Right Room at 12:17

At exactly 12:17 a.m., every night, the hallway light outside Noah’s bedroom

turned on. He asked his parents about it. They laughed. “Must be the wiring.”

So Noah started turning it off before bed. The light still came on.

Always at 12:17. One night, he stayed awake, staring at the crack under his door.

The house was silent—no footsteps, no voices, no hum of electricity. Then the light clicked

on. Slowly, a shadow slid beneath the door. Not a person-shaped

one. Too tall. Too thin. Its head bent sideways, like it didn’t understand

doors. Noah held his breath. A finger—longer than it should be—pressed against the bottom