The Light That Never Went Out
Maya had a soft spot for old things. There was something magical about objects with history—the way they seemed to carry the weight of their past lives. Her apartment was filled with vintage finds: second-hand books, antique vases, and faded postcards from places she’d never been. So, when she spotted the brass lamp at the back of a dusty second-hand store, it felt like fate. Its tarnished surface gleamed faintly in the dim light, and its delicate, yellowed fabric shade hinted at better days. It was perfect. Without hesitation, she bought it, feeling like she had stumbled upon a treasure. When she brought it home, she placed it carefully on her bedside table and plugged it in. The lamp sputtered to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. Maya smiled. The light was soothing, soft, and comforting, making her small apartment feel like a sanctuary. It was exactly what she needed after a long day.
But that night, something strange happened. As she prepared for bed, she reached for the lamp’s switch to turn it off. It didn’t budge. She twisted it again, a little harder this time, but the light remained steady, filling the room with its golden hue. Frowning, she unplugged the lamp, expecting the light to go out. It didn’t. Maya stared at it, confused. The glow continued as if the lamp had a life of its own. "Faulty wiring," she muttered to herself, trying to ignore the unease creeping up her spine. She decided to deal with it in the morning and climbed into bed, the persistent light spilling across her walls. At first, it felt harmless, almost comforting, like a quiet companion in the dark. But as the hours stretched on, the light began to feel different. The shadows it cast seemed too long, too dark, stretching unnaturally across the room. Maya tried to convince herself it was her imagination, but the feeling of being watched was impossible to shake.
At one point, she glanced at the lamp, and for a split second, she thought she saw something move inside the shade. It was just a flicker, like a shadow shifting within the glow, but it was enough to make her heart race. She pulled the blanket over her head, telling herself it was just a trick of the light. By morning, the unease had faded, replaced by frustration. The lamp was still glowing, its light as steady as it had been all night. Maya stared at it, trying to decide what to do. Her logical mind told her to throw it out, but a strange reluctance held her back. Instead, she tried the switch again, her fingers fumbling with the brass knob. That’s when she heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible whisper. "Don’t turn it off." The voice was so soft that, at first, she thought she had imagined it. But as she stared at the lamp, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
Maya backed away slowly, her heart pounding in her chest. "Who’s there?" she whispered, her voice trembling. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the lamp’s light. Gathering her courage, she twisted the switch once more. This time, the light flickered and went out. Relieved, Maya let out a shaky breath and turned to leave the room. But as she reached the door, the lamp flickered back on. The glow was steady, unyielding, as if daring her to try again. Her unease grew with each passing moment. That night, she slept on the couch, hoping distance would make the lamp’s strange presence easier to ignore. But as she lay in the dark, she heard the voice again. "Don’t leave me alone." It wasn’t loud or threatening—it was desperate, pleading. The sound tugged at something deep inside her, a strange mix of pity and fear.
By the next morning, Maya was determined to get rid of the lamp. She wrapped it in an old blanket, carried it to the dumpster behind her building, and tossed it inside. As she walked back to her apartment, she felt a strange sense of relief, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But when she stepped inside, her blood ran cold. There, on the bedside table, was the lamp, its warm glow filling the room as if it had never left. Maya’s knees buckled, and she sank into a chair, her mind racing. She didn’t understand what was happening, but she knew one thing for sure—the lamp wasn’t just an object.
She tried everything she could think of to get rid of it. She smashed it with a hammer, but when she returned to the room, it was whole again, sitting in its usual spot, glowing softly. She tried leaving it at a friend’s house, but by the time she got home, it was waiting for her. The voice became more persistent, following her wherever she went. "Don’t leave me." It was always there, a constant murmur at the edge of her mind. Maya stopped sleeping. The glow of the lamp seeped into every corner of her life, its light invading her thoughts and dreams.
One night, as she sat in front of the lamp, staring into its golden glow, she felt something shift. The air around her grew heavy, and the shadows on the walls seemed to move on their own. The voice spoke again, clearer this time. "Please, don’t turn me off. I’m scared of the dark." Tears welled up in Maya’s eyes. She didn’t understand why, but the voice sounded so lonely, so desperate, that it broke her heart. Against her better judgment, she reached out and touched the lamp’s base. "What do you want from me?" she whispered. The light flickered, and for the first time, the voice didn’t answer.
From that night on, Maya stopped trying to get rid of the lamp. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt an unshakable connection to it, as if it had become a part of her. The glow no longer felt oppressive; instead, it felt like a companion, a presence she couldn’t abandon. Friends noticed the change in her. She stopped going out, stopped inviting people over. Her world shrank to the size of her apartment, the lamp’s light her only constant. Late at night, neighbors claimed they could see the golden glow spilling from her window, even when all the other lights were off. Some said they heard whispers coming from her apartment, soft and pleading, like a child begging for comfort.
Maya no longer noticed the passage of time. Days blended into nights, and the lamp’s glow became her only reality. She didn’t know if she was protecting it or if it was protecting her. All she knew was that she could never turn it off again. If you pass by her building late at night, you might catch a glimpse of the warm, golden light through her window. And if you listen closely, you might hear the faintest whisper, calling out to anyone who will listen: "Don’t turn it off."
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