NIGHTLIGHT

It was the screech of tyres that awoke me. That pleading squeal when a great weight is forced to stop. I was awake at once, knowing that it must be before five or my alarm would have already split the air. I wrestled myself from bed and stumbled towards the high windows, still blinking against the cold morning light. It felt shrill in my eyes.

The sky was grey, the street was grey. The air itself was distinctly grey. But the removal van was red — a stark, blood red. Scarlet, I thought. At this time in the morning. A number of figures worked quickly and diligently below as I turned away, wondering who in their right mind would move here…

The pandemic drove a stake straight through the heart of this neighbourhood. What had once been a thriving area for artists and academics now felt distinctly forlorn and forgotten. That faded elegance felt more depressing even than deprivation. At least those places still had some spirit, I felt. Not like here. Not any more. The leafy streets felt sullen and sagging at this time of year. Black bark and bare branches, yellow leaves lying rotten in the gutters. Iron railings, old stone, and strewn paper. Crackling wrappers and fallen decorations from the Halloween just gone. November had the vampiric power of sucking the life from everything around it. A heaving, hollow breath between two distinctly vibrant — if garish — times: Halloween and Christmas. I surprised myself by longing for one or the other just now. A bit of life, I thought. That’s what I need, and I wondered again who might have moved in.

Tweed coat, sturdy shoes, a belt that had seen better days. I was ready to go.

I mouthed my order as I waited in line, careful not to make a mistake. Espresso and an almond croissant — with a napkin, not a plate. I’d tucked my sheet music under my arm before leaving, like a newspaper, and hoped that someone might ask me about it. It’s Shostakovich, I’d say. I was a concert pianist, but I mainly teach now. Or I would if anyone would have me! But they never did. They never asked. Perhaps tomorrow.

Walking back, my footsteps rang out like dismal Morse code, punctuating the silence. No answer. No answer. As my breath plumed in the frozen air, it struck me that I might be the only living thing in a one mile radius.

I reached the row of townhouses and realised the removal van had already gone. I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of my new neighbour, but all was silent and still. Passing the door, now closed and locked, my attention was caught by a dark, sooty smudge on the doorbell. Someone had already called. The urgency of the mark, swiped there by some unusually dirty hand… The removal men, perhaps? I told myself that I hadn’t really noticed, and was surprised to realise it was a lie.

I moved inside my apartment and turned on all the lights, set my radio to a classical station and felt a glow of relief. The light and sound filled the house like some precious golden elixir. High ceilings and long corridors felt lonely and luxurious in equal measure. Perhaps it was a luxury to be lonely, I thought absently. I looked at my piano — locked, untouched, and obviously inanimate — yet I felt its judgement now. Met its hard and unforgiving gaze, as cold as the keys. I can’t play… not today. But of course I’ll try tomorrow, I lied. And it knew it.

I turned instead to the window. The house ahead still appeared empty, except for a high window that had now been thrown open, almost directly opposite mine. The bare walls and floor were visible inside. No movement or sound. It was unusual to open a window so wide, I noted, from the very top to the very bottom. It looked abrupt and unsafe. I briefly hoped they had no children… Then briefly wished I did. I turned away.

That night I was eating from a tray on my lap, chuckling along with a radio broadcast. A pair of candles flickered on my mantle — I still lit them religiously even when dining alone — and the house seemed warm and alive for once. An unnaturally strong wind had begun blowing outside, but this only contributed to the cosiness, I smiled to myself. Then —

SNAP. The sound was hideous. Stark, unnatural. Effervescent with danger. The room was plunged into darkness. I was frozen in my seat — still gripping my knife and fork. The room was dark, the radio was silent. A power cut, my brain blared at me, trying to reassure me but only serving to further alarm. IT’S ONLY A POWER CUT. Then why are the candles out? A second thought interrupted. Why are the candles out if it’s a power cut? And I noted distantly that it was true. Two slim trails of smoke now snaked from the dark wicks.

My eyes began to adjust to the darkness. I steadied my breathing and gently set down my knife and fork. In suspended seconds, the room was slowly coming back into focus. Soft light now bounced off the edge of the coffee table, the spines of my books, the curve of the piano legs. I was slowly able to see — but how? There was no moon that night, no stars. The sky was an endless and unrelenting black.

I became aware of distant light. An unusually cold and cloudy glow. From nowhere in my memory could I identify it, until —

A nightlight, a thought insisted. It’s a nightlight, you fool. And for Heaven’s sake, calm down.

It was coming from the window opposite. A dim and otherworldly ebb that started in some unseen corner and stretched across a blank wall ahead. I stared. Perhaps they had children after all, and one that was afraid of the dark.

Something swept across the light. Black. Fluttering. Startling me. But then I started to smile. It was a bird… made entirely by human hands. A shadow puppet, I said aloud. Then laughed, pressing two fingers to my temples where a headache had begun to bloom. It was then that I realised how frightened I had been, how alone I’d felt in the dark. The dark remained, but for now the glow was there — like a lighthouse, a beacon in the black — and was a great comfort.

The bird flapped its finger wings, then took off across the wall. It twisted, shifted and became a cat — two pointed ears and what looked like clumsy whiskers. But the muzzle grew and became strangely long, until I could no longer identify the animal. More fangs and fur, talons and teeth, until people formed. A tall figure, and a shapeless second entity. Curled and small. I couldn’t follow any kind of narrative, but I noted how unusually long and flexible the puppeteers hands must have been. Even more than my own, I thought, and I had played some of the great concert halls. There was great skill in the work, I thought, great meaning in the hands — though I couldn’t yet decipher it. The curled blot of shadow was beginning to take shape when —

FLASH. The lights came on. I let out a feeble cheer, and was all at once exhausted. I returned to the window but could see only darkness — the light was gone — so I blew out my candles and went to bed.

It wasn’t until I was almost asleep that I remembered the candles had been blown out too. They went out at the same time as the power. So how did they relight?

But slumber swept in and the thoughts could only swim with me in the darkness. Somewhere I still saw that light ahead. Dim, cold, and otherworldly. Out there in the inky ocean of night.

. . .

The next day passed quickly with a light lunch and a trip to the library. I returned three books, remarked how much I’d enjoyed them and hoped I might be asked why — I was not — and dutifully attended the concert that I’d booked months earlier, despite my enthusiasm for it waning by the day. The affluent couples and colleagues there feigned an interest in one another’s news, I noted, but were simply waiting to interject their own. I could do that, I thought sadly. I’d feign an interest if you asked me. It might even be genuine. But they never did. They never asked.

When I returned home on heavy legs the room was in darkness. I was about to draw the curtains when I saw it. A beacon in the darkness… The night light. That ice white, chilly glow was eerie yet familiar now, and I was drawn to it in the same way as a moth. A second show began.

. . .

For several nights I watched the shadow puppets. It became something of a ritual, like a beloved show or pastime. I’d clean the apartment, collect coffee and a croissant — napkin, no plate — turn out the lights and await the show. I’d even rearranged the furniture. I needed to be close enough to observe the detail, but not so close that they’d realise they had a secret spectator.

One night was especially spectacular. Dazzling shapes with sharp lines and flowing folds. Unfathomably intricate figures and features, birds and beasts, twisting and transforming in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. I was reminded of the finest hand painted silks and wallpapers; the kind that must adorn the palaces and powder rooms of an exotic elite. Although enthralled by the display, once again I found my mind pulled towards the puppeteer themselves. I had no understanding of shadow puppetry as an art form, but even I could appreciate that this was a practitioner of considerable experience. Perhaps they had studied under some great and elusive master, I thought, in a far off land of strange customs and artefacts.

The end was always sudden. Jarring. As if awoken from some deep and feverish dream. The light would simply vanish — as would the shadows. Sometimes I even imagined that so did the puppeteer. But the loneliness that followed was fierce and final. Oppressive in its silence, like a held breath. Uncomfortably reminiscent of a death itself. I found it increasingly difficult to sleep afterwards.

One evening began later than usual, at almost midnight. I’d made hot tea in a china cup — sweetened with honey — and folded a blanket across my legs, eager for what wonders awaited the wall tonight. But I noticed a change.

The first shadows visible were undeniably the puppeteer’s hands themselves, but not forming into some fantastical shape. They were visible against the wall ahead — slender, separate, stretching — as if in preparation. The hands were, as I had imagined, unusual in both their size and suppleness. An eerie elegance. A peculiar power, even gravity. Perhaps a violinist, I thought. When the first shapes swept the wall, I could not identify them. The hands bent and folded. The movements were swift and strange, sometimes even percussive. What was finally formed in the shadows was more like an ancient alphabet. Strange letters and symbols, cast in the light and flung against the wall with increasing intensity.

I was transfixed. All meaning eluded me, but a deep a primal awareness was forming. Like a low growl that shuddered into a snarl. I shouldn’t be watching this, I thought. These shapes are not simply exotic. They are ancient, esoteric... SECRET. From a time when only light and shadow existed. From a time that awaits us all. The awareness felt neither comforting nor benign. It barely belonged to me, but instead to some latent inner instinct erupting from the dark. I wanted to heed the warning and look away, but all power had left my body.

I began to blink uncontrollably. Struggling now to follow or fathom the movements. When a light flashed on ahead, it startled me. It was another window — a square of yellow light. A different neighbour’s apartment opposite. The back of a man’s head was visible, perhaps seated.

The fluttering hands continued flinging shadows and shapes.

The man in the other apartment suddenly rose and crossed the room. I heard a sharp thud, and then all light went out.

The shadows vanished. All was darkness. Total silence.

I became aware I was holding my breath. So harshly, in fact, that my chest had begun to burn. I glanced down and found that the hairs on my arms had bristled into gooseflesh. My hands now ached from where I had gripped the armchair. I finally let out a long breath, unsure of what I’d witnessed. I fumbled for meaning in the dark of my mind. Though I didn’t yet know it, it was in those moments that I decided never to watch the shadow puppets again. I moved uneasily toward my bedroom.

It was the chair, a thought chimed as I slipped into the cool sheets. I remembered the thud I heard when the man in the other apartment rose and crossed the room.

He stood up with such force that he overturned his chair.

. . .

The next day was blustery and overcast. I walked with my hands thrust in my pockets as the wind tugged at my scarf with cold fingers. The day never got fully light. I never felt fully warm. I gave my coffee order and alarmed the barista by requesting that it be brought to my table. It struck me that I’d ordered it 'to go' every day for two years.

The clatter of cups. The buzz of conversation. Strands of rain that ran down the windows like tears from tired eyes. I’d lingered so long that my first sip of coffee was cold in the cup. I ordered a second and alarmed the barista once more, realising that I’d probably never done that before either. Though I hadn’t fully acknowledged it, there was a distant but definite desire not to return home. I nursed the coffee for as long as seemed acceptable, and saw with soft disappointment that only fifty minutes had passed. I had to find a further way to pass the day.

Striding through a nearby park — passing pampered pets and equally pampered children — a realisation dawned on me like cold, early light. You’ll only get back when it’s dark, I thought. If you go on like this, you’ll have to go back when it’s dark.

I arrived. Lit candles and the fireplace, turned on the radio as well as every lamp. I’d never considered a television before but indulged the possibility now. Perhaps I’d finally reached the age where one qualified as company. Even only as a staring, lidless eye.

With the subtlest sense of bracing myself, I looked out of the window at the apartment ahead. The blank wall was visible, the high window still lay agape. No movement. No sound. No furniture, I noted. For the first time since the new neighbour’s arrival, I closed the curtains.

That night, the dark rolled in on the back of a gale force wind. It flung leaves at windows and debris down the deserted street. Calling in a mournful, throatless voice.

I’d walked so endlessly and aimlessly that day that I was relieved to find I needed sleep. I slid into slumber as powerlessly as sand through an hourglass. I saw no puppet show that night… but I dreamed of them.

An endless march of figures and fingers. Massing, flapping, twitching. All was indecipherable. But even in just shapes and symbols, there was a great and terrible power. Malice. A highly focused and unspeakable malice. And the cold... The cold. It was like a blade to breathe, and would have shaken anyone awake.

And I was.

With a prickle of panic, I realised I was awake — and had been for some time.

The curtains were open. The nightlight aglow. And the shadows were in my room, darting in their despairing dance on my white wall opposite. I tried to move — and found it was impossible. The white orbs of my eyes were huge with horror, searching the darkness for light, for help. I looked down.

It was my own hands making the shapes. Tugged and toyed with by some hissing, hostile force.

An involuntary cry escaped my lips — and the grip was broken. I tossed over in my bed, twisting the sheets so tightly around my body that I fell when I rose. I scrambled upright, snatching at the walls, at furniture, finally reaching the curtains and flinging them closed.

I saw — just for a moment — that a sharp, vertical line of darkness was visible in the window ahead, with black stems that might have been arms and fingers.

And they were.

Though I closed my eyes tightly against the sight, what I had seen was burned in black behind my eyes. A still and staring face held at an inhuman angle, suspended by some unseen strings. Like a marionette.

. . .

The next day, I could feel the heavy maroon marks under each of my eyes. The chill that hadn’t left my bones. The quiver that hadn’t left my hands and made it hard to dial the number as I waited on the park bench. It had begun to feel damp and sharp where I sat, cutting into my legs. The phone rang and rang. A sing-song melody played as I was on hold, until an equally sing-song voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Good morning,” I said. “We were in touch about selling my home last night.”

I nudged my bag with my shoe. A fresh shirt, three books, and my favourite sheet music. I told myself it was in case I could never return. But truly I meant not to.

“Ah, yes! Another one!”

My skin bristled.

“Another…? Oh. You mean because someone just moved in. The house opposite mine,” I said, wilfully moving my mind from the image of the occupant.

“No. Quite the opposite,” came the voice. “No-one moved in. The family moved out. Couldn’t stand the place!”

I felt the colour drain from my face. The removal van. The earliness and urgency of that morning. They weren’t moving in. They were moving out. Fleeing.

“French, you know.”

“It… I’m sorry. You’re saying that the property opposite mine is empty? Unoccupied?”

I knew it wasn't.

“For several weeks now. I haven’t been able to shift it.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, braced for the answer. “What did the family say?”

“Nothing I could understand, unfortunately. Haven’t spoken French since my school days. No-one in the office could give me a direct translation.”

“Shadow puppets?” I blurted out, almost embarrassed. “Was it shadow puppets?”

“No…” Came the answer, and the sound of shuffling papers as they sifted through notes.

“It was…”

An endless wait.

“Conjurer,” they said.

I froze.

“Or ‘Master’. As I said. Couldn’t get anyone to agree on the translation.”

I was silent, I realised, for too long.

“I’ve put yours on the market,” they said plaintively. “There’s already interest.”

I said nothing.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

There wasn’t.

“Hello?”

I said nothing.

“…Hello?”

Still nothing. I knew the dial tone was coming and I dreaded the silence. I wanted to talk to them, to keep them, but I knew there was no amount of time or conversation that would truly satiate the need. The silence, the solitude. It was finally inevitable.

CLICK. Dialtone. They hung up.

I was still for a moment. I noticed ahead that the sun was setting. Bloody and beautiful in its burnished gold. I noticed the shadow forming at my feet.

It started to grow.