The Monochrome Visitor

Three nights ago, I woke to find a girl standing at the foot of my bed. It wasn’t the sudden intrusion that made my heart pound against my ribs—it was the way she seemed to be part of the room, as if she had always been there, and I was the intruder. Her dress was old-fashioned, high collar and a hemline that brushed her knees, but the fabric seemed to shimmer like a memory you can’t quite place. Her hair was in two braids, the kind mothers do before school, and her face was pale, but not sickly—just lacking any hint of color, as if someone had drained the world of its warmth and left only grayscale.

She stood barefoot on the hardwood floor, and I could see the fibers of the rug through her translucent form. She looked at me, and I swear her eyes widened with the same shock I felt. We stared at each other across the darkness, two souls caught in a moment neither of us expected. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, she was gone. I convinced myself it was a dream, a trick of a mind burdened by late nights and cold coffee. But I know I was awake. I’ve always known when I’m awake.

It’s not the first time. When I was twenty-one, I house-sat for my aunt in her Victorian home on Maple Street. My aunt was a collector of antiques, her house a museum of forgotten things. The first night, I woke to find a mirror at the foot of the bed reflecting a figure standing behind me—a woman in a long, dark dress, her face obscured by shadow. She was taller than me, and she held a single candle, though the flame cast no light on my surroundings. When I turned, she was gone, but the air remained cold, and the mirror stayed empty for days.

This time, it’s different. The girl has returned every night since. She stands a little closer each night—first at the foot, then midway down the bed, then at the bedside table. Last night, she was close enough that I could see the fibers of her dress, the tiny stitches, the way her hair curled at her temples. She doesn’t speak, but her lips move, forming words I can’t hear. I’ve started leaving a small tape recorder on the nightstand, hoping to catch her voice, but all I capture is static and the occasional tap of a branch against the window.

I’ve also noticed something about the old house I just moved into. The wallpaper in the hallway has a pattern of faded roses, and in the corner, where the light is dim, there’s a spot where the roses seem to be missing, as if someone scraped them away. I found a door behind the coat rack that I swear wasn’t there before. It’s painted the same color as the wall, and the brass knob is tarnished, but when I turned it, it was unlocked. The room inside is empty, save for a child’s rocking chair, and a handprint on the dust of the windowsill—small, delicate, and colored the same gray as her skin.

Tonight, I’ve prepared myself. I’ve set up three flashlights, each angled to light a different part of the room, and I’ve put a white sheet over the mirror, because I don’t want to see if she stands behind me. I’m sitting up in bed, the blankets pulled to my chin, and I’m watching the foot of the bed. The clock reads 3:00 AM. The air in the room has dropped, and I can see my breath. There’s a sound, like a child humming a tune I almost recognize, but not quite. I’m typing this from my phone, because I’m too scared to move, too scared to blink.

And then I see her. She’s standing at the foot of the bed, but this time, she’s reaching out her hand, palm up, as if she wants me to take it. Her eyes are blank, milky, and her mouth is open, but I hear her voice in my head, clear as a bell: ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ I don’t want to go, but my hand is rising from the blankets, and I can’t stop it. The flashlights are flickering, one by one, and as the last one dies, I see that she’s now standing beside me, and I feel a cold, dry grip on my fingers.

Tomorrow morning, or maybe the next day, someone will find this phone on the bed, the screen cracked, and they’ll wonder why I never finished the story. But I know now—she wasn’t visiting; she was coming home, and I was the one she was taking with her.