The Crouching Figure

I’ve never been entirely sure what to make of it, but there are a few moments from my childhood that have stuck with me like splinters under the skin. They don’t prove anything, not really, but they’ve left a mark. My mother was always a devout believer in signs and omens, and though I’d like to think I’m more rational, her superstitions have a way of whispering in my ear when the light is low.

The first thing I remember happened when I was about nine, in a house that was too old and too drafty for its own good. It was a narrow, two-story place on the edge of a town that had seen better days, with creaking floorboards and windows that rattled in the wind. The layout was odd: to reach the bedrooms, you had to walk down a long, dim hallway that stretched from the staircase to the back of the house. My room was at the very end, past a small alcove where my mother kept her sewing machine and a stack of old photograph albums. My parents’ room was on the right, just a few steps down the hall.

At that age, my younger sister, Millie, was a wild thing of four or five, prone to fiery tantrums and sudden sprints. Whenever she was angry with our older sister, Emily, or when Mum and Dad were out, she would lock herself in their room, huddling by the bed until the storm passed. It had become a ritual of sorts, one we all understood.

One quiet afternoon, I was walking past my parents’ room on my way to the bathroom, not paying much attention. It was one of those moments when the house felt too still, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator downstairs. As I passed the open door, something in the corner of my eye snagged me. I glanced in, and for a split second, I saw a girl.

She was crouched by the side of the bed, her back to me. Her head was buried in her arms, so I couldn’t see her face, only a mass of black hair that tumbled down her shoulders. She wore a bright red shirt and black shorts, and her posture was one of raw, childish misery, the kind you see only in the very young. My heart lurched. I assumed it was Millie, of course, sulking again. But then a cold, hollow feeling settled in my chest as I realized: Millie was at the kitchen table with Emily, doing a puzzle. I had just walked past them, and the door to the parents’ room had been closed.

I froze. The figure didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. And that’s what terrified me most—the absolute stillness. I wanted to call out, to say Millie’s name, but my voice caught in my throat. After what felt like an eternity, I took a step back, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I ran the rest of the way down the hall, not stopping until I was back in the kitchen, where the light was yellow and safe.

When I told my mother later, she gave me one of her long, serious looks. She knelt down, took my hands, and said, ‘You saw the corner of your eye, Anna. That’s all.’ But I could tell she was lying, because she crossed herself, and her lips moved in a silent prayer. I didn’t see the girl again, not in that house. But I learned to walk past that doorway with my eyes fixed firmly ahead.

Years later, when we moved to a new place, I thought I had left it all behind. But last week, I was cleaning out my mother’s attic after she passed, and I found a photograph. It was old and faded, a picture of my mother as a child, probably around seven. She was wearing a red shirt and black shorts, and she was crouching by the bed, head buried in her arms, the same pose I had seen all those years ago. On the back, in her handwriting, was a note: ‘The day I learned not to look.’

I’ve started locking the attic door now. And when I pass by a mirror or a dark window, I keep my eyes straight ahead, because I don’t want to know what else might be waiting in the corner of my sight.