You are reader #

Flash Fiction: The Last Porch Light


The trick-or-treaters stopped coming to Ernest Street three years ago.

Jennifer pressed her face against the living room window, watching the empty sidewalk where costumed children used to parade. Jack-o'-lanterns rotted on distant porches, their carved grins collapsing inward like broken promises. Only one house still blazed with welcoming light—the blue Victorian at the end of the street.

Mrs. Swanson had lived there for forty years, Jennifer's mother always said. Even after the neighborhood changed, after families moved away and houses stood vacant with "For Sale" signs growing moss, Mrs. Swanson kept her porch light burning bright every Halloween.

"I should take her some candy," Jennifer murmured, grabbing the untouched bowl of fun-size chocolate bars. The October wind bit through her sweater as she walked down the cracked sidewalk, past houses with dark windows like closed eyes.

Mrs. Swanson's porch was a wonderland—elaborate decorations covered every surface, animatronic skeletons dancing to tinny music, fog machines creating ethereal clouds around plastic tombstones. The old woman sat in her rocking chair, a bowl of candy balanced on her lap, still waiting.

"Any visitors tonight?" Jennifer called out.

Mrs. Swanson looked up with clouded eyes. "Oh, plenty. They come every year, you know. Same time, same costumes." She smiled, gesturing to the empty street. "There's little Tommy as a pirate, and sweet Jessica dressed as a fairy princess. They never age, bless them."

Jennifer's stomach clenched. She'd known Tommy Martin—he'd drowned in Brooke Pond five Halloweens ago. Jessica Beatty had been hit by a drunk driver the following spring.

"Mrs. Swanson," Sarah whispered, "there's no one there."

The old woman's smile never wavered. "Of course there is. Look closer, dear. They're just waiting for someone to see them."

Jennifer followed Mrs. Swanson's gaze to the street. 

At first, nothing. 

Then, like adjusting the focus on old binoculars, she saw them—translucent figures moving silently along the sidewalk. A pirate with seaweed in his hair. A fairy princess with tire marks across her wings. Dozens of children, all the ones who'd never made it to another Halloween.

"They come because I remember," Mrs. Swanson said softly. "Because someone keeps the light on."

Jennifer sank into the chair beside her, understanding flooding through her like cold water. The decorations weren't for show—they were a beacon. Mrs. Swanson wasn't waiting for trick-or-treaters.

She was waiting for ghosts.

"Will you help me hand out candy?" Mrs. Swanson asked, extending the bowl. "They get so disappointed when houses go dark."

Sarah took a handful of chocolates, her fingers trembling. In the street, Tommy's ghost looked up hopefully, his ethereal hand outstretched.

She nodded, throat tight. "Of course."

Some traditions, Jennifer realized, were too important to let die. Even when death had already claimed what they celebrated.

The porch light burned on, casting its warm glow into the gathering darkness, calling the lost children home each year.

© 2025 Stephen Simpson