The Caravan’s Second Guest

My mother, my little brother Theo, and I arrived at Aunt Miriam’s farmhouse on a sweltering July afternoon. The house was a rambling Victorian relic, all creaking floorboards and dark corners, but our cousin Ella and her friend Mason were waiting for us on the porch. We hadn’t seen them in ages, and soon we were running through the overgrown garden, our laughter echoing off the rusted tractor and the old chicken coop.

The sun was still high when someone suggested hide and seek. The house was too easy, but the garden had so many nooks: the tool shed, the hay loft, the abandoned caravan parked by the weeping willow. We split into teams: Ella and I against Theo and Mason. I was the seeker for the first round, and I counted to fifty against the peeling back door while the others scattered.

Ella and I found our hiding spot in the upstairs bathroom, a cramped room with a cracked mirror and a window that overlooked the back garden. We knelt by the sill, giggling, spying on Theo and Mason as they crept toward the caravan. They were laughing, pushing each other, then they yanked open the rusty door and disappeared inside. I tensed, expecting them to burst out triumphant, but instead they stumbled out seconds later, pale as milk, their mouths open in silent screams.

They didn’t stop running until they crashed into the kitchen, where Aunt Miriam was kneading dough. ‘What’s wrong with you two?’ she asked, but they just pointed at the caravan. ‘They’re in there!’ Theo gasped. ‘Ella and the new boy! We saw them go in, but when we went in, no one was there!’ He was shaking. Mason nodded, his eyes wide. ‘We saw them, I swear. They were standing by the window, grinning at us. Then they vanished.’

But we were right there, in the bathroom, and we hadn’t moved. Aunt Miriam frowned, wiped her hands on a towel, and led us all outside. The caravan sat quiet under the willow, its windows dark. She pulled the door open. Inside was musty, with a fold-down bed, a tiny stove, and a thin layer of dust. There was no one there. But I noticed something odd: on the windowsill, in the dust, were two perfect handprints, small, like a child’s. And they were fresh.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the house, trying to forget. But I couldn’t shake it. That night, as I lay in the spare room with Ella, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway, slow and dragging. I sat up, but Ella was fast asleep. I crept to the door and peered out. At the end of the hall, near the attic stairs, a small shape stood, just a silhouette in the dim moonlight. It didn’t move. I blinked, and it was gone.

The next morning, I told Aunt Miriam. She went pale, her hands trembling. ‘You saw it too?’ she whispered. She told us that years ago, a little girl named Rose had lived in that caravan, a runaway who’d been taken in by her grandmother. One night, Rose had a fever, and her grandmother walked to the village for medicine. She came back to find Rose dead. The grandmother buried her under the willow, but she said her spirit never left. ‘She’s not mean,’ Aunt Miriam said, ‘but she wants a friend. She gets confused when she sees children playing.’

We left that day, and I tried to forget. But every few months, something would happen. A shadow at the foot of my bed, a cold spot in my room. Then, last year, I got a letter from Ella. She wrote that she’d found an old diary in the attic, written by a girl named Rose. The last entry read: ‘I saw two children looking at me through the window today. I tried to wave, but they ran away. I don’t know why. I just want someone to stay.’

I read that letter a hundred times. I know now that we weren’t the only ones who saw Rose that day. She saw us. And she’s still waiting for us to come back to that caravan, to open the door and keep her company. I dream of her every night now, her face pressed against the glass, her lips moving silently. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘I’m so alone.’