The Kneeling Figure in the Parsonage

Six months after my sister moved to the coastal town of Dunmore, I finally visited her. The town was a postcard of New England charm, but it had a secret: the Old Parsonage, a colonial-era house preserved as a museum. My sister, a history buff, insisted we take the evening ghost tour. I agreed, expecting a few spooky stories and some bumps in the night. The tour guide, an old man named Mr. Halsey, led us through the parsonage’s dim rooms, his voice a slow drawl. He told us about the tragic tale of Mary Whitfield, a minister’s wife who, in 1898, was found dead in the front parlor, kneeling at her prayer altar. The town’s records claimed she was the victim of a robbery gone wrong, but Mr. Halsey hinted at darker rumors: that her husband, the minister, had killed her in a fit of madness, and the altar was her last stand. He said her ghost was often seen there, motionless, her lips moving in silent prayer, and sometimes, on quiet nights, you could hear the faint sound of a woman sobbing.

After the tour, my sister and I lingered outside the parsonage. The rest of the tourists had wandered off to the nearby inn for hot cider, but I was fascinated by the front parlor window. The curtains were parted just enough to see the altar inside—a simple wooden kneeler with a worn Bible. I wanted a photo without the crowd, so I pulled out my phone and snapped a few shots through the glass. The interior was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a security light in the hallway. In my first photo, nothing looked unusual. In the second, I noticed a pale blur near the altar. My sister, skeptically, said it was a reflection from the glass. But I felt a chill. I took a third photo, and this time, the blur had taken shape: a woman, her head bowed, her hands clasped in prayer. I lowered my phone, my heart pounding. I looked through the window directly—and saw nothing but the empty room. I showed my sister the photo. She went pale. ‘That’s her,’ she whispered. ‘That’s Mary.’

We should have left then, but I couldn’t shake the urge to see more. My sister insisted we go, but I convinced her to walk around the back of the parsonage, where a small garden was enclosed by a low stone wall. The moon was high, casting long shadows. As we rounded the corner, we saw a figure kneeling in the garden, her white dress glowing in the moonlight. My sister grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t look,’ she hissed, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The figure rose slowly, turning to face us. Her face was featureless, a smooth oval of pale skin. She raised a hand, pointing at the parsonage’s front door. Then she vanished.

We ran back to the front of the house, breathless. The front door was ajar, though we were sure it had been locked. Inside, the hallway was cold, colder than the autumn night. We stepped into the front parlor. The altar was there, just as we’d seen it, but now the Bible was open, and a single candle flickered, though no one had lit one. I raised my phone to take a picture—I don’t know why, maybe to prove we hadn’t imagined it—but as I framed the shot, the kneeling figure appeared in the viewfinder. She was at the altar, her head bowed, but as I watched, she turned her head and looked straight at me. Her mouth opened, and a scream tore through the silence—a high, piercing wail that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. My sister and I clapped our hands over our ears, but the scream burrowed into our minds. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The candle went out. The room was dark.

We fled the parsonage, not stopping until we reached my sister’s car. I didn’t look back. The next day, I uploaded the photos to my computer. The first ones were ordinary, but the last one—the one I took in the parlor—showed the kneeling woman clearly, but with a twist: she was no longer alone. Behind her, a tall, gaunt figure loomed, his arm raised as if to strike. I zoomed in on his face. It was Mr. Halsey, the tour guide, but his eyes were black voids. And in the background, reflected in the window, I saw my own face, my mouth open in a scream I didn’t remember making.

I haven’t been able to sleep since. Every night, I hear that scream echoing in my mind. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the kneeling figure in the garden, pointing at me with a finger that is as white as bone. I’ve stopped taking photos. I’ve stopped going out. But last night, as I looked out my bedroom window, I saw a figure standing under the streetlamp across the road. It was tall and gaunt. And it was pointing at my house. I don’t know who this man is, but I know he wants me to come back to the parsonage. And I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll never leave.