I Thought the House Across the Street Was Empty — Until I Saw the Lights Flickering

The yellow light in the Harper house window came on at exactly 9:17 every night. Seven minutes later, it went dark. I thought it was just a timer until the night it started flickering back at me in what looked like a code.

Two years of widowhood had taught me the value of routine.

I had tea at 9 p.m. before reading a few pages of whatever mystery novel sat on my nightstand. Then, I put the lights out by 10:30 p.m.

My routine was simple, and it made me feel safe.

I'd only been on this street a few months. After Philip died, I traded our old place three streets over for something smaller.

From my front window, I had a perfect view of the old Harper house across the street. Everyone said it had been empty since Mrs. Harper died last spring. The realtor's sign had been there so long that weeds grew around the post.

But something wasn't quite right.

It started in early autumn. I was settling into my evening ritual when a soft yellow glow caught my eye. The upstairs left window of the Harper house had come alive. I glanced at my bedside clock.

9:17 p.m.

"That's odd," I murmured, adjusting my reading glasses. "No one lives there."

Seven minutes later, the light went dark.

The next night, I witnessed the same thing. 9:17 p.m. on the dot. Seven minutes of gentle yellow light, then darkness.

"Maybe there's a timer," I thought.

Still, I was curious. So I did what any retired librarian would do: I started taking notes.

I pulled out the small notebook I kept for grocery lists and jotted down, "9:17 p.m. Seven minutes. Off at 9:24."

Night after night, the pattern held. The lamp was more reliable than my alarm clock. But after about a week, something new happened.

The light flickered three quick times before going dark.

Morse code? A signal of some kind? But to whom?

After that, I found myself looking forward to 9:17 even more eagerly each evening. It became part of my routine, like brushing my teeth or checking the door locks.

The next morning, while watering my small herb garden, I decided to mention it to Mrs. Ellis.

She was my closest neighbor, a spry 72-year-old who grew the most beautiful roses on the block. If anyone would know about odd happenings in the neighborhood, it would be her.

I found her trimming her prize roses near our shared property line.

"Good morning," I called out, using the garden hose to water my struggling basil plants.

"Morning, Nora." She looked up from her roses, shears poised mid-cut.

"I've been noticing something curious," I said, trying to sound casual. "That light in the Harper house window. It comes on every night at exactly 9:17. Have you seen it?"

The change in her was instant.

Her entire body went rigid, and the shears froze in her gloved hands. When she looked at me, her eyes reflected nothing but pure fear.

"Stop looking at that house!" she said. "We don't talk about it."

I wasn't expecting that. Mrs. Ellis had always been friendly, and I had never heard her talk like this.

She turned back to her roses without another word, but I caught her muttering something under her breath.

"Some things keep their time for a reason," she said.

As I walked back to my house, I wondered what was going on in Mrs. Ellis's mind. Why was she acting so strangely?

That evening, I found myself paying even closer attention to the Harper house. As I watched from my window, with my notebook in hand, I began to notice other things.

There was a thin path worn through the dewy grass leading to the back door. A curtain in the downstairs window was tied back differently than it had been the night before.

And once, during a bright afternoon, I saw the shadow of someone moving across that upstairs window.

The house wasn't empty, I figured. Someone was living there.

But who? And why was Mrs. Ellis so desperate to keep me from noticing?

At that point, I decided to do some research.

The local library had public records, and I still had my old access codes. What I found made my heart skip a beat.

The Harper property was stuck in probate court, which meant no one should have been living there.

But there was something else. Something that made this personal.

In an old neighborhood newsletter from 20 years ago, I found a small article about a string of break-ins on nearby streets.

One name jumped out at me. Philip.

My late husband had reported someone trying to pry open our side door back then.

The suspect's last known address? The Harper house. The very one across from where I live now, though back then Philip and I lived three streets over.

Now, I had a real reason to keep watching.

I walked home from the library with copies of the old reports tucked in my purse, feeling more unsettled than curious now.

The connection to Philip made this personal. Someone who had once tried to break into our home was possibly living across the street.

The next afternoon, I approached Mrs. Ellis again. She was working in her front garden, and I thought maybe a direct approach would work better.

"Hey, I need to ask you something," I said, walking up to her front gate. "That house across the street… I know you said not to talk about it, but I found something troubling."

She looked up from her roses, and I saw her jaw tighten. "Nora, please. Just leave it alone."

"I can't," I said firmly. "My husband's name is in an old police report. Someone from that house tried to break into our home 20 years ago."

Mrs. Ellis set down her shears and walked closer to the gate. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Then you should know better than anyone why we don't ask questions about that place," she said. "Some folks prefer to stay invisible. And some of us prefer to let them."

"What does that mean?"

But she was already walking back to her roses, dismissing me with a wave of her gloved hand.

That night, something strange happened.

I sat in my usual spot by the window with my notebook ready. 9:17 p.m. came and went. No light.

My heart started racing.

Had they seen me watching? Did they know I'd been to the library?

Then, at 9:32 p.m., the yellow glow appeared. It was 15 minutes late.

The break in routine made me curious.

"That's it," I said aloud to my empty living room. "I'm going over there."

The next evening, just before dusk, I slipped through the Harper side gate. The back door was unlatched, just slightly ajar.

Inside, dust particles danced in the fading sunlight, and sheets covered most of the furniture like sleeping ghosts.

I climbed the creaky stairs, each step echoing in the silence.

The upstairs room was small and sparse.

A brass lamp sat on a wooden table, plugged into a cheap digital timer. The display showed 9:17.

"So that's all it was," I whispered, feeling foolish. "Just a timer."

Then, I turned around and saw something that sent a shiver down my spine.

A small tripod stood near the window, holding a camera. The lens pointed directly at my house. At my living room window, where I sat every evening.

My hands shook as I walked closer.

Next to the tripod was a stack of manila folders.

Curious, I picked one up and opened it. I found old photographs of my house from years ago.

Different owners, different cars in the driveway.

But the second folder made me sick to my stomach.

It had glossy, recent photos of me. Me reading in my chair. Me closing my blinds. Me watering my herbs in the garden.

There was also a photocopied page. It was a copy of the same newsletter article I'd found at the library.

Philip's name was circled in blue ink, with a handwritten note in the margin: "Watch patterns. She's careful."

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway behind me.

I froze with the folder still open in my hands.

Then, I heard voices. Two people were talking in hushed tones downstairs.

"I told her to stop looking," said a voice I recognized.

It was Mrs. Ellis.

"Then we move it again," replied a deeper voice, calm and measured.

My heart suddenly started racing as I realized I might get into trouble.

I closed the folder as quietly as I could and backed toward the window. My years of tiptoeing through library stacks served me well.

I knew how to move without making noise.

The voices continued downstairs. I caught fragments of their conversation as I crept toward the stairs.

"She's just like her husband," Mrs. Ellis was saying. "Too curious for her own good."

"Philip learned to mind his own business," the other voice replied. "She will, too."

The way he said Philip's name made my skin crawl. Like he knew him personally.

I made it down the stairs and out the back door without breathing. Once I was across the street and inside my own house, I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

"I need to report a break-in," I told the dispatcher. "Someone's been living in the house across from me, taking pictures through my windows."

The police arrived 20 minutes later.

There were two officers, both young enough to be my grandchildren. I told them everything that I saw that evening. The timer, the camera, the photos, and the voices.

They crossed the street with flashlights and disappeared into the Harper house. I watched from my window as my heart pounded inside my chest.

When they came back, their faces were neutral.

"Ma'am, we didn't find any camera equipment or photographs," the taller officer said. "The house appears to be empty. Just some old furniture covered in dust."

"But I saw them," I insisted. "The timer, the tripod—"

"We found a brass lamp upstairs, but no timer," the second officer said gently. "Sometimes old houses play tricks on us. Maybe you saw shadows from passing cars."

"We'll leave now," one of them said.

After they left, I stood in my dark living room, staring across the street.

The Harper house looked innocent in the moonlight.

But at exactly 9:17 p.m., the upstairs window glowed yellow.

Through my binoculars, I could see two shadows moving across the shade. One tall and straight. The other with a slight, familiar stoop that reminded me of someone tending roses.

How did they know I'd called the cops? Did they see me?

The next morning, Mrs. Ellis appeared on my front porch with rose cuttings in a small clay pot.

"I thought you might like these for your garden," she said, her smile careful and measured. "Sometimes it's best to let old houses keep their habits, don't you think?"

Her voice carried the same papery cadence I'd heard through the Harper house walls. As she spoke, she glanced toward my half-drawn blinds and adjusted the blue ink pen clipped to her apron pocket.

The same blue ink that had circled Philip's name.

"Thank you for the roses," I said, taking the pot. "I'll take good care of them."

She nodded and walked back down my front steps.

At that point, I understood that I had two choices. I could keep digging, keep asking questions, keep pushing against whatever conspiracy had taken root in my quiet neighborhood. Or I could choose the safer path. The one Philip had chosen 20 years ago.

That evening, I made my decision.

I kept my hallway light on and positioned myself by the window with my notebook. When the yellow glow appeared at 9:17 p.m., I wrote down what I saw.

"Two shadows. No flicker tonight."

I wasn't going to confront anyone. But I wasn't going to pretend I didn't see.

The house across the street could keep its secrets. But I would keep my records.

On the last page of my notebook, I wrote, "I noticed. I am still noticing."

Then, I turned on my lamp and left it burning bright in the window. It was a signal that said I lived here, and I was paying attention.

A few seconds later, across the street, the yellow window answered with three measured flickers.

I added one final line to my notes. "9:17. Three flickers. Message received. I remain."

If you enjoyed reading this story, here's another one you might like: When Maggie finds a handwritten note tucked inside a library book, addressed to her and signed with initials she hasn't seen in decades, she brushes it off as a coincidence. But then another appears at the café, and a third at the park. Who is leaving these notes? And why?

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.