The Pilot Light

The first time the apartment betrayed me, I was mid-sneeze over the kitchen sink. My reflection in the toaster’s chrome stared back at me, but it was a fraction of a second too slow. I blamed the flickering fluorescents. They’d been dying for weeks, buzzing like trapped wasps. That was before the mouse. Or maybe not a mouse. At 3:06 AM, I woke to the gas stove’s blue flame roaring like a hungry dragon, the knob cranked to HIGH, the air thick with the smell of unburned propane. My boyfriend, Leo, slept in the next room, mouth open, a dead cigarette between his fingers. He swore he hadn’t moved. But I saw the way his hand twitched in his sleep, as if reaching for something I couldn’t see.

Our bedroom light, a stubborn ceiling fan with a dangling chain, had been acting up. Two days ago, I yanked the cord to turn on the bulb, and the chain got stuck. I jiggled it, and the light flickered on. Then off. Then on. I let it be. But last night, as I tucked my son, Danny, into his bed in the living room (he refuses the bedroom now, mumbling about ‘the dark corner’), the lights in his room strobed: on, off, on, off. I thought it was a faulty connection. I pulled the chain, and it snapped in my hand. The plastic housing cracked. I saw the bare wires spark, and then the light steadied—humming, not buzzing. Danny’s eyes were wide, glued to his closet door. ‘He’s in there,’ he whispered. I opened it. Nothing but his winter coats, their sleeves swaying as if a draft had passed. There was no draft.

My purse. My leather satchel, heavy with keys and crumpled receipts, sat on the kitchen table. I reached in for my lighter, and as I stepped back to the couch, the purse tipped over, spilling a half-empty water bottle onto the floor. The water splashed in a perfect circle, smoking slightly. I shrieked. Leo came running, but the puddle was dry before he arrived. I started hearing the clicks then. Single taps, like a fingernail on glass, from the walls. Sometimes three taps, then silence. I recorded the sound on my phone. When I played it back, I heard my own voice, backwards, saying something I didn’t recognize.

Tonight, I was watching TV with the volume low so as not to wake Danny. A drama, some medical show. At 11:37 PM, I heard a faint cry from his bedroom. Not his voice—a hollow, echoing wail, like wind through a bone. I tiptoed in. The room was dark, except for the pale glow of the streetlight, casting long shadows. I stood in the doorway, listening. I heard breathing, but it wasn’t mine. It was synchronized with the flickering of the ceiling light, which was now off but twitching, as if trying to turn on. I held my breath. The closet door creaked open, just a crack. I saw a sliver of darkness, and then a tiny hand, pale as a moth, reached out and grabbed the edge of the door. I didn’t scream. I backed out, my heart hammering. I slammed the door shut. Leo was in the kitchen, drinking water. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked. He shrugged. ‘Hear what? I was listening to the fridge hum.’ He went back to bed. I stayed up, chain-smoking, watching the closet door through the crack in the living room. At 3:06 AM, the stove ignited again. I went to turn it off. The knob was already off. But the flame was there, dancing. It was the same blue as the pilot light in a water heater. And I realized: I never saw a pilot light in this apartment. The stove is electric.