The Porch Light Stayed On

The porch light had been on for three nights straight.

The Porch Light Stayed On

The porch light had been on for three nights straight.

Evan noticed it when he came home late Sunday, the yellow glow spilling onto the cracked concrete like it was waiting for someone. He told himself it was nothing. People forgot things all the time. Still, when he left for work Monday morning, it was still on. When he came home Monday night, same thing.

By Tuesday, it started to bother him.

The house next door had belonged to Mr. Calhoun for as long as Evan could remember. Quiet man. Polite nods. Trim lawn. Same routine every day. Up at six. Newspaper at seven. Porch light always off by morning.

Except now.

Evan stood on his own porch, keys in hand, staring at that light. The rest of the house was dark. No television glow. No movement behind the curtains. Just the steady hum of the bulb.

He told himself not to be weird about it. He went inside.

Sleep did not come easy. Evan kept thinking about routines and how they break. About how one small change can mean something bigger underneath.

Wednesday evening, he finally walked over.

The grass crunched under his shoes. The porch boards creaked when he stepped up. The light buzzed faintly above his head. He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Evan hesitated, then tried the door. It was unlocked.

That should have stopped him. Instead, it pulled him forward.

The air inside smelled stale, like dust and old coffee. The living room looked untouched. Chair in the same place. Newspaper folded neatly on the table, dated three days ago. The clock on the wall ticked, loud in the quiet.

Mr. Calhoun sat in his recliner.

At first, Evan thought he was asleep. His head leaned slightly to one side, mouth relaxed, hands resting on the arms of the chair. It took a few seconds for the stillness to sink in.

“Oh,” Evan said, softly.

He did not panic. That surprised him later. At the time, everything felt slow and heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Evan called the police. He waited on the porch while they worked inside. An officer asked him questions. How long had he known him. When was the last time he saw him. Evan answered as best he could.

“He probably passed in his sleep,” the officer said. “Happens.”

They turned off the porch light before they left.

That night, Evan slept better than he had all week. The mystery was gone. The question answered.

But the next evening, the light was on again.

Evan stopped short at the end of his driveway. The house was empty now. He knew that. He had watched the coroner wheel Mr. Calhoun out. He had seen the locks changed. Still, there it was. The same warm glow.

This time, Evan did not wait.

He crossed the lawn, heart thudding harder than before. He flipped the switch beside the door. The light went off. He stood there for a moment, staring into the sudden dark.

When he turned to leave, it clicked back on.

Evan stepped away like the porch had burned him. He did not go inside. He did not knock. He went home and shut his own door and locked it.

The light stayed on all night.

Over the next few days, Evan tried to ignore it. He failed. He stopped going out after dark. He avoided looking out his windows. The light became a presence, like someone standing just out of sight.

On Friday, a moving truck pulled up.

A young woman stepped out, phone pressed to her ear, frustration written all over her face. Evan watched from his window as she tried the porch light switch.

“It will not turn off,” she said into the phone. “I swear, I flipped it three times.”

Evan surprised himself by opening his door.

“Hey,” he called. “That light’s been doing that all week.”

She looked relieved to see him. “So it’s not just me.”

They stood on the porch together. The light hummed above them.

“Maybe it’s faulty wiring,” she said.

“Maybe,” Evan said.

She laughed, a little nervous. “I guess I’ll call an electrician.”

She moved in that afternoon. The porch light stayed on that night. And the next.

Saturday evening, Evan saw her sitting on the porch steps, staring at the bulb like it had personally offended her.

“You want help?” he asked.

She smiled. “At this point, sure.”

They talked while the sky darkened. Her name was Marissa. She had moved for work. New start. Fresh place.

“It feels silly,” she said, nodding at the light. “But I do not like the idea of leaving it on all the time.”

Evan understood that more than he could explain.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be off,” he said before thinking.

Marissa raised an eyebrow. “That is not comforting.”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s just doing its job.”

She looked at the house, then at the street, quiet and empty. “Keeping watch?”

“Something like that.”

That night, Evan noticed something else. The light no longer felt empty. It felt steady. Less like waiting. More like staying.

Sunday morning, he saw Marissa leaving for work. The porch light was off.

Evan stood there for a long time, staring at the dark fixture. Part of him felt relieved. Another part felt strangely sad.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, the light came back on.

Evan smiled.

He did not go over. He did not touch the switch. Some things, he realized, did not need fixing.

Some things just needed to be seen.