The Pale Girl on the Crib

When I was eight, my family moved to a small, rural town in the highlands of Guatemala, into a house that had been vacant for over a decade. The locals avoided it, saying it had a ‘bad feeling,’ but my parents saw it as a bargain. My brother, Mateo, and I shared a room at the end of the hallway, a room with peeling wallpaper and a single window that looked out onto a gnarled ceiba tree.

One night, I woke with a start. The room was bathed in a sickly blue light from the moon, and I felt a heavy presence. I turned my head, and there she was—a little girl, no older than five, sitting on the edge of Mateo’s crib, which we still used as a playpen. She wore a thin, tattered white nightgown that seemed to float around her skeletal frame. Her hair was long, black, and tangled, and her skin was the color of ash. Her eyes were enormous, like two black voids, and they were fixed on me with a sadness so deep it felt like a weight on my chest.

I wanted to scream, but my throat was frozen. She tilted her head slowly, as if curious, and then she raised a thin, pale finger to her lips, as if to shush me. I finally forced a scream, ‘Mama!’ My mother burst in seconds later, flicking on the light. The girl vanished, leaving only a faint smell of damp earth and cold ashes. My mother held me, but when she looked at the crib, she saw nothing. She told me it was a nightmare, but I knew better.

The next night, I refused to sleep, but exhaustion won. I woke again in the blue hour, and she was standing by the window this time, her back to me. She was humming a tune I had never heard, a strange lullaby that made my skin crawl. I whispered, ‘Who are you?’ She didn’t turn, but her voice came from all around me, like wind through a cracked wall: ‘I’m waiting for my mother.’

Over the following weeks, she appeared every night, always closer. Sometimes she would sit on the floor, tracing patterns in the dust that looked like broken circles. My brother started having night terrors, crying out in his sleep for a woman named ‘Delia.’ Our mother grew worried, and she brought in a priest to bless the house. The priest walked through every room, sprinkling holy water, but when he reached our room, he stopped, stared at the corner, and went pale. He said, ‘This is not a spirit of the dead. It is a memory of grief, trapped here. You must find what binds it.’

One afternoon, I was exploring the attic and found an old photograph album. In it was a faded picture of a family standing in front of our house. A little girl with the same tangled hair and hollow eyes stared at the camera, her face expressionless. On the back, in faded ink, were the name ‘Delia’ and a date. I showed it to my father, who recognized the name from local gossip. He told me that the house had once belonged to a woman named Doña Rosa, whose daughter, Delia, had drowned in the well behind the house. The mother never forgave herself, and she left the house, but people said the girl’s spirit waited for her to come back.

That night, I confronted the girl in my room. She was crouched by the door, drawing something on the floor with her finger—a spiral. I said, ‘Delia, your mother is not coming back. She’s gone.’ The girl looked up, and for the first time, her eyes changed. They became wet, like black tears. She let out a wail that sounded like a wounded animal, and the room grew ice-cold. She pointed at me, and I felt a searing pain in my chest, as if she had marked me. Then she faded, leaving a single phrase etched into the floorboards: ‘HAS TO BE FINISHED.’

After that, she followed me everywhere. I would see her reflection in mirrors, her silhouette behind my father in his workshop, her handprints on the window, always wet. She began to speak to me in my mind, her voice like static: ‘Help me, or take my place.’ I knew I had to do something. With my father’s help, I located the well behind the house, covered in vines. We had it sealed with concrete, and I placed a small white flower on top, a symbol of my promise to help her move on.

The night after the sealing, I didn’t see her. For a week, she was gone. I thought it was over. But then, on the seventh night, I woke to find her standing at the foot of my bed, but she looked different. Her eyes were no longer black; they were a soft brown, and she was crying. She said, ‘Thank you. Now I can find my mother.’ She smiled one fleeting, sad smile, and then she faded like mist. The room felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted.

The next morning, I saw a patch of white flowers blooming around the sealed well. The locals said it was a miracle, but I knew it was a goodbye. I never saw her again, but sometimes, in the quietest hours, I still hear a faint humming, a lullaby that no longer frightens me. It is the sound of a child finally at peace.