The Pale Lantern of Endor Street

It started on a Tuesday night, a week after the blackout that had plunged our entire block into darkness for three hours. I was in my rented flat on Endor Street, a narrow, gaslit cul-de-sac where the houses leaned together like old women sharing secrets. My flat was on the third floor of a crumbling Victorian conversion, and my bedroom faced the street. My laptop glowed on the mattress, open to a chat window where my friend, Mara, was sending me links to obscure horror films. I was typing a reply about the symbolism of body horror when something in the periphery of my vision made me freeze.

To my right, the window was a rectangle of black glass, and beyond it, the sodium lamp on the corner flickered. To my left, the hallway that led to the kitchen and the bathroom was a narrow tunnel of shadows, lit only by the faint orange glow spilling from my desk lamp. And there, in that hallway, halfway to the bathroom door, a shape was hovering. It was the size of a rugby ball, but elongated, like a teardrop spun from pale smoke. It glowed with a soft, milky luminescence, the color of old bone, and it floated about two feet off the threadbare carpet. I turned my head slowly, and it was gone. I blinked, convinced it was a trick of light, a reflection from a passing car. I returned to my keyboard and typed a joke to Mara about sleep deprivation.

But twenty seconds later, it was back. This time, I caught it in my peripheral vision for a full second before I turned. When I did, it vanished again, leaving a faint afterimage on my retinas like a camera flash. I stared at the empty hallway, my fingers poised over the keys. My heart had started a slow, heavy thud. I called out, ‘Mum?’ because even though she lived in another state, it was the first name on my lips. Of course, there was no answer. The heating pipes gurgled, and the old building groaned. I thought about the blackout from the week before, how the entire street had been silent, and I had felt eyes on me through the window, but when I looked, there was nothing but the dark shapes of parked cars.

I told myself it was exhaustion. I had been working late on my thesis about folklore, writing a chapter on ‘spectral phenomena in urban environments.’ I had read too many case studies of sleep paralysis and pareidolia. I forced myself to finish my conversation with Mara, sending a hasty ‘gotta go’ before closing the laptop. I decided to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, to prove to myself that the hallway was empty. I swung my legs off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I walked to the doorway and leaned out, peering down the hall. Nothing. The bathroom door was ajar, the kitchen door was closed. I took a step into the hallway, and as I did, I felt a temperature drop, the air turning clammy, as if I had walked into a freezer.

I stopped at the bathroom doorway. The light was off, but the window over the bathtub let in the sickly glow of the streetlamp. I could see the white porcelain tub, the shower curtain with its faded blue flowers, and the towel rack. And there, hovering above the bath mat, was the pale shape again. It was more distinct now, no longer iffy. It had a texture, like swirling mist, and it pulsed gently, as if breathing. I stood frozen, my breath caught in my throat. The shape didn’t vanish this time. It began to rotate slowly, and as it turned, I saw something in its center: a darker nucleus, like a knot of shadow, that seemed to be looking at me. I tried to step back, but my foot caught on the threshold, and I stumbled into the bathroom. The shape darted forward, brushing past my cheek. It felt like a cobweb made of cold static. I let out a yelp and stumbled into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

I flicked on the kitchen light, flooding the small room with harsh fluorescent glare. My hand was shaking as I pressed my back to the door. I could still feel that cold touch on my cheek, as if a patch of skin had come in contact with dry ice. I looked around the kitchen: the counter, the sink, the window above the sink that faced the back alley. Everything was normal. But then, I heard it: a sound like a low hum, but it wasn’t the refrigerator. It was coming from the hallway, just outside the door. The hum rose in pitch, becoming a whine, and then it stopped. I waited, my heart pounding. The door handle turned slowly, as if an unseen hand was testing the mechanism. I grabbed a kitchen knife from the butcher block, holding it in front of me. The handle stopped turning. There was silence.

After several minutes, the silence was broken by the sound of the door being scratched, lightly, like claws on wood. The sound was rhythmic, almost methodical. I backed away, my legs hitting the kitchen table. The scratching stopped. A new sound began: a soft, wet slapping, like a wet fish being thrown against the floor. It moved along the hallway, past the kitchen door, and into the bedroom. I heard my laptop close with a snap. Then the TV turned on, a burst of static that filled the flat. I dropped the knife and ran for the front door. I unlocked it and threw it open, not even grabbing my shoes. I ran down the stairs, barefoot, and out onto Endor Street. The streetlamp on the corner was still flickering, casting jittery shadows. I stood there, gasping, looking up at my window. The light in my bedroom was on, and I could see a shape inside, the same pale lantern-like glow, floating just behind the glass. It watched me for a moment, and then the light went out.

I never went back to that flat. I called a friend who lived in the next town, and I stayed with him for a week. When I finally gathered the courage to go back to collect my belongings, I found the bedroom door locked from the inside. The landlord had to force it open. Inside, everything was exactly as I had left it, except for one thing: on my desk, where I had left a half-finished cup of tea, there was a perfect circle of ash, and the felt tip of my favorite pen had been melted into a blackened stub. I packed my things quickly and left. I still don’t know what that thing was. But sometimes, late at night, when I’m sitting in my new room, I see a pale, oval glow in my peripheral vision, always just beyond the corner of my eye, floating about two feet off the ground. It never comes closer, but it never leaves. And I’ve started to realize that it’s not following me. It’s been there all along, in the spaces between rooms, waiting for someone to turn and look.