The Spring Coil

The house had always been a bit off, even for a converted church. High ceilings that made every step echo, stained glass windows that threw colored shadows across the floor, and a musty smell that clung to the walls no matter how much incense my mother burned. I was used to it, though. Growing up, I’d seen things out of the corner of my eye, heard whispers in empty rooms, felt the weight of unseen presences. So when I bought that plasma lamp from the back of a novelty shop, I thought nothing of it. Just a cool blue spring of crackling light, a perfect centerpiece for my room. That evening, I plugged it in and let its electric hum lull me to sleep.

I woke to my mother’s voice, raw and shaking, ripping me from a dreamless void. She was standing in my doorway, her face pale, her hands clenched at her sides. ‘Something happened,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘The front door… it just flew open. And the screen door, too. And then—’ She stopped, as if the memory was too much. ‘The cat. He was asleep right in front of the door. And then he was just… thrown out. Out into the yard. The doors slammed shut after him.’ My heart hammered as I followed her downstairs, my mind racing. The cat, our indoor cat, had apparently been so terrified that it was now cowering under the azalea bushes, refusing to come out even for treats. My mother was shaking, and I could feel the wrongness in the air, thick as the dust on the pews we’d left in the corner.

I went back to my room, trying to shake off the unease. The lamp was still on, casting its blue glow, and I reached out to turn it off. But as my fingers touched the switch, I noticed something odd. The spring-like coil inside the glass was no longer just a static spiral. It was shifting, rotating slowly, as if something was twisting it from within. The light flickered, and for a split second, I saw a face in the glass—pale, featureless, with hollow eyes that stared back at me. I yanked the plug from the wall, and the room fell into darkness. But the image lingered in my mind, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just seen the thing that had thrown my cat.

The next day, I tried to rationalize. A draft maybe. A faulty latch. But my mother wouldn’t enter the front hall without a knife in her hand, and the cat refused to come inside at all. I decided to get rid of the lamp. I wrapped it in a towel, drove to the dump, and tossed it into a bin. But as I drove away, I saw something in my rearview mirror—a blue glow emanating from the bin, pulsing like a heartbeat. I didn’t look back.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the house creak and settle, the sounds magnified by the high ceilings. At around 3 a.m., I heard a faint hissing, like static, coming from downstairs. My feet carried me down despite my better judgment, and I found the front door slightly ajar. Through the gap, I could see the yard bathed in moonlight, and there, on the lawn, was the lamp, sitting upright as if it had never been thrown away. Its blue light was frantic, crackling, and inside the glass, the spring was spinning violently. And then I saw it—a figure, tall and thin, made of the same blue static, standing behind the lamp. It turned its head toward me, its face a void, and it began to walk toward the door.

I slammed the door shut, locking it, but I could feel the pressure on the other side, pushing, testing. I ran to my room, barricading myself in with furniture, and I didn’t come out until morning. When I finally emerged, the lamp was gone, and the front door was closed. But there were deep scratches on the wood, as if something had clawed at it through the night. The cat was found under the porch, dead, its eyes wide and glassy. And ever since that night, I’ve been looking over my shoulder, because I know that the lamp is still out there, waiting for me to turn off the lights, waiting for the moment when I’m alone in the dark. And whenever I see a blue light flickering in the distance, I can’t help but wonder if it’s time to leave everything behind.