The Last Light

Jamal never thought much about his bedroom lamp. It had been there for as long as he could remember, perched on his nightstand, its brass base slightly tarnished, its cream-colored shade fraying at the edges. It was a hand-me-down from his mom, who said it had belonged to his grandmother, but to Jamal, it was just a lamp—functional, unremarkable.

Until last night.

He’d woken up at 3:15 a.m., jolted by a dream he couldn’t quite remember. Groggy and disoriented, he glanced toward the lamp. Something about it looked... wrong. The base, once smooth and reflective, now seemed duller, as if it had aged overnight. The intricate floral design etched around the base was distorted, almost as if it had melted and reformed into something else. But most unsettling was the light itself: instead of its usual warm glow, it emitted a faint, bluish hue that painted the walls in eerie, wavering shadows.

Jamal sat up, rubbing his eyes. Maybe he was still half-asleep. He reached out and turned the knob, but the light refused to go out.

“What the…?” he muttered.

The bulb flickered, and for a split second, Jamal thought he saw a figure standing in the corner of the room—tall, shadowy, its head tilted as though observing him. He spun around, heart pounding, but the corner was empty.

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

***

The next morning, Jamal sat at the kitchen table, staring into a bowl of cereal he had no intention of eating. Across from him, his mom scrolled through her phone, oblivious to his unease.

“Hey, Ma,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “That lamp in my room… where did Grandma get it?”

She glanced up, brow furrowed. “Why you asking about that old thing?”

“It’s just… I don’t know. It’s acting weird.”

“Weird?” She chuckled. “Boy, it’s a lamp. What’s it gonna do, start walking around?”

Jamal forced a laugh, but his mom’s reaction didn’t ease his nerves. “So, where’d it come from?” he pressed.

She set down her phone, her smile fading. “Your grandma got it from some estate sale back in the day. She always said it was special, but you know how she was with her stories. Why? Something happen?”

Jamal hesitated, debating whether to tell her about the figure in his room. “Nah. Just curious.”

***

That night, Jamal avoided his room for as long as he could. He stayed on the couch, flipping through channels until his eyelids grew heavy. But eventually, he had to face it.

When he stepped into his room, the lamp was already on.

He froze. He was sure he’d turned it off before heading downstairs. The bluish light was stronger now, casting long, shifting shadows that didn’t seem to align with the objects in the room. His reflection in the mirror looked off, like it was moving a half-second too late.

“Alright,” he said aloud, trying to muster some bravado. “Enough of this creepy movie nonsense.”

He reached out to unplug the lamp, but the moment his fingers touched the cord, he was somewhere else.

***

Jamal stood in the middle of a dark street, surrounded by dilapidated brownstones and broken streetlights. A cold wind whipped past him, carrying the faint smell of burning wood. He turned in a circle, trying to make sense of where he was. The air felt thick, pressing against his chest like an invisible weight.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing unnaturally.

The street was empty, except for the flickering glow of a single lamp post at the far end of the block. Its light was the same unsettling blue as the lamp in his room.

Jamal approached cautiously, his sneakers scuffing against cracked pavement. As he got closer, he realized the light wasn’t coming from a bulb. Inside the lamp post was... himself. Or at least, it looked like him. The figure had his face but stood unnaturally still, its eyes wide and unblinking.

“What the hell…?” Jamal whispered.

The figure’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Then, in a voice that seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere, it said, “Do you remember?”

Jamal stumbled back. “Remember what? What are you talking about?”

The figure stepped forward, its movements jerky, like a puppet on strings. “The accident. The light.”

Flashes of memory hit Jamal like a freight train: driving down this very street late at night, rain hammering against the windshield; a pair of headlights swerving into his lane; the deafening crunch of metal on metal; and then... the light. That cold, blue light, seeping into his vision as he faded into unconsciousness.

“No,” Jamal said, shaking his head. “No, I’m fine. I’m here.”

“Are you?” the figure asked, tilting its head.

Jamal turned to run, but the street stretched infinitely in every direction. The brownstones, the cracked pavement, the lamp post—all of it was the same, repeating endlessly like a looping nightmare.

“You never left,” the figure said, its voice softer now, almost sympathetic. “You’re stuck, Jamal. Stuck in the moment before everything went dark.”

Jamal sank to his knees, the weight of the realization crushing him. Images of his mom, her warm smile and the way she always called him “my baby,” flooded his mind. He wasn’t ready to let go. He couldn’t be.

The figure knelt beside him, its expression mirroring his grief. Slowly, Jamal’s surroundings began to dissolve into that eerie blue glow. The last thing he saw was the lamp post flickering one final time before everything faded to black.

***

The next morning, Jamal’s mom knocked on his door, a laundry basket balanced on her hip.

“Jamal, you up?” she called. When there was no answer, she pushed the door open. The room was empty, except for the lamp on the nightstand. It was off, its brass base gleaming as though it had just been polished.

For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes lingering on the lamp. “Must’ve unplugged it,” she murmured, but there was a flicker of doubt in her voice. She closed the door behind her, the faintest scent of burning wood trailing out into the hallway