The Lighter’s Glow

Our family had a peculiar rhythm, one dictated by the flicker of the power grid and the steady flame of my father’s trusty Zippo. There were six of us then: my parents, my three sisters, and me, the youngest, a boy of five. My father was the only man in the house, a towering figure with hands like slabs of stone, always smelling of smoke and motor oil. He had a habit of clicking his lighter open and shut, a nervous tic that became a lullaby in our home. Every time the lights went out, which was often in our old neighborhood, he would light that flame and guide us through the darkness, his voice a gruff anchor.

That particular evening, we were all crammed on the worn sofa, watching the grainy images of a cartoon on our ancient TV. The room was warm with the scent of dinner and the low hum of the appliance. Then, with a soft sigh, the screen went black. The house plunged into an absolute darkness so thick you could almost touch it. My mother’s voice, sharp with annoyance, cut through. ‘Not again.’ I heard my father fumble for his lighter on the end table, the click of the metal case echoing like a promise. A scratch, a spark, and a flame bloomed in his cupped hands, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

He stood up, his silhouette huge against the pale light. ‘Stay here,’ he said, his voice a low rumble. ‘I’ll get the candles.’ I watched the flame bob towards the hallway, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and the framed photos of grandparents I never met. My sisters huddled closer, whispering, but I was transfixed by the retreating light. Then, from the direction of the hallway, his voice came back, but it was different. It had an edge, a tightness that I had never heard before. ‘Come here, boy. Need your help.’

I hesitated, but the voice was my father’s, and I was taught to obey instantly. I slipped off the sofa into the pitch black, my small feet padding on the cold hardwood. I walked towards the sound of his voice, my hands outstretched, feeling for the wall. I turned the corner into the hallway, and a hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing my wrist. It was huge, enveloping my entire arm, and covered in coarse hair that prickled my skin. The grip was like a steel trap, unyielding, pulling me forward with a jerky, impatient force.

‘That’s it, boy. Quick now,’ the voice said, but it was wrong. It had the timber of my father, but the cadence was off, like a recording played at the wrong speed. My heart hammered. This wasn’t right. My father never pulled me like this, never with such urgency. I tried to yank my hand back, but it was useless. The hand dragged me towards my bedroom, the door a black maw at the end of the hall.

As we passed the threshold into my room, the faint light from the hallway illuminated a sight that made my blood run cold. The man dragging me was my father, or at least a thing wearing his skin. The face was the same, but the eyes were wrong—they were deep, bottomless pits, and the mouth stretched into a grin that was too wide, full of teeth that glinted like the lighter’s flame. He let go of my wrist, and I stumbled back, hitting my dresser. He loomed over me, his body blocking the door, the lighter he held casting his monstrous shadow on the wall.

‘Now, boy, you stay here,’ the creature that wore my father’s face said, but the voice was not his. It was a hollow imitation, layered with a rasp that scraped at my ears. ‘I have things to do.’ He clicked the lighter closed, plunging the room into utter darkness. I heard his footsteps retreat, but they sounded too heavy, too slow, like he was dragging something.

I stood frozen in the black, my breath ragged. Then I heard my real father’s voice from somewhere deeper in the house, a muffled cry, almost lost. I wanted to run, but my legs were jelly. I fumbled for my door, but it was closed. I couldn’t find the handle. The room was suffocating, the smell of smoke pervasive, not comforting now, but toxic. I slid down to the floor, clutching my knees, terrified that the thing would come back.

Minutes passed, or hours, I couldn’t tell. The power flickered back on, and the room was bathed in the sickly yellow light of my nightlight. I was alone. I crept out, my feet silent on the floor. The house was silent, too silent. I found my family in the living room, huddled together, staring at the television which was now showing static. My mother looked pale, her eyes wide. My sisters were crying silently. My father was sitting in his armchair, his head bowed, the lighter in his hand, flicking it open and shut, the flame dancing in his dead eyes.

He looked up when I entered, and a semblance of his normal gruffness returned. ‘There you are, boy. Thought you were lost.’ But his smile didn’t reach his eyes, and I saw, just for a moment, a flicker of something else in his gaze—a deep, primal fear. He never spoke of that night, and neither did we. But after that, whenever the power went out, my father never lit the way. He would just sit in the dark, clutching his lighter, whispering to himself. And I would stay by my mother’s side, watching the shadows for the shape of a man with big, hairy hands who wore my father’s face. The lighter’s glow was no longer a comfort; it was a beacon for something that should have stayed hidden in the dark.