Scary stories to tell

Grandma's Light is Always On

In one corner of my Grandma's living room stood a lamp that was almost never turned off. She would change the bulb every week like clockwork, waiting until the afternoon sunlight poured through the windows and filled the room. Even then she hurried, holding her breath until the deed was done and the lamp was back on. I would ask her about it once in awhile. Each time she would smile softly, tousle my hair, and promptly change the subject. I didn't learn the truth until I was thirteen, the first time I turned off the lamp.

I just wanted to see what would happen. Grandma screamed when she walked into the darkened living room, a plate of cookies falling from her hands and crashing to the floor. I could hear her praying under her breath as she raced to turn the light back on. Tears were shining in her eyes when she turned to me, her lips pressed thin.

Without warning, she slapped me hard across the face. Grandma had never so much as raised her voice before, and I was too shocked to cry. She cried enough for both of us, gathering me up in her arms and begging for my forgiveness. With her face buried in my shoulder, she finally told me about the lamp.

It was a ghost light, she said. Ever since she and my Grandpa had bought the house, back when they first arrived in America, the spirits of the dead had plagued her. Only when her burden threatened to drive her mad did she ask Grandpa for help. She had expected him to laugh her out of the house, but he had surprised her by nodding gravely. It was he who had first lit the ghost light, and as long as that beacon burned through the darkness, she had never seen another spirit.

I stopped visiting my Grandma after that. It started gradually at first, missing a day here and there, but by the time I received news of her death I hadn't seen her in over ten years. As her only living relative, I shouldn't have been surprised when I inherited her house. Yet as I sat in her lawyer's office, listening to him read her will, I was speechless. I had a difficult time paying attention after that, absorbed as I was with the business of remembering. So much love had filled those walls, so many happy memories; as I thought of my tiny, sterile apartment in the city, I quickly made my decision.

I was almost overwhelmed by emotion as I walked through the front door. Everything looked exactly as I remembered it from my childhood. Houseplants still cluttered the windowsills, decorative bird plates still hung on the walls, and the ghost light still burned in the living room.

Seeing the old lamp sent a chill down my spine. I froze in my tracks, the smile fading from my lips, and I couldn't help but think of the night Grandma had slapped me so many years ago. I had told my mother about the ghost light the next day, but she had dismissed it as simple old world superstition. It was the same way when she was growing up, she told me, and I shouldn't worry about it. Still, I couldn't shake the conviction that I had finally seen the true depths of my Grandma's lunacy. I ran my fingers through the fringe on the lampshade as I thought, a bloom of sadness darkening my nostalgia. Sighing heavily, I turned the ghost light off with a decisive click.

Something woke me later that night. I lay in bed, listening to the darkness until I heard scratching coming from the living room. Rats were the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment, and I rolled over with a groan, determined to ignore it until the morning. The scratching continued intermittently, constantly jerking me from the edge of sleep, and I finally had enough. I threw the blankets off me and stormed out into the hall.

Moonlight flooded the front of the house, and I didn't bother turning on lights as I made my way to the living room. I knew every inch of the house, even after so many years, and I moved confidently through the dim light. I was furious at having been woken from a dead sleep, and my anger ill prepared me for what I found.

An elderly woman was crouched in the corner, her gaunt back to me. She was scratching at the floor where the walls met, stopping every few minutes to cock her head. A gnarl of dread unfurled in the pit of my stomach. I had no idea how this woman had gotten into my house, and though it was obvious she needed help, it took me some time to summon the courage to approach her. My hand shook as I reached out to gently squeeze her shoulder. I meant to ask her where she lived, who her caretaker was, but the words were driven from my mind when she turned and I saw her face.

Her eyes were solid black, bottomless pits that didn't reflect the moonlight. Her jaw hung impossibly open, unhinged, and the dark tunnel of her mouth spiraled down into her throat. I had a moment to realize who she was, to recognize the familiar map of wrinkles in her face, the curls of her wispy hair. Then my Grandma screamed.

I shrieked, stumbling backwards away from the nightmare in the corner. My arms flailed in the air, reaching for the nearest lamp, and my hands touched the ghost light. I yanked the chain, filling the room with light, and she was gone.

I never turned off the ghost light after that. After letting the bulb burn out one evening, I began changing it every week just as Grandma had. Eventually I got married, and luckily for me, my wife was tolerant of my strange fixation on the lamp. The light continued to burn, and I lived my life happily enough.

But my grandson has been asking about the ghost light lately. Each time he asks, I smile softly, tousle his hair, and promptly change the subject. For some reason, I can't bring myself to tell him the truth. I think about how I pulled away from my Grandma, how I thought her crazy, and I keep my mouth shut. I worry, though. I know I won't be around forever, just as I know he will eventually turn off the ghost light. I worry that he might see me then, twisted and wrong, scratching in the corner.

Credits to saint_entropy on Reddit