The Last Visitor

Marta was seven when her grandfather, Tomas, died. It was sudden, a fever that turned to pneumonia, and he was gone in a day. The family was in shock. Marta’s parents, Lena and Viktor, didn’t bring her to the hospital. They said it was too scary, with all the tubes and machines. The last time she saw him, he was in his garden, showing her how to tie a tomato plant to a stake. He laughed when she got the knot wrong. She remembered his hands, rough and warm, and the smell of soil and Old Spice.

After the funeral, they cleared out his house. Marta’s mother inherited the grandfather clock, which never quite kept time, and her uncle took the old truck. Marta took a smooth, grey stone he always kept in his pocket. She placed it on her nightstand, next to her lamp. She missed him terribly, but she was a practical child. Death was something you got over, like a skinned knee. At least, that’s what the adults said.

Two weeks after the funeral, Marta’s mother tucked her in and kissed her forehead. ‘Sleep tight, sweetie,’ she said, and turned off the light. Marta lay in the dark, staring at the faint glow of her nightlight shaped like a rocket. She was just drifting off when a soft creak came from the hallway. She sat up, listening. The floorboards in the farmhouse were old, and they creaked often. But this was different. It was a slow, deliberate step, not the quick patter of a parent. Then, the door to her room opened, silently.

At first, she thought it was her mother. But the silhouette in the doorway was too tall, too broad. Even in the dark, she knew that shape. Her heart gave a little jump. ‘Papa?’ she whispered. The figure stepped fully into the room. It was him. He looked just as she remembered—grey hair, kind eyes, the slight stoop of his shoulders. He wore the same blue flannel shirt he always wore, the one with the missing button. He didn’t speak. He just smiled. His smile was warm, exactly as she remembered. Then he turned and walked out of the room. The door closed softly behind him.

Marta lay still, her heart pounding. She wasn’t scared. It was him. Her Papa. He had come to visit. She wondered why he didn’t say anything. Maybe he was just checking on her. She felt a warm glow inside, a feeling she hadn’t had since he died. She closed her eyes and fell asleep, smiling.

The next night, he came again. Same time, same way. The door creaked open, he stood in the doorway, smiled, and left. He didn’t say a word. Marta tried to call out, ‘Papa, wait!’ but her voice didn’t work. The words stuck in her throat. She was frustrated. She wanted to tell him about her day, about the picture she drew of him in the garden.

Night after night, the visits continued. Marta grew accustomed to them. She would wait, lying still, listening for the creak. It always came. She would look at him, and he would smile. But something began to bother her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. His smile, while warm, never reached his eyes. She remembered how his eyes crinkled when he truly smiled. Now, they seemed flat, dark. And his face was too pale, even in the dim light. She told her mother about the visits, but her mother dismissed them. ‘It’s just a dream, sweetie. Papa’s in heaven now.’

One night, Marta decided to test him. She left her room and stood at the top of the stairs, hiding behind the corner. She heard the creak, and then saw him walk down the hallway, not toward her room, but toward the kitchen. She followed him, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She peeked around the kitchen door. He was standing at the counter, his back to her. He was doing something with his hands, but she couldn’t see what. Then he turned. He saw her. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of surprise and something else—anger? No, it was more like concern. He shook his head, and mouthed the words, ‘Go back to bed.’ Then he disappeared, like a light turning off.

Marta stood there, confused and a little scared. She went back to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. What did it mean? The next night, she didn’t wait. She got out of bed and went to the kitchen. He was there again, but this time he wasn’t smiling. He was staring at her with a look of sorrow. He raised his hand, as if to wave her away, but then he pointed to the clock on the wall. The clock read 3:33 AM. Then he pointed to a drawer. Marta had seen that drawer before—it was where her father kept his tools and odd bits of string. She opened it. Inside, nestled among other items, was a small, tarnished key. The key to the old trunk in the attic, the one that was always locked, the one her mother said held ‘ugly old things.’

Marta’s curiosity grew. Why was he showing her this? She took the key and went to the attic the next day, while her parents were out. The trunk was dusty and heavy. She unlocked it. Inside, she found old photographs, a wedding dress yellowed with age, and at the bottom, a stack of letters bound with a ribbon. The top letter was addressed to her grandfather in his own handwriting. She opened it. It was a letter he had written to himself, never sent. The date was one week before he died. It read, ‘I saw her again tonight. She was standing at the foot of my bed. She didn’t speak, just smiled. It’s the same smile she wore the day she died. I don’t know if I’m losing my mind, but she wants me to follow her. She says the girl is in danger. But I can’t leave Martha alone. What does she mean?’

Marta read the letter with a growing dread. She looked at the next letter. It was dated the day before he died. ‘I’ve figured it out. She’s not my mother. She’s an old woman who died alone in this house, before my family moved here. She’s been trying to take the children. I saw her with Martha last night, reaching for her. I chased her away. But I’m weak. I couldn’t save her. If I don’t come back, you must burn the letters. And tell Martha to never answer the door at night, no matter who she sees.’

Marta’s blood ran cold. The woman who was not her grandfather’s mother—the old woman who had died in this house—she was coming for her. And her grandfather was trying to protect her. The visits at night weren’t his real visits. They were the spirit’s way of luring her, mimicking her grandfather’s form. The smiling figure was not her Papa. It was the old woman pretending.

That night, when the clock struck 3:33 AM, Marta heard the creak. She lay still, her heart thumping. The door opened. The silhouette was there, smiling that wrong smile. But now she knew. She saw the hint of a black, tattered dress beneath the flannel, and the hands, gnarled and claw-like, despite the long sleeves. She clutched the stone her grandfather had given her, the one from his pocket. It was smooth and cool. She whispered, ‘You’re not my Papa.’ The figure’s smile faltered. It took a step closer, and the air grew cold. ‘I loved you,’ it said, but the voice was wrong, high and thin like a wire. ‘Come with me.’ Marta screamed. Her parents rushed in, flipped on the light. The figure was gone. But on the floor where it stood, there was a small, yellowed photograph of a young woman in a white dress, holding a child’s hand.

Marta never saw the figure again. But she kept the key and the letters. She never told anyone. She just grew up, always checking the door before bed, always making sure it was locked. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would wake up, sure she heard a faint creak, and she would see a shadow, just for a moment, in the corner of her eye. But she would close her eyes tightly, and in her mind, she would remember her grandfather’s real smile, the one from the garden, and she would whisper, ‘I’m safe, Papa. You made sure of that.’ And then she would sleep, holding the stone to her chest. The visits stopped, but the memory of that smiling thing stayed with her forever, a reminder that death is not always the end, and sometimes, the dead want more than a visit.