The Morning Visitor

I lived in a rambling old house that had been in my wife’s family for generations. It was a creaking, drafty place with rooms that always felt cooler than the rest of the house, and hallways that seemed longer at night. My son-in-law, Daniel, and his wife, Emily, had moved in with us after losing their apartment. They were fine, but the house was crowded, so my granddaughter, Lily, slept in my room on a fold-out cot.

On a crisp September morning in 2013, I woke to the sound of my bedroom door knob rattling. I bolted upright, my heart thumping. There, framed in the doorway, stood Daniel. He was wearing his work uniform, but his face was completely blank, like a mask. He raised both hands and motioned for me to come to him. It was so unnatural that a chill ran down my spine. I pulled the covers over my head and lay there, trembling, until the quiet of the room convinced me he was gone.

After what felt like an eternity, I peeked out. The door was closed, and the room was empty. I checked the clock: 7:00 AM. I told everyone at breakfast about what I’d seen. Daniel had already left for work, but Emily said he hadn’t even come into our part of the house that morning. When he returned that evening, I asked him directly. He looked confused and insisted he had never opened our door or beckoned to me.

This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. A few months before, I had woken to see Lily standing at the foot of my bed. She was in her nightgown, her hair hanging over her face. But something was off—the way she stood was too still, and her eyes, when she lifted her head, were pitch black. I blinked, and she was gone. I later found her fast asleep in her cot, and when I mentioned it to her, she laughed it off.

I decided to set up a webcam in my room to capture any strange occurrences, hoping to prove that I wasn’t losing my mind. Every morning, I would review the footage. For weeks, nothing appeared. Then, one morning, I saw it. In the grainy video, the door knob began to rattle at exactly 7:00 AM. The door swung open slowly, and there was Daniel again—or something wearing his face. It stood motionless, then raised its hands and beckoned. I felt a cold dread as I watched. The figure’s eyes were not Daniel’s; they were dark voids that seemed to stare into the camera, through me.

I deleted the video, too frightened to keep it. But the next morning, when I woke, the webcam was missing from its stand. In its place was a note, written in a shaky hand: ‘You can see us.’

I haven’t slept in that room since. I moved my things to the living room, but the feeling of being watched has never left me. And every morning, at 7:00, I hear a faint rattling at the door—even when the door is locked. I don’t know what they want, but I’m afraid that one day, I might answer the call.