Endurance of the Light Bulb

Within the abandoned two-story house in Allsbrook, South Carolina is the forgotten basement room where the light bulb was left on.  Long ago the room was used as a storage space, underground shelter, recreational room and larder.  For a moment, on March 14, 1958, the room was even used for a wake: a stainless-steel coffin with the remains of some ancient patriarch was placed there for those few survivors who remembered his tenure on the earth to cycle by and grieve or commit some act implying such.

During all that time, the light bulb spoke silently.  Its light accentuating the dusky cerulean of the room walls.  When the house was occupied, the light responded to a casual flick of its accompanying switch to the left of the entrance.  It spoke when the switch was flicked upward.  It would obediently collapse into meditation when the switch was flicked downward.

When the door to the room was closed, the only sign of its speech was in a bare line of light emanating beneath the thick wooden door.  The door was designed like a shipping crate intended for the storage of a large ship.  It could easily be confused for another container in the basement by one unfamiliar with the body of the house.

The bulb held reverence for the room.  It recognized the many uses the room had been compelled to serve.  The room was silent though.  It never spoke ill or favorably of any of its uses.  It simply endured.  The light bulb admired this quality in the room.  It sought to emanate it.  It shone brightly each time the switch upon the room’s walls was flicked upward.  It was obedient to the downward flick.

It is not clear how long ago this happened, but the switch was flicked upward and was never flicked downward again.  The bulb was resolute in its refusal to contradict the room’s requests.  It had, over the course of its life, fallen in love with the silent endurance of the room.  It pledged itself to stand in endurance with the room.  When the switch was not flicked downward, the light bulb did not worry at first.  Instead, it was elated.  Here was an opportunity to display its fidelity.  The bulb waited patiently for the command to meditate.  It grew distressed when this did not occur; yet, it refused to cede to its desire to follow past habit.

The bulb continued to shine.  The room did not ask it to cease.

In the two-story house in Allsbrook, South Carolina all the rooms are dark.  It is silent.  The grass treats it like a gravestone.  No one knows who owns it.  Rumor has it that the building is haunted, that there is a ghost that stands in the top floor window of the house gazing out at passing cars.  People say she wears a white wedding dress, then they let their imagination do the rest.

There is no life in the house though.  Not even a life of the dead.

Except in a forgotten room in the basement.

A single light bulb still burns behind a closed door.  No one knows of it.  No one will ever ask it to stop.  It wouldn’t stop anyway.  It is in love.