The Lamplight Visitor

I grew up in a small town in the Philippines, in a place that was still more fields than streets. Our house was one of the few concrete structures in the area, built close to the gravel road that turned to mud when it rained. At night, the only light came from a single lamppost that flickered at the end of our street, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to move even when the air was still.

I was around nine years old, probably in fourth grade, when I had my first encounter with something that didn’t belong in the world of the living. It was a hot, humid night, and the whole family had gone to bed early. Our house had only two bedrooms: one for my parents and my younger siblings, and a tiny room for me, which was more like a storage closet with a bed. My room was adjacent to the living room, separated by a thin plywood wall. If I opened my door, I would have a direct line of sight to the old wooden sofa and the small television set that stood on a wobbly stand.

That night, I woke up suddenly, my bladder full and my mouth dry. The digital clock on my nightstand read 2:03 AM. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator, which was anchored in the kitchen just beyond the living room. But then I heard it: voices. Soft, murmuring voices, unmistakably my mother’s and my youngest siblings, a baby and a toddler. They were talking in that playful, cooing way my mother used to calm them, and the television was on, its low volume enough to hear a soap opera’s dramatic theme.

At first, I felt a surge of excitement. I thought, ‘Oh, they’re awake! Maybe I can join them and watch TV.’ I needed to pee, but I didn’t want to miss out. So I decided to open my door and peek out, my hand already on the doorknob. As I turned it, I felt a weird cold draft, like the air from the freezer, but it came from the living room. I dismissed it as the old aircon unit that needed repair.

I opened the door slowly, the hinges creaking, but I didn’t look yet. I took a step out, my bare feet on the tiled floor, and as I raised my eyes, the scene before me made my stomach drop. The living room was bathed in a dim, blue glow from the television, which was showing static, a flickering snow of black and white. My mother was sitting on the sofa, but she was not facing the TV. She was facing me, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, and her eyes—they were not her eyes. They were black, like polished obsidian, with no whites. She was holding my baby sister and toddler brother in her arms, but they were stiff, like mannequins, their faces blank and motionless.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. My mother opened her mouth, and instead of her voice, I heard a low, guttural growl that didn’t sound human. And then, it spoke in my mother’s voice, but wrong, like a tape played at the wrong speed. ‘Come here, anak. Let’s watch TV.’ The baby and the toddler turned their heads in unison toward me, and their eyes were also black.

I stumbled backward, slamming the door shut, and I felt a cold hand press against the other side, trying to push it open. I held the knob with all my might, praying, my heart pounding so loud I thought it would burst. The hand on the door was not my mother’s hand; it was long, with fingers that seemed too numerous, and the fingernails were black and sharp.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but eventually I heard the sounds of my actual mother snoring from the other bedroom, and the television static stopped. The pressure on the door ceased. Cautiously, I cracked the door open, and the living room was empty, dark, silent. The television was off, and the only light came from the lamppost outside, which flickered and cast a moving shadow that seemed to have a human shape, but it was gone when I blinked.

I never told my family about this, because I thought they would call me crazy. But that night changed something in me. From then on, whenever the lamppost flickered, I would avoid looking at it, because I had the feeling that something was standing under it, watching our house. And sometimes, when I would wake up at 2 AM, I would hear faint voices from the living room, but I would never leave my room again. I would just pull the blanket over my head and whisper prayers until daylight, and the lamppost would finally steady its glow, as if satisfied with its nightly vigil.

Years later, we moved to the city, and I thought I had left that behind. But one night, while I was asleep in my new apartment, I woke up to the sound of a television and my mother’s voice calling my name. I didn’t have a television in my apartment, and I lived alone. I sat up in bed, my heart racing, and I saw a light flicker outside my window: a lamppost, identical to the one in my childhood, stood just outside, casting a long, wavering shadow that seemed to move toward my window. I pulled the blinds shut and didn’t sleep until dawn. And I knew, with a sinking certainty, that the lamppost and what stood beneath it had followed me home.