When the Lights Go Out - By Sarah Telford

Written By: Sarah Telford

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Sarah Telford invites readers into a suspenseful world with her short story, "When the Lights Go Out," a featured entry in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This gripping narrative explores themes of mystery and fate, immersing readers in a chilling tale of unexpected turns. As part of this prestigious competition, Sarah's work exemplifies the creativity and depth that the event seeks to celebrate, drawing participants from around the globe to share their unique voices and stories.

About the Work

"When the Lights Go Out" immerses readers in a tense atmosphere filled with uncertainty and suspense. Through vivid imagery and a gripping narrative style, Sarah Telford crafts a tale that explores the eerie experience of deja vu linked to mysterious events. The story's mood oscillates between calm and chaos, reflecting a journey of self-discovery and survival. Its compelling message about second chances and fate resonates deeply, leaving readers pondering long after the final sentence.

When the Lights Go Out

Original Submission by Sarah Telford

She found a letter in her handwriting that she had never written. It was dawn. Morgan’s alarm clock buzzed like nails on metal. Great, another Monday morning. Groaning, she reached out blindly to hit snooze, swatting at the air in her half-asleep haze. Her fingers brushed something unexpected. Blinking, she opened her eyes to see a small envelope fluttering to the floor.

Her heart skipped. This wasn’t here before she went to bed. She lived alone—so who else could have placed it there? The morning air smelled faintly of damp concrete seeping through the window frame. She racked her brain, trying to remember leaving herself a note, but the thought made no sense. Why bother with an envelope? A phone reminder would’ve been easier. Her mind twisted through possibilities, none satisfying.

Curiosity won. She opened it. It couldn’t hurt, right?

Inside, the paper seemed to pulse with unease. The handwriting was hers—too familiar, impossibly familiar. Her pulse quickened, a faint tremor in her hands. She had never seen it before. At least she didn’t think she had.

The message was scrawled hastily, like time itself was chasing her:

Third time’s the charm. When the lights go out, run.

Her stomach knotted. What did it mean? Had she written it in some sleep-muddled dream? It made no sense. Shrugging, she crumpled the note and tossed it in the wastebasket. A hot shower would clear her head. Maybe the warm water would wash away the unease still twisting in her gut.

Steam enveloped her as she stepped into the shower. The tiles were cool under her feet, a shock against her skin. Muscles unclenched. For a while, the unease dissolved. The water seemed to seep into her bones, washing away dread with every drop. The faint scent of lavender soap barely masked the lingering smell of damp mildew from the bathroom vent.

Just as she lathered her hair for the final shampoo, the lights flickered. At first, she thought it was soap in her eyes. Then darkness swallowed the bathroom. Her breath caught in her throat. For a fleeting second, she swore she saw a shadow behind the curtain. Ridiculous. She lived alone. The lights snapped back in a flash—less than a minute—but enough to leave her pulse racing.

Morgan’s thoughts returned to the note. Maybe she was overthinking. Power flickers happened all the time. Maintenance, overloaded systems, whatever. She’d talk to her landlord later. Someone might have entered her apartment to reset the circuit, but she had been in the shower. Better not to disturb her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just a flicker,” she told herself. But her stomach churned, instincts screaming otherwise. Her skin crawled with a subtle static-like tension.

She hopped out, wrapping herself in a towel that smelled faintly of laundry soap, and hurried to get ready.

During her drive to work, the message haunted her: When the lights go out, run. Was it coincidence? Surely she wasn’t supposed to sprint every time the power went out. But the thought gnawed at her. Run where? Run from what? She shoved it away, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened.

By the time she reached the parking lot, she convinced herself everything was normal.

The office hummed with chaos. Papers stacked like precarious towers, gossip buzzed around the water cooler, and fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead. The smell of reheated cafeteria food mixed with printer toner. Her mind kept skirting back to the note, but she buried the worry beneath mundane tasks.

At five o’clock, her boss cornered her.

“Morgan,” he said, tone grave, “the deadline for this project is midnight. I need you to stay late tonight to keep the team on track.”

She sighed. Night off, gone. But reliability mattered. Promotions were important. She nodded. “Of course. I’m on it.” The strange feeling of déjà vu tingled, but she dismissed it. After all, this wasn’t the first time her asked her to stay late.

Hours later, just a few minutes to midnight, she slid into her car. Her commute was short, twenty minutes, thankfully. The streets were nearly empty, as expected for this time of night. She pulled out slowly onto her route home. Then, her headlights died. The streetlights vanished. Even the stars seemed swallowed. Panic surged, a cold sweat clinging to her neck.

A flash returned the lights just in time. She swerved, narrowly missing a massive transport truck. Her heart hammered, ears ringing from adrenaline. Third time’s the charm. When the lights go out, run. Two incidents already today. Something was off.

In her rearview mirror, she thought she glimpsed a figure at the roadside. Then nothing. Her mind screamed coincidence, but instinct whispered otherwise.

Once home, Morgan rushed inside, pulling out her computer. She was determined to get some answers. She started researching blackouts: none. Strange incidents tied to darkness: nothing. Figures in shadows? Silence. Her stomach knotted tighter.

She rummaged in her junk drawer for a flashlight and two fresh batteries. Familiar. She must have used it before—or at least she remembered using it. “Just in case,” she murmured. The flashlight felt reassuringly solid in her palm. Precaution beat denial.

She set alerts on her phone for power outages. Then she scrolled through her camera. Blurry images. Shadows. Her own leg with a healing gash. Her hands shook. Had the third blackout already happened? The photos suggested yes, but she couldn’t be certain this was the case.

Sleep evaded her. She tossed and turned, every position seeming wrong. Arms flailed, pillow scrunched. Her mind replayed the note, the shadows, the photos. The room felt smaller at night, the walls closer, the air heavier.

Days passed with no incidents. She cautiously relaxed, keeping the flashlight close at hand and preferring daylight commutes. Maybe the events of Monday were a fluke. Maybe her imagination really had run wild.

Friday arrived, and once again, the team faced a looming deadline. She agreed to stay late. She couldn’t afford to let a silly superstition get to her. Midnight came. She tried to start her car. Nothing. Zip.

“Damn it,” she muttered, irritation thinly veiling frustration. She decided on public transport. The office was a short walk to the subway station. There was a station by her apartment, too. She preferred driving, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The walk was eerie. Damp air clung to her clothes, and every noise from a distant drip, to a scuff of shoes, to the rattle of a trash can lid, all twisted into menace. Shadows stretched long and strange. Her hand gripped the flashlight. Relief washed over her when she reached the station. Almost midnight meant fewer people around, but not deserted.

Suddenly it happened. The lights flickered. Nothing worked—her flashlight, the station lights, everything was swallowed by darkness. Panic clawed her throat, and it felt like something was squeezing her lungs.

She wanted to scream, but nothing came out. And then she remembered the warning. Run.

Instinct took over. Her feet pounded, her heart thrashed, and every step echoed in the empty station. She ran without knowing where she was going or what she was running from. That’s when she heard footsteps chasing her, scuffing hard behind her. She pushed forward despite tearing her leg, her adrenaline surging more and more every minute. A figure lunged, grabbing her hand. Pain seared in her leg, but she refused to give up. Her thoughts flashed briefly to the pictures she had found of the wound. So she had been here before, somehow.

She fought free, and leapt with all her might onto an arriving train. The doors closed just in time. Behind her, the attacker stumbled onto the tracks, swallowed by an oncoming train’s headlights.

Memories flooded her. The note. The photos. The week. She had written the warning herself, traveled backward, and been given a second chance. The sequence had to unfold exactly as it did. Any deviations and she wouldn’t be there.

She sank into a seat, breath ragged, the metallic scent of the subway mixing with sweat and lingering fear. A scrap of paper lay at her feet, identical to her warning note. The loop was complete.

She hastily rewrote the message, the final step. A service worker entered the train. She had an otherworldly aura about her, almost like an angel. Morgan knew she could trust her.

“Do you want me to take that for you?” she asked, eyes glinting with something Morgan couldn’t define. Morgan handed over the envelope. The woman left without another word. Somehow, Morgan knew she would deliver it. Loop closed.

As the train sped off, Morgan exhaled. Alive. Traumatized, yes, but grateful. She was safe. The universe—or fate—had given her a second chance, and she had survived.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, stands as a platform celebrating the richness and diversity of literary arts. This global event welcomes creative individuals to share their stories, poems, and essays, fostering a community of writers and readers. With an emphasis on originality and expression, the competition draws entries from across the world, contributing to a vibrant tapestry of thought-provoking and engaging literature.

Thank you, Sarah Telford, for sharing your captivating short story, "When the Lights Go Out," with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your skillful storytelling and thematic exploration offer readers a thrilling experience, and we are grateful for your contribution to this global celebration of creative writing. We look forward to seeing more of your work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.