The bulb was burned out, the wiring frayed, yet it glowed with an unearthly light. As I touched the metal, a humming filled my ears, and I heard a faint voice, barely a whisper: ‘You can see me, can’t you?’

I stumbled backward, falling into the corn. The lamp flickered and then went dark. I scrambled to my feet and ran back to the house, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I locked the door and drew the curtains, but the lamp came on again at 2:13, and this time, I saw it clearly. A little girl standing under the lamp, her face pale, her eyes hollow. She raised a hand and pointed at the house, at my window, at me.

The next morning, I called Old Man Halsey and asked him about Emily. He grew quiet, then said, ‘She used to play by that lamp. Her favorite game was to turn it on and off, pretending she was a lighthouse keeper. When she vanished, the lamp died too. We thought it was forever, but it seems she found someone new to play with.’

I tried to sell the house, but every buyer backed out, citing a feeling of dread. The lamp now stays on all the time, even in broad daylight, and I’ve started to see her everywhere: in the mirror, in the corner of my eye, always pointing. Last night, I woke up to find my flashlight on, and the lamp hummed a single sentence in my ear: ‘You’ll never leave this place.’

I am writing this as a warning. If you ever see a lamp at the edge of a field, one that has no reason to be lit, do not approach it. Emily is still waiting, and she doesn’t like to be ignored.