The Third Light on the Staircase

At twenty-five, I’ve grown used to the cold patches in rooms that should be warm, to the sensation of being watched from empty doorways, to the whispers that come from just beyond my peripheral hearing. It started when I was eleven, at my aunt Marlene’s farmhouse in Vermont, a place she’d inherited from a childless great-uncle who’d been a lighthouse keeper on the Maine coast, though no one would explain why he’d moved inland. The house was a rambling Victorian with a wraparound porch, and the only oddity that caught my eye was a narrow staircase in the back hall, its door always shut, and a small brass light switch on the wall just beside it that controlled a bare bulb at the top of the stairs. Aunt Marlene said the stairs led to an attic that was too cluttered to use, and she never went up there.

My cousin, Josh, who was fifteen at the time, liked to scare me with stories about the attic. He said our great-uncle had been a strange man who collected things he claimed were ‘influenced by the sea’, and that he’d gone mad trying to preserve a lighthouse beam in a jar. Josh would flick that brass switch on and off, making the bulb above the stairs blink, and say, ‘That’s him, calling the ships.’ I didn’t believe him, but I felt a prickle when he did it. The first night, I slept in a room that faced the back hall, and I woke to see a thin line of light under the attic door, though the switch was off. I opened my mouth to call for Aunt Marlene, but then I heard my mother’s voice from behind the door, soft and clear, saying, ‘Mara, come here.’ My name isn’t Mara, it’s Mara, but that’s what she said. I froze. I knew my mother was asleep downstairs—I’d said goodnight to her. But the voice was so much like hers that I almost believed it. I called out, ‘Mom?’ There was no answer, only the light fading until the hall was dark. I stayed in bed, heart pounding, and told myself it was a dream.

The next morning, I asked my mother if she’d called me in the night. She looked puzzled and said, ‘No, dear, I slept like a log.’ I didn’t mention it to Josh because he’d only laugh. But that afternoon, I was in the back hall looking for the laundry chute, and I noticed the attic door was slightly ajar. Without thinking, I pushed it open, and saw the steep stairs leading up to a dim landing with that single bulb at the top, now off. The air was musty, and there was a faint odor of salt and old wood. I heard a voice, again like my mother’s, but this time it said, ‘Mara, there’s something for you up here.’ My blood went cold. I backed away and slammed the door shut, and I didn’t go back there for days.

That weekend, Aunt Marlene had a dinner party, and I was sent to fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar. On my way back, I passed the attic door, and I heard a distinct knock from within—three slow raps, like a countdown. I stopped, and the light under the door flickered on. Then a voice, not my mother’s, but my great-uncle’s—I’d only heard him in stories—said, ‘Third light, child.’ I dropped the wine bottle; it shattered. Josh came running and saw me pale, and for once he didn’t mock. He asked what happened, and I told him. His face went serious, and he said, ‘That’s the thing dad told me never to open. He said the light is a way to call the dead, that great-uncle used to rig it to a ship’s lamp.’ He made me promise not to go near it, but that only made me more curious.

Three weeks into my stay, a storm rolled in on a night when Aunt Marlene and Josh were at a church supper. I was alone in the house with the storm rattling windows. The power flickered, and in the dark, I saw the attic door slowly swing open by itself, a pale light spilling out. I heard my mother’s voice again, but it was different, hollow, but it said, ‘Mara, come up, it’s time.’ I knew it wasn’t my mother, but something inside me wanted to obey. I walked to the door, my feet heavy, and started up the stairs. The bulb above flickered, and I saw three steps, then a landing, then more stairs. At the top, the attic was filled with old furniture, but in the center was a glass case with a small brass lantern, unlit. The voice came from behind me: ‘Light it.’ I turned, but there was no one. The case creaked open, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I screamed and ran down, but the stairs seemed to elongate. I finally burst into the hallway, slammed the door, and leaned against it, panting.

When Aunt Marlene and Josh returned, I was sitting on the floor, shivering. I told them everything. Aunt Marlene grew pale and said, ‘He was my uncle, but he did something awful. He used to lure people up there, claiming he could talk to the dead through that lantern. He died up there of a heart attack, and I’ve never used that attic since. I should have told you.’ She burned sage the next day and had a priest bless the house, but the light in the attic still comes on at night, and sometimes I hear my name whispered in my mother’s voice. I left before the end of the month, and I never visited again. But even now, in my apartment, I sometimes see the reflection of that staircase in a mirror, and I feel a cold draft, and I know that if I ever go back, the third light on the staircase will be waiting for me.