The Second-Floor Lamp

It was 1:47 AM when I stepped out onto the back porch of my single-story ranch, the porch light buzzing like a trapped insect. I was carrying the damp laundry basket, the smell of fabric softener mixing with the wet earth after a brief summer storm. My cottage sat at the end of a gravel lane, surrounded by a dense pine forest that seemed to swallow all sound. I had no veranda, no two-story house, but I did have a small bathroom window that faced the yard, and above the tub, that window was my only lookout.

As I clipped the last wet towel to the line, a flicker in that window caught my eye. A shape—not quite a shadow, more like a distortion, a ripple in the air—passed behind the frosted glass. It moved with an unsettling smoothness, like oil sliding across water, and then it was gone. My heart hammered. For a second, I thought I saw the outline of a hand pressed against the glass, but the window was dark. I dropped the empty basket and hurried inside, my keys still in the lock, my mind racing with the memory of the break-in at my old place—the way the back door had been jimmied open, the mess they’d left, the sense of violation that clung to me for months.

My cat, a gray tabby named Miso, was sitting just inside the screen door, staring past the kitchen, down the hall that led to the living room. Her tail was puffed, her ears flat, and a low growl vibrated in her throat. Miso never did that. She was a lap cat, always sprawled on the couch when I did laundry. I called her name, but she didn’t move. I followed her gaze: the hallway was dark, the only light coming from the living room where the lamp on the side table cast a warm glow. The stairs—there were no stairs in my house, but there was a loft ladder that led to a small attic I used for storage. The ladder was down, swaying slightly, as if someone had just climbed up and the rungs were still settling.

I flicked on the hall light. Nothing. The house felt thick, the air heavy and still. I moved to the ladder, my footsteps creaking on the old wooden floor. I called out, ‘Hello?’ My voice came out thin, swallowed by the silence. The attic hatch was open, a black square above. I took a breath and climbed, my hands gripping the rough rails. The attic was cluttered with boxes, old furniture, and a single bare bulb that hung from a beam. I yanked the cord, and the light buzzed to life, illuminating dust motes and the shapes of forgotten things. The bulb swayed gently, as if something had just brushed past it. I scanned the space—nothing but my old winter coats and a broken rocking chair. I was about to climb down when I noticed the window: a small, circular one at the far end, overlooking the yard. Through it, I saw the clothesline, the wet clothes hanging limp. And on the clothesline, something was perched—a dark shape, roughly the size of a large crow, but its silhouette felt wrong, too angular, too still. It seemed to be staring at me, even though it had no discernible head.

I clambered down, heart pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. Miso was now at the front door, scratching at the wood, crying to be let out. I opened the door, and she bolted into the night, disappearing into the trees. I stood in the doorway, breathing in the pine-scented air, trying to calm myself. I decided it was my imagination, a trick of the light from the bathroom window, a reflection of a passing moth. I locked the door, deadbolted it, and made a cup of tea, my hands trembling slightly. I sat in the living room, the lamp still glowing, trying to read a novel, but my eyes kept drifting to the bathroom window across the hall. I could see it from where I sat, a rectangle of dark glass.

At 2:23 AM, I heard a sound from the bathroom. A soft creak, like the tub’s porcelain shifting. I put down my book and approached the door, which was ajar. I pushed it open slowly. The bathroom was lit by the nightlight near the mirror, casting eerie green shadows. The shower curtain was drawn, and it billowed gently, as if a draft was coming from the window above the tub. The window was closed, but the curtain moved, and behind it, I saw a silhouette—tall, thin, with arms that hung too long. I wanted to scream, but my voice caught. The silhouette turned its head, and I saw a face—not human, but a featureless oval, pale and smooth like an egg. It tilted as if curious, then stepped sideways, vanishing as if through the wall.

I stumbled back, hitting the wall, and the bathroom light flicked on by itself, revealing nothing but an empty tub, the curtain now still. The window was fogged over, and written in the condensation were words, crude and shaky: ‘YOUR LAMP IS SECOND.’ I stared at it for a long moment, then ran outside, ignoring the dark, and looked up at the roof. There, on the peak, the second-floor lamp—a decorative Victorian streetlamp I’d installed after the break-in, not to light the yard but to ward off intruders—was on, but it was swinging violently, as if something was pushing it. And in the attic window, I saw the shape again, now clearly humanoid, crouched, its head tilted, and it was pointing at the lamp. Then it pointed at me.

I backed away, and Miso reappeared at the edge of the forest, her eyes glowing green. She meowed once, a high, desperate cry, and then the lamp went out. The forest around me was silent, but I felt a presence pressing in from all sides. I didn’t go back inside. I ran to my car, started the engine, and drove to the nearest motel, my hands white-knuckling the wheel. I left my cottage, my cat, and the broken lamp behind. But as I sped down the gravel lane, I saw in the rearview mirror that the attic window of my house was open, and something was climbing out, following me.

I’ve been in this motel room for three days now, the curtains drawn, the lights on. The motel’s bathroom mirror has a crack I never noticed before, and sometimes I see a shape flicker behind my reflection. Last night, I found a note under my door, written in condensation on a cold glass of water: ‘THERE IS NO SECOND FLOOR.’ But there is. There’s always been. And the lamp is still on in my head, swinging, waiting for me to look up.