The Giggling Lady of Cedar Falls

My family moved to Cedar Falls when I was eight, into a sprawling old house that had been converted into four apartments. The landlords, an elderly couple, lived downstairs, and we got the top floor. Our unit was a mess of creaky floorboards, peeling wallpaper, and a lingering smell of mothballs. My stepfather, Dale, and my mom, Sarah, first noticed something odd. At night, after they’d turned in, they’d hear footsteps on the stairs—rapid, light, like a child’s, but the sound was too hurried to be human. Then came a giggle, high and sweet, echoing through the stairwell. At first, they thought it was the neighbors’ kids, but it was always after midnight, and the house was silent otherwise. I began to hear it too, lying in my bed, the sound drifting up the stairs and settling under my door. I was terrified, but no one spoke of it during the day.

One Sunday, we returned from a church picnic in the town square, exhausted and dusty. I went straight to my room, which was the smallest, tucked at the end of the hallway. I had a bunk bed, though I always slept on the bottom. That night, I woke to the sound of my name being called from the door. It was a woman’s voice, low and lilting. I peeked out from under my covers. The room was bathed in moonlight, and I could see a figure in the doorway. It was a woman in a long, old-fashioned dress, her hair in a bun. She was smiling, but her eyes were dark hollows. She beckoned to me with a slender finger. I closed my eyes, clutching my blanket, but when I opened them, she was gone. I lay there, heart pounding, until I heard the giggle again, this time from inside my closet.

That began a routine. Every night, around 2 AM, she would appear, always in my doorway, always smiling, always beckoning. I tried to tell my parents, but Dale dismissed it as nightmares from the picnic. Mom looked worried but said nothing. I started sleeping with the light on, but it didn’t help. One night, I woke to find her standing over me, her face inches from mine. I could smell rot and dust. She reached out and stroked my cheek, her hand ice-cold. Then she laughed—a high, tittering laugh that made my blood run cold—and ran out of the room, down the stairs, her footsteps thundering. I followed, despite my fear, because I had to know.

I found her in the basement, near a coal chute that had been sealed off. She was crouched, humming a song I didn’t recognize. When she saw me, she turned and pointed at the concrete wall. There, barely visible, were scratches in the shape of a name: ‘Mary’. She then put a finger to her lips, as if to shush me, and dissolved into the shadows. I ran back upstairs, screaming for my parents. Dale came down, found me weeping, and inspected the wall. He discovered a loose brick. Behind it was a small tin box. Inside was a single photograph of a young woman in the same dress, and a newspaper clipping about a fire that had destroyed the original farmhouse on that site in 1923. The woman, Mary Whitfield, had died in the fire, but her body was never found.

The next morning, we packed our things and left. We never looked back. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear that giggle outside my window, and I see her standing in my closet, waiting. I know she’s not done with me yet. She’s always been patient, Mary Whitfield. She’s been waiting for nearly a century, and she’s in no hurry.