An Almost True Short Story
The switch was in the hallway, between the pantry and the laundry door. Beige plate, single toggle, labeled “DO NOT USE” in faded Sharpie. It didn’t match the others. No one remembered who labeled it.
A few tenants asked about it. The property manager said it was nothing. Leftover from when the place had a swamp cooler, maybe. Or an old alarm system. Either way, it didn’t do anything now.
Sometimes it clicked back on its own.
Not loud. Just a soft plastic tick. Tenants said it must’ve been loose. Humidity, maybe. Vibration from the dryer. It wasn’t important. Except people kept mentioning it in the move-out forms.
“Please remove the hallway switch.”
“Wires hum sometimes. Might be the wall?”
“Didn’t like passing it at night.”
“Wires hum sometimes. Might be the wall?”
“Didn’t like passing it at night.”
The house turned over fast. Nine leases in six years. No damage, no drama. Just people who didn’t stay.
One of them—Harley, something—tried to trace the wiring. Had an uncle who used to be an inspector. Said the line didn’t go anywhere. Didn’t match the panel. Said it wasn’t hooked to anything in the house.
Still turned itself off sometimes.
After Harley moved out, the next tenant noticed something strange with their aunt’s place across town. Lights flickering, always around 3:00 a.m. One of those ceramic garden fountains starting up for no reason. Once, a chair tipped over.
She never connected it to the switch. Why would she?
Only reason anyone mentioned it at all is because the electrician who came to replace the plate found a piece of paper folded behind it.
It was just a phone number. No name. Area code not in use since 2004.
He called it anyway. Said it rang once.
Then the porch light blew out.