The Lamp Flicker

My sister Lena and I had been staying at our uncle’s old farmhouse for the summer. It was a sprawling, creaky place with rooms that seemed to remember every secret ever whispered within their walls. Uncle Gerald had passed away in the spring, and our parents thought it would be good for us to help clear out the clutter. We were supposed to be cleaning the attic, but mostly we were trying to avoid the basement. It had that damp, earthy smell that just felt wrong.

One evening, after a long day of sorting through moth-eaten clothes and dusty books, we decided to drive into the nearest town for some proper takeout. We were craving greasy burgers and fries, anything but the canned soup we’d been surviving on. The town was about twenty minutes away, and the drive was pretty, with fields stretching out under a sky that was turning a bruised purple. We got our food, ate in the car, and drove back as the last light bled away.

I wasn’t feeling great, a headache starting to throb behind my eyes, so I told Lena I’d go inside while she parked the car. I let myself in, flicking the porch light off behind me because the bulb was always buzzing. Inside, the house was dim, the only illumination coming from the kitchen’s small lamp. I called out for our parents, but there was no answer. They must have gone for a walk, or maybe to the neighbor’s. I headed upstairs to grab my pajamas.

The hallway was dark. The bulb in the ceiling fixture had burned out days ago and we kept forgetting to replace it. I fumbled for the switch in my room, and when the light came on, it cast a harsh, white glow across the bed and the old dresser. I grabbed my things and was about to turn the light off when I noticed something. The lamp on my nightstand, the one with the heavy ceramic base shaped like an owl, was not plugged in. But its shade was slightly swaying, as if someone had just brushed against it.

I shook it off, turned off the overhead light, and headed downstairs. The living room was dark except for the TV, which I had left on. I settled onto the couch, pulling a quilt over my legs. About an hour later, the front door opened and Lena came in, carrying the leftover fries. She stopped in the doorway, her face pale, and asked, ‘Is Dad playing the piano in the study?’

I stared at her. ‘No, he’s not even home. Mom and Dad are out.’

Lena shook her head. ‘I just heard something, like a few notes, coming from the study.’

I got up, my heart starting to thump. ‘Maybe it’s the wind,’ I said, but even I didn’t believe it. We both walked to the study door, which was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. The room was dark, but the moonlight coming through the window showed the old grand piano, its keys covered in a layer of dust. There was no one there.

We stood in the doorway, listening. And then we heard it. A single note, low and resonant, coming from the far corner of the room. I flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. The power must have gone out. I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight, and swept it around. The beam caught something that made my blood run cold. On the piano bench, there was a folded piece of paper. I picked it up. It was an old music sheet, yellowed with age. Scrawled across it in pencil was a message: ‘You shouldn’t have opened the attic.’

Lena grabbed my arm. ‘We didn’t open the attic,’ she whispered. ‘We never got the padlock off.’

But she was wrong. As we stood there, we heard a heavy creak from above, and then the sound of footsteps across the attic floor.