The Moonlit Visitor

I never thought much about the hallway that connected our apartment’s kitchen to the living room. It was just a narrow stretch of linoleum, interrupted by a single window that faced the courtyard. But after the incident, I couldn’t walk down that hallway without my heart hammering against my ribs.

My younger brother, Sam, and I shared a bedroom that opened directly onto that hallway. The door had a warped frame, so it never closed properly; it always swung open a crack, no matter how hard we pushed it. I had a peculiar fear of sleeping with that door open. It made me feel exposed, like something could watch us from the kitchen while we slept. So every night, I’d get up, close the door, and wedge a towel under it to keep it shut.

One night, the moon was full, casting an eerie silver light through the kitchen’s half-drawn blinds. The blinds were tilted just right, creating a pattern of stripes on the floor and the counter. I was in that hazy state between waking and sleep, my mind still lingering on the edges of a dream, when I noticed the door was open. The crack was wider than usual, and I could see a sliver of the kitchen.

A cold dread settled in my stomach. I knew I had closed it before bed; I always did. But there it was, gaping open. My heart pounded as I forced myself to get up, my bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. I padded to the door, my hand reaching for the handle, when something caught my eye in the kitchen.

Through the sliver of the doorway, I saw a figure standing in the middle of the room. It was white, almost glowing in the moonlight. My breath hitched. It was a girl, or at least it looked like a girl. She wore a long, old-fashioned dress that reached the floor, and her hair was dark, hanging limply around her face. She was just standing there, staring at me.

I froze, my hand inches from the door. My brain screamed at me to run, to slam the door shut, to do something. But I couldn’t move. The figure tilted her head slightly, as if curious. The moonlight caught her face, but her features were indistinct, like looking at a photograph that was out of focus.

Then, she spoke. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a knife. ‘Why do you close the door?’ she asked. The question hung in the air, absurd and terrifying at once.

My mouth went dry. I tried to answer, but no words came out. The figure took a step forward, and I felt a chill wash over me. Her dress rustled, a sound like dry leaves. ‘I can see you,’ she said, ‘but you cannot see me. Not really.’

Suddenly, the door slammed shut in front of me, as if an unseen force had pushed it. I stumbled backward, my heart racing. The silence that followed was deafening. I reached for the door handle, but it was ice cold, and when I tried to turn it, it wouldn’t budge. It was as if the door had been sealed shut.

I stood there, trembling, listening to the sounds of the apartment. But all I could hear was my own ragged breathing. After a moment, I gathered the courage to look through the keyhole. The kitchen was empty. The figure was gone.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the corner of the room, staring at the door, my mind racing with questions. Who was she? Why did she appear? And why did my door, which never closed properly, suddenly refuse to open?

The next morning, I told Sam about what I had seen. He laughed it off, saying it was just a nightmare, a trick of the moon. But I knew what I saw. And when I tried to open the door, it opened easily, as if nothing had ever been wrong.

But the strange occurrences didn’t stop. That night, and every night since, I’ve found the door open when I wake up, even though I check it religiously before bed. And sometimes, when I pass by the kitchen in the middle of the night, I catch a glimpse of a white figure out of the corner of my eye, always disappearing when I turn to look.

I’ve become obsessed with finding out who she is. I’ve combed through old records, asked relatives, even contacted the previous tenants of our apartment. No one knows anything. But last night, I found an old family photo album hidden in the attic. There was a picture, yellowed with age, of a young girl in a white dress, standing in front of a house that looked exactly like ours. The caption read: ‘Eleanor, 1923.’

My blood ran cold. That was the year the apartment was built. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that Eleanor never left. She’s been waiting all these years, wondering why I keep closing the door. And now, I can’t help but wonder if she’s trying to tell me something, or if she’s just lonely. But one thing is for sure: I will never sleep with that door open again. Because now I know that when the moon is full, she comes back. And this time, she might not leave.