The Keeper of August House

My grandmother, Elara, had a gift that ran in the women of our family, though we never called it that. She called it ‘the knowing.’ It came to us as feelings, aches, or dreams that pressed on the edge of sleep. Most often it foretold misfortune, but sometimes it brought comfort. Elara lived in a small cottage at the edge of the Hollow, a town wrapped in fog and pine forests. She was a quiet woman, known for her herbal teas and her uncanny ability to find lost things. But what I remember most is the summer I turned thirteen, when I stayed with her, and the strange occurrences that revealed the true weight of her gift.

That summer, the weather was unseasonably cold, and the fog rolled in thicker than usual. Elara spent more time in her garden, muttering to herself as she tended to the plants. One evening, as we sat by the hearth, she clutched her chest and winced. ‘Something has happened,’ she said, her voice thin. ‘A young man, far from here, has just drowned.’ I didn’t question her. I knew better. Sure enough, the next morning, the postman brought news of a drowning in a neighboring town. But that was just the beginning.

A week later, I woke in the middle of the night to find Elara standing at my bedroom window, staring into the darkness. Her breath fogged the glass, and her hands trembled. ‘There’s a presence in the woods,’ she whispered. ‘It’s been watching the house for three nights now.’ I strained to see, but the fog was too thick. ‘It’s not human,’ she added, and the hairs on my arms stood up. I wanted to dismiss it as her age, but I knew the knowing had never lied to her.

The next morning, Elara sent me to the village for supplies. When I returned, I found her in the kitchen, pale as the flour she used for bread. ‘Come,’ she said, and led me to the attic. There, in a dusty trunk, she revealed a collection of old photographs and journals. ‘These belong to my grandmother, your great-great-grandmother,’ she said. ‘She wrote about the one who knocks.’ I flipped through the pages, reading entries about a ghostly figure that appeared before a death in the family. It would knock three times on the door, and then the inevitable would follow.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the wind. Then I heard it—a soft knock, three times, on the front door. My heart pounded. I crept to the top of the stairs and saw Elara already at the door, her hand on the knob. ‘Don’t open it!’ I cried, but she did anyway. There was no one there, only the fog. She closed the door and turned to me, her face grim. ‘It’s coming for me,’ she said. ‘I’ve dreamt of it. It’s a woman in white, and she wants to take me to the other side.’

I refused to believe it. I begged her to ignore it, to break the pattern. But she shook her head. ‘The knowing is a burden, but it’s also a call. You can’t run from your own death when it comes to collect.’ Over the next few days, Elara grew weaker. She spent hours on the porch, staring at the forest. I tried to get her to see a doctor, but she insisted it was no use. ‘The woman in white is waiting for the right moment,’ she said. ‘I see her now, at the edge of the pines.’ I looked, but saw nothing.

On the last night, a storm rolled in. I was in my room, trying to read, when I heard the knocking again—three loud thuds. This time, the door swung open on its own. I ran to the living room and found Elara standing in the doorway, facing the rain. A figure was there, silhouetted against the lightning. It was a woman in a tattered white dress, her hair dripping wet. She reached out a hand to Elara, and Elara took it without hesitation. She turned to me, smiled, and said, ‘Don’t grieve, child. I’m going home.’ Then she stepped into the storm, and the door slammed shut.

I ran after her, but the yard was empty. The woman was gone, and Elara was gone too. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the fog lifted. I stood there, soaked and shivering, knowing I would never see her again. The next morning, the police found her body at the edge of the woods, a peaceful expression on her face. The official report said she died of a heart attack during the storm. But I knew better. I had seen the woman in white, and I had heard the three knocks.

Years later, I still carry the weight of that night. Sometimes, in the quiet hours, I feel a chill, and I know the knowing has passed to me. I’ve started to dream of a woman in white, and I hear a soft knocking at my door. I fear the day she comes for me, but I also know it’s inevitable. The women in my family share a bond with the other side, and we must answer when death calls. I only hope that when my time comes, I can be as brave as Elara was.