The Amethyst Visitors

In the autumn of 2012, we brought home our twin daughters, Lily and Rose, from the hospital. Lily had a congenital heart defect, and her first months were a blur of surgeries and sleepless nights. Rose, on the other hand, was a portrait of health, her cries robust and demanding. We lived in a converted farmhouse on the edge of the Whispering Pines forest, a place that had been in my husband’s family for generations. The house was old, with drafty windows and a creaking staircase, but it was home.

By March 2013, Lily had stabilized, but she was still fragile. We kept her in a crib beside our bed, monitors tracking her pulse and oxygen levels. One night, I woke to a soft glow emanating from the nursery across the hall. I crept to the doorway and peered in. A sphere of light, about the size of a grapefruit, hovered above Lily’s crib. It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat. As I watched, it descended until it was inches from her chest, then dissolved into her, leaving a faint afterimage that faded like a dying star.

I told my husband, Ethan, but he dismissed it as a dream. The next night, I saw it again, but this time it wasn’t in the nursery. It was in the living room, bobbing near an antique rocking chair that had belonged to my great-aunt, who had passed away decades ago. The chair had always given me an uneasy feeling, but my mother insisted it was a family heirloom. The light hovered there for a long moment, then shot through the wall, leaving a burst of static in the baby monitor.

Curious and frightened, I began researching the house’s history. I learned that in the 1920s, a woman named Margaret had lived here. She was said to have been a healer, using herbs and ‘laying on of hands’ to cure the sick. But the locals also whispered about darker practices. Margaret’s daughter had died of a fever, and some believed she tried to bring her back. The rocking chair had come from Margaret’s home.

As spring progressed, the lights appeared more frequently. They came in pairs now, circling each other like fireflies. One night, I saw them hovering over both cribs, and a strange humming filled the room. The monitors flickered, and I felt a cold breeze despite the sealed windows. I rushed in, but the lights vanished. Lily was sleeping soundly, but Rose was awake, staring at the ceiling, cooing as if speaking to someone.

The visits escalated. One night, I woke to find Rose standing in her crib, her eyes glowing faintly. She pointed to the corner, and I saw a tall shadowy figure, its form flickering like a broken film. It gestured toward Lily, who cried out. I shielded them, and the figure evaporated. The next day, Lily had a fever, and we rushed her to the hospital. The doctors were baffled; her vitals were strong, but she was unresponsive. That night, at the hospital, I saw the light again—a single sphere that entered the room through the wall, hovered over Lily, and then vanished into her chest. Her fever broke instantly.

I knew I had to confront whatever was in that house. I contacted a local historian, who told me about Margaret’s obsession with the ‘other side.’ She had made a deal, trading her soul for the power to heal, but the entity she summoned demanded a life in return. Margaret had sacrificed her own daughter, and the entity was bound to the house, feeding on the life forces of children.

Terrified, we decided to move. But as we packed, the lights appeared in broad daylight, swirling around the rocking chair. Rose, now a year old, pointed and said in a clear voice, ‘She’s here.’ The next night, I found Ethan in the nursery, standing motionless, staring at the corner. He didn’t respond to my calls. When he finally blinked, he said, ‘She told me we must leave her the chair.’

We loaded the car with the essentials and fled. In the rearview mirror, I saw the house, and in the upstairs window, a faint amethyst glow. We never looked back, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I see a small sphere of light hovering over my daughters’ beds. It never seems to harm them, but it never leaves. And the rocking chair? We left it behind, but I swear I can still hear its gentle creak, even in our new home.