The Last Visit

At nine years old, I was convinced that my bedroom was a portal to somewhere else. The floorboards creaked in patterns that didn’t match footsteps, and the closet door would swing open on its own, no matter how many times we fixed the hinge. But that night, the familiar creaks were different. They were heavier, deliberate, like someone sitting down on the edge of my bed. I was face-down, the thin summer blanket barely covering my legs, and I was just drifting off when I felt the mattress dip.

‘Mom?’ I mumbled, still half-asleep. She often checked on me after my night terrors, her soft footsteps a comfort. But there was no reply, only the slow, deliberate pressure of a hand pressing between my shoulder blades. It was cold, even through my pajama top, and it didn’t move. It just rested there, as if testing my stillness. Then I felt the shift of weight as the figure leaned over me, and a breath, faint and dry, brushed against my ear.

‘Are you ready?’ The voice was female, but it wasn’t my mother’s. It was too calm, too patient, like the voice of someone who had been waiting for a long time. My blood went cold. I yanked the blanket over my head, curling into a ball, and squeezed my eyes shut. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because I woke to the gray light of dawn, the blanket still over my head, and the imprint of a hand pressing deep into the mattress beside me.

At breakfast, I asked my mother if she had come into my room last night. She looked up from her coffee, puzzled. ‘No, sweetie. I was asleep. Why?’ I told her about the voice, the question. She frowned, her hand pausing over her cup. ‘Ready for what?’ she asked, but I had no answer.

That afternoon, my mother called our landlady, Mrs. Alvarez, who lived downstairs and had owned the old house for decades. My mother asked if there was any history of something strange in the building. Mrs. Alvarez was quiet for a long moment, then said in a low voice, ‘The room at the end of the hall… a little girl died there in the 1930s. She was sick, in bed for months. The story is that she asked everyone who came to visit the same question. Are you ready? She was waiting for her grandmother to take her to heaven.’ My mother thanked her and hung up, but she didn’t look at me. She just stared at the phone.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, listening to the house settle. Around midnight, the bed creaked again, and I felt the weight settle at my feet. I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. The cold hand found my back, and the voice, softer now, whispered, ‘Are you ready?’ I could feel tears pricking my eyes. I shook my head under the covers. The weight lifted, and I heard the floorboards creak as the presence retreated to the door. Then, just before the door clicked, the voice said, ‘You will be.’

I never slept in that room again. I moved to the living room couch, and my parents finally believed me when I refused to go back. We moved out two weeks later. But every night since, I hear that question in the dark, and I wonder if the ghost is still there, waiting for me to come back, still asking if I’m ready for what I don’t know. And I’m terrified that one night, I’ll answer yes.