The Morning Visitor

It was a Saturday, and the fog had rolled in from the bay, muffling the town of Port Merrow in a damp gray blanket. I’d been living in the old Harbormaster’s House for three years, ever since my uncle passed and left it to me. The house was a relic, with salt-warped window frames and a staircase that moaned with every shift of the tide. I’d grown used to its noises—the creaks, the groans, the occasional thump of a loose shutter. But lately, there had been something else.

I’d adopted a stray dog, a wiry terrier mix I’d named Barnaby, hoping for some company in those lonely rooms. He was a nervous creature, skittish around sudden sounds, and he’d taken to sleeping in the hallway outside my bedroom, as if guarding the landing. But every morning, around nine or ten, he’d nudge my door open with his nose and poke his head in, just to check on me. My door didn’t latch properly—the lock was old and the wood had warped—so it would swing open with a low, grating whine, like a wounded animal. I’d come to expect it, a gentle intrusion that signaled the start of the day.

That Saturday, I’d slept later than usual, the fog muffling the sunlight that usually streamed through my curtains. I was propped up in bed, half-reading a dog-eared novel, when I heard it—the familiar creak of the door. But it wasn’t the same sound. It was slower, more deliberate, like someone was pushing it open inch by inch. The whine stretched into a long, sighing groan. I glanced up, expecting to see Barnaby’s scruffy head, but the door was only slightly ajar, and no one was there. I called out, ‘Barnaby?’—my voice sounding thin in the damp air. The door didn’t move. I shrugged it off, assuming he’d nudged it and then wandered off, and returned to my book.

A few minutes later, the door moved again. This time it swung open wider, with a sharp, metallic twang that echoed through the room. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. I put down my book and swung my legs out of bed, ready to go and see what was wrong. But as I stood, the door swung fully open, and there stood a figure in the hallway—a woman in a yellow rain slicker, dripping with seawater. Her face was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes were dark hollows. She didn’t move, just stood there, swaying slightly, as if she were the one caught in the tide. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She raised a hand, pointing a finger at me, and then she turned and walked down the stairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the old floorboards.

I stood frozen, my heart pounding, until I heard a bark from downstairs. Barnaby was growling, a low, furious sound that I’d never heard from him before. I forced my legs to move, stumbling down the hallway, my hand sliding along the wall for support. When I reached the top of the stairs, Barnaby was at the bottom, his hackles raised, staring at the front door. The door was open, and the fog was pouring in like smoke. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ but there was no answer. I finally managed to close the door, my hands trembling so badly that I fumbled with the lock.

The second time it happened was the following Saturday. Same fog, same time. I was in the kitchen, making coffee, when I heard the same creak from upstairs. My heart lurched. I grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet and crept up the stairs, my breath fogging in the cold air. My bedroom door was open, and I could see the hallway beyond. There she was again—the woman in the yellow slicker. This time, she was standing at the far end of the hallway, near the window that overlooked the harbor. She was pressing her palms against the glass, as if trying to get out. The window was painted shut, but as I watched, it began to rattle. I shouted, ‘What do you want?’ The woman turned her head slowly, and her mouth opened, but instead of words, I heard a sound like the whisper of the tide, a low, soughing murmur that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Then she dissolved, like a fog bank dispersing, leaving the hallway empty.

Barnaby was there, his tail tucked between his legs, whimpering. I couldn’t sleep in that house that night. I called my friend, a historian who knew the town’s lore, and asked about the previous owner of my house. She told me that a woman had drowned in the harbor decades ago, a harbormaster’s wife who had waited for a ship that never came. They said she still walked the foggy mornings, searching for her lost love. But the strange thing was, the woman in the yellow slicker had pointed at me, not at the sea. And when she dissolved, Barnaby had stopped whimpering, and had walked to the door, as if waiting for someone to leave.

Now, I keep the stair gate closed, but it doesn’t help. Every Saturday morning, when the fog rolls in, I hear that creak, that groan, and I know she’s come back. But she never enters my room again. She just stands in the hallway, her hand raised, pointing at me, as if I’m the one she’s been looking for all along. I don’t know what she wants, but I’m afraid to find out. I’ve started sleeping with a light on, and I’ve stopped closing my door. But the fog still comes, and so does she.