The Pale-Handed Visitor

The night air was thick with the smell of wet leaves and diesel as Emmet drove his delivery van along the old Corran Road. It was a route he knew well, a winding strip of asphalt bordered by dense, ancient forest that swallowed the moonlight. Suddenly, his headlights caught a shape ahead—a tall, featureless silhouette standing motionless in the middle of the road. It was at least eight feet tall, blacker than the night itself, and it seemed to absorb the light. Emmet’s heart stuttered. He slammed the brakes, the van skidding to a halt a good fifty feet away. He fumbled to reverse, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. The figure was gone. A cold dread washed over him. He looked again, and it was there—right in front of the van’s bonnet, its pale, bone-white hands pressed flat against the metal. Emmet’s throat tightened. He wrenched open the door and fled, his boots slipping on the gravel as he sprinted into the tree line. When he finally glanced back, the road was empty, the van still idling, and the only sound was his own ragged breathing.

Not far from there, in a small stone cottage bordering the forest, Deirdre was tossing in her sleep. A sudden pressure on her chest made her gasp, and then she felt a cold hand clamp over her mouth and nose. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. Her lungs burned. Her husband, Cian, heard a thud and rushed into the bedroom. There, kneeling over Deirdre, was a black silhouette, its pale hands pressed against her face. As Cian shouted, the figure turned its head—a void where its face should be—and then vanished. Deirdre gasped, her eyes snapping open, air flooding back into her chest. She sat up, disoriented, her throat raw. Cian, pale and shaking, whispered, ‘It was here. It was in the room.’ Deirdre had no memory of the attack, only a lingering cold that clung to her skin.

The next night, their neighbor, old Seamus, called in a trembling voice. ‘There’s something outside your window,’ he said. ‘A tall black shape, just standing there, staring in.’ Cian peered through the curtain and saw it: a dark presence at the edge of the garden, its form swaying slightly, its white hands hanging at its sides. He grabbed a lantern and stepped outside, but the figure dissolved into the mist as if it had never been.

The following weekend, Emmet and his godfather, Tomas, decided to walk their dog through the forest near Charleville Manor. The dog, a loyal collie named Bran, had been restless all day, growling at shadows. As they walked the overgrown path, Bran suddenly stopped, ears flat, a low whine escaping his throat. The air grew still, unnaturally warm. Tomas laughed nervously, but Emmet felt his skin prickle. Then the trees seemed to close in, and at the edge of the clearing, they saw it—a tall black figure, its head tilted as if watching them. Bran bolted, dragging his leash through the undergrowth. Emmet and Tomas stood frozen. The figure raised one pale hand, pointing directly at them, before sinking into the earth like a shadow at dusk.

They ran, stumbling over roots, branches whipping at their faces, until they burst out onto the road. The moon was high, and the forest was silent. Bran had stopped ahead, whimpering, staring back at the treeline. Tomas, breathless, said, ‘What in God’s name was that?’ Emmet could only shake his head. For the rest of his life, he would see those pale hands, the way they pressed against the glass, against skin, against the world, as if trying to push through from somewhere else. And he would never drive down the Corran Road again.