The Crouching Figure

My grandmother’s farmhouse had always felt like it was holding its breath. It wasn’t just the creaks and groans of an old structure settling; it was a constant, prickling awareness that you were being watched. My mother and I had both seen things—wisps of light, like long, sinuous serpents, drifting through the hallways at dusk. They never felt malevolent, just… curious.

One summer, while Gran was visiting her sister in another state, my sister, mother, and I stayed at the farmhouse. We slept in the spare room, a cramped space with peeling floral wallpaper and a window that rattled in the wind. On the second night, we were jolted awake by a violent pounding on the door. It wasn’t a gentle knock; it was a frantic, insistent banging, as if someone was throwing their whole body against the wood. The sound went on for what felt like an eternity, but we were too terrified to answer, and the door, thank goodness, was locked. After what must have been ten minutes, the banging stopped as abruptly as it had started, leaving us in a silence so thick it seemed to press against our eardrums.

Weeks later, after Gran returned, my sister and I were alone at the farmhouse one evening. She was engrossed in some online game, the glow of her computer screen painting her face in pale blue light, while I sat in the living room, half-watching a static-filled TV. I needed a smoke, so I stepped out onto the back deck. The night was heavy and warm, and the yard stretched out into an impenetrable darkness. I called for the dogs—two friendly mutts who usually bounded to me the moment the screen door screeched on its hinges. But tonight, there was no jingle of collars, no scratching of paws. Just silence.

I settled onto the wooden steps, the cigarette’s tip flaring orange in the gloom. As my eyes adjusted, I scanned the yard, trying to pierce the shadows beneath the old oak tree. And there, at the edge of the lawn, a figure was crouching. It was darker than the night itself, a ragged silhouette against the dim starlight. I could see the outline of its shoulders, the hunch of its back, the way it seemed to be staring at something on the ground. Or perhaps at me.

I froze, the cigarette burning down to my fingers before I even noticed the sting. The figure didn’t move. It just knelt there, motionless, as if it had been there all along, waiting for me to acknowledge it. My heart hammered in my chest, and I wanted to flee, but my legs were rooted to the steps. I tried to make out any detail—a face, a hand—but there was only a void, a hole in the world where a person should be.

Minutes stretched. The night sounds—crickets, rustling leaves—seemed to have died, leaving only the blood rushing in my ears. Finally, the figure began to straighten, slowly, like a marionette being lifted by unseen strings. As it rose, I saw that it was tall, impossibly thin, and its head tilted slightly to one side, as if it was studying me with a curiosity that chilled me to the bone.

I don’t know how I managed to move, but I scrambled back inside, slamming the door behind me. My sister looked up from her screen, startled. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. I thought about lying, but the words tumbled out: ‘There’s someone out there.’ She peered through the window, but the yard was empty, the darkness unbroken. I didn’t sleep that night, and I never went out on that deck alone after dark again.

A year later, my mother told me that Gran had mentioned the previous owners of the farmhouse had a son who drowned in the pond out back. Some say his spirit still kneels by the water, searching for something he lost. But the night I saw him, he wasn’t near the pond; he was on the lawn, facing the house. As if waiting for me.

Now, whenever I visit Gran, I feel that same prickle on my neck, and I can’t shake the feeling that the figure is still out there, watching, waiting, and one day it will stand up fully and take a step forward. And when it does, I don’t think the door will be locked in time.