The Membrane Visitor

August 26, 2021

by Joe

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (540 words)

"We’d driven six hours to my mother’s farmhouse for the harvest festival, but by the time we arrived, the kids were cranky and my husband, Leo, was exhausted. The house stood at the edge of a cornfield, its porch light flickering like a dying firefly. My mother had passed two years ago, but we kept […]"

We’d driven six hours to my mother’s farmhouse for the harvest festival, but by the time we arrived, the kids were cranky and my husband, Leo, was exhausted. The house stood at the edge of a cornfield, its porch light flickering like a dying firefly. My mother had passed two years ago, but we kept the place for family gatherings. This weekend, it was just us, the creaking floorboards, and the wind that moaned through the gaps in the walls.

We laid out our sleeping bags in the living room, a makeshift camp under the high ceiling with its water-stained plaster. Our four children—Mara, the oldest at seven, twins Ben and Theo at five, and baby June at six months—were already in a tangle of blankets and limbs. Leo fell asleep in minutes, his breathing deep and steady. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself into unconsciousness. But sleep wouldn’t come. The house was too quiet, too still. Even the wind had died.

Then I saw it: a shimmering, translucent shape at the end of the hallway. It looked like a bubble blown from soap, but it had the form of a woman—a vague, featureless silhouette with a curved head and shoulders. It hovered just above the floor, gliding toward the living room. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but it remained. ‘I’m just tired,’ I thought. ‘Hallucination. Go to sleep.’ But my heart hammered against my ribs.

The bubble lady moved closer, and with each step, the air grew colder. The hairs on my arms stood up. I tried to wake Leo, shaking his shoulder. ‘Leo! Leo, wake up!’ He grunted but didn’t move. The bubble lady entered the living room, and now I could see through her—she was a distortion, a lens bending the light of the furniture behind her. She drifted toward our pallet, and I realized she was looking at baby June, who lay on her back, one leg bent in a froglike pose.

Panic seized me. I shook Leo harder, nearly shouting. ‘Leo! Something’s wrong!’ His eyes snapped open just as June let out a startled cry. I looked down, and the air left my lungs: June was sliding across the floor, her little body dragging toward the hallway as if an invisible hand had grabbed her bent leg. Her blanket pulled away, and her face scrunched in confusion and fear.

Leo lunged, grabbing June’s arm just before she reached the threshold. He scooped her up, hugging her tight, and the bubble lady flickered, growing faint. Then she vanished, leaving only a cold spot in the room. We sat there, huddled together, the kids stirring, asking what was wrong. Leo held June, and I wrapped my arms around the twins, and we stared down that dark hallway until dawn broke.

We never slept that night. Every creak of the old house, every shadow dancing in the corner of our eyes, we watched. When the sun finally rose, we packed the car and left without a word. But as we drove away, I looked back in the rearview mirror, and in the upstairs window, I thought I saw a woman-shaped distortion, waving goodbye.

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