The Third Floor Light

I’ve always had a knack for noticing things that others don’t. Not in a psychic, fortune-teller way, but a low hum of unease that prickles my skin when something is off. My name is Mara, and I’m 24. I work the night shift at a small, rundown convenience store called ‘The Last Stop’ on the edge of our town, a place that used to be a gas station back in the 70s. The building has that faded, peeling paint look, and the sign above the door flickers like it’s about to give up. It’s just me and the quiet hum of the old refrigerators from 11 PM to 7 AM.

My boyfriend, Sam, works at the nearby aerospace plant, and we live in a small apartment complex called ‘Hollow Creek Apartments’ – a name that always gave me a chill. It’s a three-story building, and our unit is on the second floor. The third floor has been mostly vacant for years, except for one old man who keeps to himself. But that’s not the part that gets me. It’s the window on the third floor, the one at the end of the hall. Every night, around 2 AM, I see a light flicker on in that window. Just for a moment, like someone is checking something. But I know the old man is in the hospital – he had a fall last month and hasn’t been back.

One night, I was walking home from a double shift, exhausted, my eyes burning. The streetlights cast these long, distorted shadows, and I had that feeling again – the one that makes me want to look over my shoulder. As I approached the apartment building, I glanced up at the third floor. There it was, the light. But this time, it didn’t flicker off. It stayed on, a steady, dull glow, and I saw a figure standing by the window. Not just any figure – it was tall, thin, wearing a long coat that seemed too heavy for the warm night. I froze, my heart hammering. The figure didn’t move, just stared down at me. I couldn’t make out a face, just a dark void where a face should be.

I told myself it was just the maintenance guy, Mr. Henderson, checking something. But I knew better. The next day, I asked the building super if anyone was on the third floor, and he said no, that the old man was still in the hospital, and no one else had access. I tried to shake it off, but the image of that figure stayed with me. The following night, I came home earlier than usual, around 1 AM. I stood outside, looking up at the third floor. The light was off. I felt a sense of relief, but as I turned to go inside, I saw something out of the corner of my eye – a movement in the window of the apartment next to mine, on the second floor. I looked, and there it was again, that same tall figure, now in the window of the apartment next to mine. But that apartment was empty – the tenants had moved out weeks ago.

My blood ran cold. I fumbled with my keys, got inside, and locked the door. I didn’t sleep that night. I kept watching the hallway through the peephole, but nothing moved. The next evening, I decided to investigate. I went up to the third floor, to the old man’s apartment. The door was unlocked, which was odd. I pushed it open, and the smell of dust and decay hit me. The apartment was bare, except for a single chair facing the window. On the windowsill, there was a small, old photograph of a man in a military uniform, but his face was scratched out. I felt a chill, and I heard a creak behind me. I spun around, but nothing was there.

I left, but as I walked down the stairs, I noticed something strange. On the wall of the stairwell, there was a series of tally marks, scratched into the paint, as if someone was counting something. I counted them – there were 23. I had no idea what they meant, but I felt they were connected to the figure. That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I stayed up, reading in the living room, when the power flickered. The whole apartment went dark for a second, then came back on. But when the lights returned, the lamp in my bedroom was on. I hadn’t turned it on. I went to turn it off, and as I reached for the switch, I saw the door to my closet slowly creak open. I held my breath, expecting something to step out, but nothing did.

I was about to go back to the living room when I saw it – a shadow in the hallway, just at the edge of my vision. I turned, and there it was, the tall figure, standing at the end of the hall, just outside my bathroom. I couldn’t move. It raised a hand and pointed at me, then it slowly faded, like mist dissolving. I heard a faint, raspy whisper: ‘Twenty-four.’

I ran out of the apartment, not even grabbing my shoes. I sprinted down the stairs and out into the night, not stopping until I reached the 24-hour diner on the corner. I called Sam, my hands shaking. He came and picked me up, and I told him everything. He tried to calm me down, said it was just stress, but I knew what I saw. He offered to stay at my place that night, and I agreed. But when we got back, I refused to go inside. I made him check every room, every closet, every corner. He didn’t find anything, but I still didn’t feel safe.

We stayed up together, talking, and I told him about the tally marks. He said maybe they were from the old man, maybe he was counting the days. But something told me that wasn’t it. As we talked, I glanced at the clock – it was 2 AM, the exact time I always saw the light. I froze, listening. And then, from the apartment above, I heard a faint dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across the floor. Sam heard it too. He went to the door, opened it, and looked up the stairs. ‘It’s probably just a rat,’ he said, but his voice was uneasy. He closed the door and turned the lock.

Then we heard it again, but this time it was from the hallway, right outside our door. A slow, deliberate drag, followed by a knock. Not a normal knock, but a heavy, rhythmic pounding, three times. Sam shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ No answer. The knocking continued, getting louder. We both looked through the peephole, but the hallway was empty. I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the police, but they said they’d send someone by. When they arrived, they checked the entire building, but found nothing. They said it was probably just the wind, or another tenant playing a prank. But I knew it wasn’t.

The next day, I went back to the old man’s apartment. The door was still unlocked, and I noticed something I hadn’t seen before – a small notebook on the windowsill. Inside, there were pages of numbers, and at the top, the phrase ‘The Third Floor Light’ was written. The numbers were a countdown. The last entry, dated yesterday, said ’23’. I realized then that the figure was counting down to something. And I was the one it was counting.

I decided to sleep at Sam’s place that night, but I couldn’t escape the feeling. As I lay in his spare room, I saw the light again, but this time it was in the window of that room, shining directly on me. I looked out, and the figure was standing on the lawn below, looking up at me, and now I could see its face – it was my own face, but twisted, hollow-eyed, with a gash across the throat. I screamed and woke up. It was a dream. But when I looked at the window, there was a smear of dark red on the glass, as if something had been pressed against it.

I’m writing this from a motel room, weeks later. I haven’t been back to the apartment. The police found the old man had died a month ago, alone in his apartment. They also found a diary, filled with ramblings about a presence in the building, a thing that counted down to the day it would take a new host. The last entry said, ‘It knows when you’re tired. It watches the light. It will come when you reach the third floor.’ I’m still not sure what that means, but I know I can’t go back there. I’ve changed my number, moved to a new town, but I still see the figure sometimes, standing at the edge of my vision, holding up a hand with three fingers, then two, then one. I don’t know how much time I have left, but I know this: the third floor light is always on, waiting for me.