The Moonlit Caller

In the quiet town of Millbrook, Vermont, I live with my husband, Arthur, and our three dogs: two Great Danes, Brutus and Cassius, and a mixed breed named Nelly, whom I affectionately call Pip. Our house, a restored Victorian from 1885, sits on a sprawling property that backs onto an old, forgotten orchard. We moved in about two years ago, drawn by the charm of the wide verandas and the promise of country peace.

The first sign that something was off came on a drizzly afternoon last autumn. Arthur was away on business, and I was alone with the dogs, reading in the sunroom. A distinct, rhythmic tapping came from the floor above. I assumed it was just the house settling, but it persisted, each knock following the same beat, like a message. When I finally went upstairs, the tapping stopped, and the faint smell of lavender hung in the hallway.

The truly unsettling event happened just last week. I woke to a bright, full moon cascading through our bedroom window, painting the room in silver. Pip was curled at the foot of the bed, her tail twitching in a dream. As I watched her, a woman’s voice, soft and sweet, wove through the hallway just outside our door: ‘Come here, Pip.’ Pip’s head snapped up, ears alert, her eyes fixed on the door. She let out a low whine and, without waking Arthur, hopped off the bed and padded to the door, her claws clicking on the hardwood.

I followed, my heart hammering. The door was ajar, and the hallway stretched before us, bathed in the same eerie light. Pip stood at the top of the stairs, her tail low, staring down into the darkness below. Then, I heard the voice again, this time more insistent, almost pleading: ‘Come, Pip.’ I grabbed Pip’s collar and yanked her back, my own breath catching.

Arthur stirred, mumbling, and I told him it was just a dream. But the next morning, I found the back door slightly ajar, and a trail of small, muddy footprints leading from the porch into the orchard. The footprints were too small for a woman, too narrow for any of our dogs. They ended abruptly in the middle of the orchard, as if she had vanished.

Since then, every full moon, I hear the voice, and each time, it’s a little more familiar, a little more like my own mother’s, who passed away three years ago. She used to call Pip that way, softly, from the kitchen door. I’ve started sleeping with the lights on, and I’ve moved Pip’s bed into our room, but the moon still finds its way through the blinds, and I fear that one night, I won’t be able to stop Pip from following the call.