The Linen Figure

In the summer of 2019, my family and I rented a rustic cottage in the remote Finnish countryside. The cottage was old, with creaking floorboards and a distinct smell of pine and damp earth. We were three: my parents, my younger brother, and I. The place had only two bedrooms, so we took turns sleeping in the living room on a worn-out sofa bed. One night, it was my turn, and I lay down facing the narrow corridor that led to the bathroom. My mother was on one side of the sofa bed, and my brother slept on a thin mattress in the middle of the room.

The night was stifling, and the mattress poked my back, making sleep seem impossible. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the clock ticking loudly from the mantelpiece. Around three in the morning, I woke with a start. The room was enveloped in a heavy silence, and my family’s breathing was the only sound. A faint, eerie glow emanated from the ceiling near the hallway, casting strange, rippling patterns like moonlight on water. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was a trick of the light from the bathroom, but the glow was too soft, too unnatural.

Curiosity and dread mingled as I pushed the blanket aside and craned my neck to see down the corridor. There, standing in the entrance to the hallway, was a figure. It was completely white, as if made of bleached linen, and its shape was distinctly feminine, with a curving waist and long, flowing lines. The figure was motionless, facing away from me, but I could sense a presence, an ancient, patient watchfulness. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I wanted to call out, but my throat tightened.

The figure began to move, slowly, as if gliding on air. It drifted toward the bathroom, its form passing through the wall as if it were smoke. A chill swept through the room, and I felt a cold breath on my neck. I turned my head, and there it was, right beside me, its face a blank expanse of white, but somehow I knew it was staring at me. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then, just as suddenly, it vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of old paper and dust.

I lay there, paralyzed, until dawn broke. When I finally told my mother, she dismissed it as a nightmare. But that day, we found an old photograph in a hidden drawer, showing a woman in a white lace dress standing in front of the cottage, her face blurred. And in the corner of the photo, a faint figure, as if she had been captured twice. I never slept in that room again, and we left the next day, but I know she remains there, waiting for the next sleepless soul.