The Lace-Faced Visitor

I never thought I’d see one with my own eyes. Ghosts were for grainy photographs and late-night campfire tales, not for a rational woman like me. But that was before I drove up to the Mendocino coast and spent a night in a house that breathed.

My name is Elara, and I write about the unexplained. So when a woman named Cora, who claimed to be a paranormal enthusiast, emailed me about a haunted Victorian in the fog-shrouded town of Ravenswood, I couldn’t resist. She said it was a bed-and-breakfast owned by an eccentric old widow named Mrs. Holloway, and that strange things had been happening. She and her daughter, Sylvie, were planning to investigate, and they wanted me to join them.

I arrived on a Saturday afternoon in late June, the air thick with salt and the metallic tang of the ocean. Ravenswood was a sleepy place, all weathered clapboard and wild roses. The B&B, called The Grange, stood at the end of a gravel drive, a three-story monstrosity of gables and peeling paint, with a wrap-around porch that sagged like a tired jaw. Mrs. Holloway greeted me at the door. She was a wisp of a woman with milky eyes and a smile that didn’t reach them. ‘You must be the writer,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves. ‘Cora and Sylvie are already upstairs. I’ve put you in the Lilac Room. Mind the creaking floorboards.’

Cora was a stout woman with a booming laugh and an infectious enthusiasm. Sylvie, her daughter, was quiet, with sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything. They had already set up their equipment: EMF meters, digital voice recorders, and a thermal camera. ‘We think it’s a residual haunting,’ Cora said, bustling about the parlor. ‘Mrs. Holloway’s late husband, perhaps. He died in this house, you know. Heart attack in the study.’

The day passed uneventfully. We explored the house, which was a labyrinth of dark rooms and narrow corridors. The wallpaper in the hallway was patterned with faded lilies, and every step I took on the worn carpet seemed to stir up dust and the faint scent of lavender. As dusk fell, the fog rolled in from the sea, swallowing the town in a gray shroud. The house grew colder, and the shadows lengthened.

We decided to conduct a séance in the parlor after midnight. Mrs. Holloway had gone to bed, but not before warning us, ‘Don’t call out to what you don’t understand. Some things are better left sleeping.’ We ignored her, of course. We sat in a circle, hands joined, a single candle flickering on the table. Cora began to chant, a low monotone that seemed to resonate in my chest. Sylvie held an EMF meter that remained stubbornly at zero.

Then I felt it. A chill that began at the base of my spine and crept upward, like icy fingers tracing my vertebrae. The candle flame bent sideways, though there was no draft. And then I saw her. In the mirror above the fireplace, a woman’s face materialized. She was young, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun, and her face was obscured by what looked like a lace veil. But as I stared, the lace seemed to move, to writhe, and I realized it wasn’t lace at all. It was her skin, peeling in thin, delicate strips, fluttering like petals in a breeze.

I gasped and let go of Cora’s hand. ‘Did you see that?’ I whispered. Cora and Sylvie shook their heads, their faces puzzled. ‘The mirror,’ I said, pointing. But when I looked again, the face was gone. Only my own terrified reflection stared back.

I tried to dismiss it as a trick of the light, but the image was seared into my mind. Later, as we reviewed the audio recordings, we heard a woman’s voice, barely a whisper, saying, ‘He buried me in the garden.’ Cora played it back several times. It was unmistakable. Sylvie went pale.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The Lilac Room was stifling, the wallpaper seemed to pulse in the dark. I lay in bed, listening to the house settle, when I heard a soft scratching at my door. I got up and opened it, expecting to see Cora or Sylvie, but the hallway was empty. At the end of the corridor, near the window, a figure stood shrouded in shadow. She was wearing a long white dress, and her face was covered by that same, peeling lace. She raised a hand, and one of the peeling strips floated to the floor like a piece of dried skin.

I slammed the door and didn’t sleep until dawn.

The next morning, I told Cora and Sylvie what I’d seen. Cora was excited; Sylvie looked doubtful. But as we descended to the dining room for breakfast, Mrs. Holloway was waiting for us, her face ashen. She held up a small, leather-bound diary. ‘I found this in my husband’s study,’ she said. ‘It belonged to his first wife, Eleanor. She died in this house in 1932. The official cause was pneumonia, but…’ She opened the diary and read aloud: ‘My husband has become obsessed with my appearance. He says my skin is too plain. He has brought a surgeon from the city to perform a new procedure. He promises to make me beautiful.’

We exchanged glances. ‘A surgeon?’ Cora asked. Mrs. Holloway nodded, her eyes glistening. ‘He was a quack, I think. But my husband believed him. Eleanor went through with the surgery, but it went horribly wrong. In her final days, she wrote about how the pain was unbearable, and how her skin began to peel, like lace.’

My blood ran cold. The woman in the mirror, the figure in the hall—her face. It made sense now. ‘Where is she buried?’ I asked.

‘The garden,’ Mrs. Holloway said, pointing out the window to a patch of rose bushes. ‘Under the roses. My husband was so remorseful that he planted them to honor her.’

We moved as if in a trance, out into the garden. The roses were in full bloom, their red petals like drops of blood against the fog. I noticed something glinting in the dirt. I crouched down and saw a small, silver locket half-buried. I picked it up, and inside was a faded photograph of a young woman with smooth skin and a gentle smile. It was Eleanor. And as I looked, I felt a cold breath on my neck, and a voice whispered, ‘He said I was beautiful.’

I turned. No one was there. But on the rose bush, one of the petals was not red, but pale and flaking, like dried skin. I dropped the locket and backed away.

We left Ravenswood that afternoon, though the investigation was incomplete. I wrote an article about the experience, but no one believed me. They said I was suffering from fatigue, or my imagination. But maybe that’s for the best. Because sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I still see her face, the lace peeling, and I hear her whisper: ‘He said I was beautiful.’ And I wonder if she’s still waiting in that garden, under the roses, for someone to truly see her.