The Moth-Hour Visitor

In the autumn of 1994, I drove to a forgotten chapel in the hills of West Virginia, where my grandmother’s family had once gathered for a biannual reunion. The place was a crumbling stone building, its bell tower long silent, surrounded by a cemetery that sloped down toward a misty creek. I arrived early, expecting to help set up tables, but the gravel lot was empty except for my own car. The air smelled of wet leaves and old dust.

As I stepped out, I noticed a figure moving among the headstones. An elderly woman, her silver hair coiled into a tight bun, wore a long, pale dress that seemed to glow in the diffuse light. She moved slowly, her hands brushing the tops of the stones as if greeting old friends. I approached, calling out, and she turned with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

‘Are you here for the reunion?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice a dry whisper. ‘My name is Elara.’ The name struck me—I had seen it on the family tree, a great-aunt who had died decades before I was born. A chill ran down my spine, but I convinced myself it was a coincidence, perhaps a distant cousin who shared the name. I asked if she knew my mother and aunt, and she nodded slowly, saying, ‘I watched them grow up.’ Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of a living link to my past.

She gestured toward a low tombstone, its surface worn smooth, and sat down as if it were a garden bench. I wanted to capture the moment, so I pulled out my camcorder, a heavy VHS model. But when I pressed record, the tiny red light blinked out, and the display showed a spinning hourglass. I shook it, checked the battery, but it refused to work. Cursing under my breath, I turned back to Elara. ‘Where is everyone else?’ I asked. ‘In the chapel,’ she said, pointing a thin finger toward the building.

I walked to the chapel, the heavy oak door creaking open to reveal a warm, yellow light. Inside, a dozen relatives I barely recognized stood in clusters, laughing and talking. My cousin Jared, whom I knew well, came over to greet me. I raised the camcorder again, and this time the red light came on, the screen bright. I filmed the room, then turned to Jared. ‘It wouldn’t work outside,’ I said, confused. Jared looked at me oddly. ‘Outside? Who were you talking to?’ I described Elara, her bun, her dress. Jared’s face went pale. ‘Elara died in 1960,’ he said. ‘She’s buried out there.’

I dropped the camcorder, the strap catching my wrist. I ran back to the cemetery, but the woman was gone. Only a single white lily lay on the tombstone where she had been sitting. I didn’t stay for the reunion. I drove home in silence, the camcorder clutched on the passenger seat. When I played the tape that night, the footage from inside the chapel was clear, but the beginning—the part where I had tried to film outside—was static, save for a single frame: a pale hand reaching toward the lens. I never went back to that chapel, and I never spoke of Elara again, but sometimes, at dusk, I think I see her in my mirror, her bun tight, her dress white, whispering my name.