Don’t Forget to Turn Off the Light

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For nineteen years, Emery Stephens lived with his beloved wife, Daisy. They met in college and majored in vastly different fields: Emery majored in engineering, and Daisy majored in art. Like their career interests, they had significantly different personalities; however, their friendship bloomed over those dissimilarities. He knew he fell for her first—it was so strange to fall for someone unlike him. It took him many years to convince her to become something more. By some miracle, he had wooed her heart—even he was unsure of how he could win the energic Daisy Reyolds’ heart.  

Daisy had a vivacious outlook on life, seeing the brighter side of any situation, even with her breast cancer diagnosis and pending death. The diagnosis took the Stephens family hard—as their children were both teenagers. Their children, Kevin and Emily, were both teenagers at the time of the news of her diagnosis—with both being in high school, Emily a freshman, and Kevin, a senior. Both children were supportive, including extended family members, friends, and even the community of the small historic town of Willow Creek. All banded together to support their beloved art teacher, friend, and family member.  

His brave Daisy fought cancer for years, as long as she could; however, it became too much—the treatments and physical and emotional strain on her body and mind. Three months before her death, Daisy declined any more treatments as the cancer progressed significantly. She was given a short amount of time and wished to pass away in their home. Despite his reluctance towards her choice—he reluctantly abided by her wishes. 

On a cool spring morning in April, lilacs, blue hyacinths, daffodils, and tulips bloomed in their front yard—even daisies late in the season. Emery had awakened early and was busy making breakfast. Daisy remained in bed asleep, exhausted from the night before. When Emery went to wake her, she would not rise to meet the sun. Although in immense pain, death decided to grant her a small mercy and allow her to pass in her sleep.  

She was gone.  

It has been roughly a year since her passing. Seasons have passed, along with all the anniversaries, holidays, birthdays, and events. He took a paid sabbatical from work for serval months after his wife’s death—to recover and find a way to live in a world without her. While he has been back to work for several months, he cannot find his routine—a routine without her.  

Early that evening, after talking to his children, both adults living independently—one a productive member of society and the other on the cusp of completing her master’s degree—Emery’s heart swelled with pride at the thought of Kevin and Emily. They’ve both come a long way, accomplishing many things in their young lives.  

A sigh expelled from his lips, and an emptiness lingered within his heart. It was loneliness—which to him could only be cured by a nice glass of whiskey and a good book. Emery sat down in his favorite leather armchair in the living room, placing the glass on the side table and opening the book to the marked page. His old mutt, Sam, patter over and lay beside him—a medium-sized dog with a long snout, perky ears, and a curly tail. He had long fur colored liver brown and white on his belly and three black spots on each paw. His wife used to joke that Sam was a Heinz 57.  

Since his wife Daisy’s departure, he and Sam lived alone in the 3-bedroom bungalow home—their home—the house they bought together and created a loving, nurturing environment for their family. The living room was modest in size but reflected both owners’ styles and tastes, with studious browns and beiges and accent colors of yellow and blue. However, the room that used to be too bright for him has become muted.  

Dust collects on objects like a grave due to lack of use. Daisy’s things were the television, stereo system, and easel in the corner of the room next to the bay window. Daisy enjoyed watching movies and TV shows, and music continuously flowed throughout their home. She loved to dance and sing while she painted. Her hands were often stained with colors of every hue. He could always tell her mood by the colors that stained her hands.   

Emery sat the book he had been attempting to read on his lap. He pictured her—as she would twirl about the room, humming and swaying to the music. To be honest, he never cared for her choice of music. Often called noise, Daisy’s radiant smile and the brightness of her green eyes will be engraved in his heart as she painted. Daisy was a master painter, including many other visual art forms.  

Despite excelling in visual art forms, she was an awful singer and dancer. He smiled as he thought of her off-pitched tune. Something that used to annoy him—but now desperately longed for. He would give anything to hear her sing again. Emery wished to have everything that irritated him about her, from her disorganization of paperwork to the useless clutter she kept around the house and even her odd talent of losing her car keys and being late.  

How could someone lose their car keys thirteen times in a single day, even with key racks by the house’s front and side door entrances? That was Daisy’s specialty—misplacing car keys, which Emery would have to find. Usually, they were left in the last place she was. He missed all the bad and good things that made her his. 

Regardless of her annoying lateness, singing off-key, and disorganization habits, Daisy always ensured the lights were off in their home. In their nineteen years of marriage and living together, Daisy always turned off the lights when the room was not in use—or before bed. This common habit was surprising, as she was uncommon with everything else. However, Emery admitted that this habit had not become his own. He struggled to shut off the lights for months—this tendency resulted in higher electric bills.  

Emery stretched and cracked his lower back, wincing. He let out a groan of pain and satisfaction. The room began to feel heavy as the grandfather clock ticked—time was passing by. To him, every second felt like an eternity. His head began to lull back against the chair, eyes heavy, blinking the last bit of light before the darkness took over. The book fell to the floor; Sam’s ears twitched, but he was not overly alarmed. Like his master, he soon fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of the ticking clock.   

A honeyed voice questioned, “Honey, have you fallen asleep in your chair again?” 

“Yes, Daisy,” Emery replied with a slight mumble  

A small giggle, “You forgot the lights; I will get them,” she told him.  

A touch of a hand upon his shoulder jolted Emery awake; everything was blurry, and his heart was racing. He jumped from his chair, his right foot slamming on Sam’s tail. The dog yelped at the sudden pain, causing him to flinch at the sound. Emery brushed his right hand through his peppered hair as he looked about the room. Nothing was amiss, but all the lights were turned off.  

He crouched down to check on the dog. Once, he looked him over, ensuring that Sam was not hurt. Emery quickly checked the house, the windows and doors. Nothing was missing or out of place, and there was no evidence of a power outage. The annoyance of the flashing digital clocks on electronic devices and appliances—that would need to be reset.   

I must be losing my mind, he mused. Emery had not slept in their bedroom since her passing. He opted to sleep in his armchair or on the sofa each night—not getting a decent night’s rest. It was apparent that he would begin to hallucinate, in this case, his wife’s voice. And yet, this did not answer who shut off the lights.  

His eyes shifted to Sam, “Did you shut them off?” It was a silly question, as it would take someone or something with opposable thumbs.  

 “Of course not. Well, I better get ready for work,” Emery said aloud, almost expecting someone to respond. However, the house remained silent, nothing but a middle-aged man and his mutt.  

It had been a long day at the office, mundane tasks that needed to be completed. Emery used to enjoy all these things about his work as a civil engineer, but now, it seems lackluster at best and abysmal at worst. He thought of retirement, but even that wasn’t possible now; he still had eight to nine more years before he could. If he did retire, what would he do now that Daisy was gone? 

Would he travel the world? Sell their home? Buy a boat? Date again? All these questions were nonsense—he could only think of her—the life they had and would’ve had together. He never imagined losing her in their late forties. He assumed that they would live together well into their eighties. Together, they would have many more holidays and anniversaries—attend Kevin’s and Emily’s weddings and see grandchildren’s births and more family events. Enjoy retirement by traveling the world and buying a boat.  

All these things will never happen now, at least not together. Emery pulled his Sudan into the cracked concrete driveway. I forgot to call that contractor again, he grunted at himself. It was so unlike him; however, this had become common. Even the simplest tasks had become challenging to remember in the past few months.  

So, I might have turned the lights off last night, Emery thought suddenly, thinking about the previous night. Then he pondered, where did that come from?  

Have the lights been consuming his thoughts the whole day?  

No—impossible.  

Emery opened the side door and was greeted by Sam, with his tail wagging in delight at seeing him. He smirked at his eagerness. It was not long before Emery and Sam were again winding down for the evening—their habit of Emery with a drink and a book in his armchair and Sam beside him.  

That night, he only had the tableside lamp on. Emery could not focus on the words on the pages; his thoughts were consumed by the night before—would it happen again? Anticipation, excitement, and trepidation washed over him. He never believed in such silly drivel as having a ghost in his home. However, this was Daisy—and it had been far too long since he heard her sweet voice—or perhaps he was going insane.  

Nothing happened for hours. It was the witching hour. If anything were to happen, it would be now. He wanted silently—his gaze fixated on the lamp. Emery stayed like that until the loud chime of the grandfather clock sounded. This indicated that it was now 1 a.m., past the witching hour—where something could happen, would’ve happened.   

His face fell, and his shoulders drooped. Evident by the lack of activity—Emery pressed his right palm to his heart. A long breath was let out that he didn’t know he had been holding. He exhaled through his nose, gathering himself in that moment. In his grief and sleep deprivation, he set aside his practical reasoning, letting his emotions get the better of his thinking. More than ever, he was convinced that it was nothing more than a vivid dream.  

It took some time, but he was able to relax. While drifting off, he heard her voice: “Sweetheart, don’t forget to turn off the light.”