The Last Light in Halden

The small town of Halden had always been quiet, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and the biggest excitement was the annual county fair. I had moved there six months prior, seeking the kind of peace that city life never offered. My new home was an old farmhouse at the edge of town, surrounded by fields that stretched into darkness. The previous owner had left some furniture, including a heavy oak bed that groaned with the weight of history. I had a cat, a grey tabby I’d named Mabel, who was my constant companion. Since bringing her home, the odd things I’d experienced—footsteps in the attic, cold spots in the hallway—had seemed to fade. I thought she was a protective charm, a furry guardian against the unseen.

On that night in late October, the air was crisp, the kind that promised frost by morning. I did my usual routine: I let Mabel in from the porch, and she curled up at the foot of my bed, her eyes half-lidded. I finished the final chapter of a novel about a lighthouse keeper, then set it aside. Everything felt as ordinary as a lullaby. I checked the locks, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. The house settled around me, creaking softly as it always did, and I drifted to sleep, comforted by Mabel’s gentle breathing.

Somewhere after 3 a.m., I woke with a start, my heart hammering. The room was pitch black, the kind of darkness that presses on your eyes. Mabel was still at the foot of the bed, but her fur was bristled, and her ears were flat. She was staring at the corner of the room, near the closet. I followed her gaze, but saw nothing. ‘It’s okay, girl,’ I whispered, reaching out to stroke her. She didn’t respond, just kept her eyes fixed. I tried to settle back down, but sleep was elusive. After twenty minutes of tossing, I got up to get a glass of water.

The hallway was lit by a dim nightlight, casting pale shadows. On my way back, my younger brother, Sam, emerged from his room. He was fifteen, staying with me for a few months while our parents were overseas. ‘Couldn’t sleep either?’ he asked, his voice hoarse. We stood in the hallway for a moment, then I told him to grab some water. As he shuffled toward the kitchen, I went back to my room.

I was about to close the door when a noise stopped me. It came from the living room below—a sound like wet cloth rubbing against wood, slow and deliberate. I froze, every nerve alert. Mabel hissed, a sound so harsh it made me jump. She leapt off the bed and ran to the door, her tail puffed. I called her, but she ignored me, sprinting down the stairs. I followed, my bare feet cold on the hardwood. I called her name, but she disappeared into the shadows of the living room.

I reached the top of the stairs and listened. Silence. Then, a faint, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat coming from the floorboards. I crept down, my heart pounding in my ears. The living room was dark, the only light from the moon filtering through the curtains. I saw Mabel’s eyes glowing from beneath the old armchair, but she wouldn’t come out. I knelt, reaching for her, when the thumping stopped. A chill swept through the room, and I smelled something like rotting flowers.

Then, from the hallway that led to the kitchen, I heard Sam’s voice, but it was layered, as if someone else spoke just behind him. ‘Are you there?’ he called. I called back, ‘Yeah, stay in the kitchen!’ My voice came out as a croak. I stood up, and that’s when I saw it—a figure standing in the archway between the living room and the kitchen. It was tall, humanoid, but its skin was pale, mottled like old paper, and its arms hung too long, nearly touching the floor. It had no face, just a smooth, blank expanse where features should have been. And it was motionless, as if it had been waiting for me.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. I just stood there, my breath shallow. The thing took a step forward, its movement fluid, wrong. I backed away, my hand finding the stair railing. I stumbled up the stairs, calling for Sam, but no answer. I reached my room, slammed the door, and locked it. Mabel was nowhere to be seen. I pressed my ear to the door, hearing nothing but the frantic beat of my own heart.

Minutes passed. I don’t know how many. Then, a soft scratching at the door, like nails. ‘Let me in,’ Sam’s voice came, but it was flat, unnatural. I didn’t open. I whispered, ‘Sam, is that you?’ The scratching stopped. Then a thud, like a body dropping to the floor. I backed away to the window, considering escape, but it was a two-story drop.

I stayed huddled in the corner until dawn, when the first rays of light seeped through the blinds. The house was silent. I crept to the door, unlocked it, and stepped into the hallway. Sam was lying on the floor, unconscious, but breathing. I shook him awake. He looked dazed, said he remembered getting water, then nothing. Mabel was missing. I searched the house, but she was gone.

I called the police, but what could I say? That a faceless thing had come in the night? They wrote it off as a break-in attempt. Sam and I moved out a week later. I never saw Mabel again. But sometimes, in the twilight of my new apartment, I catch a glimpse of a tall, pale figure standing in the doorway, and I hear a faint thumping, like a heartbeat from the floorboards. The last light fades, and I know that whatever it is, it followed me. And I know that it’s patient.