The Fourth Set of Footprints

A few months after we moved into the creaky old farmhouse, my partner Lena and I were enjoying a late-night cup of tea on the wraparound porch. The porch was a peculiar length, stretching from the kitchen door all the way to the master suite at the far end, with a single screen door on each end. We had two dogs: a golden retriever named Biscuit and a scruffy terrier named Pip. Biscuit was dozing at our feet, so when we both heard the soft click of claws on the wooden planks and saw a dark shape slip into the bedroom door at the far end, we assumed it was Pip. But as we turned to call him, we saw Pip sound asleep in his dog bed by the kitchen window. Biscuit hadn’t moved, his tail thumping lazily.

We exchanged uneasy glances. ‘Maybe it was a raccoon,’ Lena said, but her voice lacked conviction. The shape had been too large, too deliberate, and the click of claws too rhythmic. We decided to investigate, our hearts thumping louder than our footsteps. As we approached the bedroom door, we noticed something odd: a faint, damp trail of footprints on the floorboards—not dog paws, but bare human feet, and they were impossibly small, like a child’s. Neither of us had children, and the only visitors we’d had in weeks were the electrician and the mailman, both of whom wore boots.

We pushed the door open slowly. The room was cold, colder than the rest of the house, and the air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like rotting apples. The footprints led around the bed and stopped at the closet. The closet door was slightly ajar. Lena grabbed my arm. ‘There’s someone in there,’ she whispered. I gulped and yanked the door open. Inside, hanging among our coats, was an old, tattered dress—a little girl’s dress, the kind you’d see in a vintage shop. It was wet, as if someone had just worn it in the rain. But the strangest thing was the smell: it was the same sweet rot, but now mixed with the faint scent of baby powder.

We backed out of the room, our eyes glued to the dress. That’s when we heard it—a giggle, high and childish, coming from the porch. We rushed to the screen door and saw three sets of wet footprints leading from the bedroom door, across the porch, and stopping at the railing. Beyond the railing, the field stretched into darkness. The giggle echoed again, fainter this time. Then silence. We never found out what it was, but every night since, we leave a bowl of milk on the porch and a child’s toy by the bedroom door. The footprints return, always starting at the toy and leading to the railing. And sometimes, when the wind is just right, we hear that giggle, and we know we’re not alone. Some visitors never truly leave.