The Light on the Landing

It was the autumn after we moved into the old farmhouse, the kind of place where the floorboards groaned even when you stood still. My room was at the top of the stairs, a narrow attic space with a sloped ceiling and a single window that overlooked the overgrown orchard. My parents had turned the smaller bedroom down the hall into a study, but they rarely used it, preferring the warmth of the kitchen downstairs. I was sixteen, and the house felt like a mouth full of secrets, but I tried not to think about it.

That particular night, I had gone to bed early, worn out from a day of unpacking boxes. I lay in the dark, the only light a faint sliver from the half-open door, and listened to the wind rattling the trees. Then, without warning, a rectangle of light spilled into my room from the hallway. Someone had turned on the light in the study. I frowned. My parents had said goodnight an hour ago, and I could hear their muffled voices from their bedroom below. I assumed one of them had forgotten something, but the light stayed on for a long time.

I lay there, watching the light shape of my doorway grow sharp against the dark. After about five minutes, a shadow appeared at the bottom of the door, just a dark shape of feet, pointed toward my room. It didn’t move. I held my breath, waiting for the door to open, but it didn’t. The shadow just stood there, motionless, as if someone was standing on the other side, listening. Ten minutes passed. The light went off. The shadow vanished.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I told myself it was my father, but when I asked him the next morning, he looked at me strangely and said, ‘I was asleep by nine. You probably saw a stray beam from the streetlight.’ But there was no streetlight; we were a mile from the road.

A few days later, my best friend, Marcus, came over to help me hang posters in my new room. It was late afternoon, and we were laughing about some stupid thing, when I had to go downstairs to grab sodas from the fridge. I bounded down the steps, two at a time, and as I crossed the kitchen, I heard a girl’s laugh, clear and quick, right by my ear. It was so close I felt a puff of air. I froze, my hand on the fridge handle. The kitchen was empty. The laugh didn’t repeat. I stood there for a long moment, my heart thumping, then grabbed the sodas and ran back upstairs.

I didn’t tell Marcus what I’d heard. Instead, I asked him, ‘Do you ever feel like this house is… watching you?’ He laughed it off, said old houses creak, that’s all. But that night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was not just watching, but waiting. I decided to test it. I left my door ajar, just a crack, and I stayed awake, staring at the triangle of light from the hallway where the bathroom nightlight glowed.

At 2:57 AM, the light came on in the study again. I sat up, my heart pounding. This time, I didn’t wait. I slipped out of bed, tiptoed to my door, and pulled it open slowly. The hallway was empty, but the study door was slightly ajar, and a soft, warm light spilled out. I crept toward it, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor. I pressed my eye to the crack. Inside, I saw a figure—a woman in a long, old-fashioned dress, her back to me, standing at the window. She was humming a lullaby I’d never heard. I couldn’t see her face, but her hair was long and dark, cascading down her back.

I backed away, my throat tight, and almost ran down the stairs to my parents’ room. I burst in, and my mother woke with a start. ‘What is it?’ she asked. I told her about the light and the woman. She and my father exchanged a look, and my father sighed. ‘The house was built in 1892,’ he said. ‘There were stories about the family that lived here before. A daughter who… died.’ He trailed off.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. The next morning, I found that the study door was locked from the inside, though I was sure I’d left it ajar. I never went back into that study. But the light on the landing still comes on, some nights. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I hear that faint humming, and I know she’s still there, waiting for someone to listen.