The Pale Visitor

I’ve never told this to anyone outside my family, and even now, the words feel like stones in my throat. It started when I was thirteen, the year my mother’s cancer came back with a vengeance, and we had to leave our cramped apartment to live with my grandmother, my two aunts, and my uncle in their old farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. The house had been in our family for generations, but it had a reputation. The locals called it ‘the Harlow place’ after the family that built it, and they said it was cursed. I didn’t believe in curses then. I was more worried about my mother’s pale face and the way she winced every time she moved.

We moved into the east wing, which was a long, narrow addition that jutted out from the main house like a crooked finger. My mother, my younger brother, and I shared one large room at the end of the wing. It had a high, sloped ceiling and a draft that made the curtains stir even when the windows were closed. At the far end of the room, a short hallway led to the master bathroom, with a closet on each side. My brother and I slept on a bunk bed pushed against one wall, facing the hallway, while my mother had a hospital bed set up against the opposite wall. The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The house creaked and groaned, and I thought I heard whispers coming from the hallway, but when I turned on my flashlight, there was nothing.

The second night, my brother woke me up at around 2 AM. He was shaking, his voice barely a whisper. ‘There’s something in the room,’ he said. I sat up, my heart pounding, and looked around. At first, I didn’t see anything. But then, between our bed and my mother’s, I saw it. A figure, faintly glowing, like moonlight made flesh. It was kneeling on the floor, its head bowed, and as I watched, it slowly rose to its full height. It was tall and thin, with arms that hung too long, and I couldn’t make out any features on its face, just a soft, white glow. It turned toward the hallway and walked down it, disappearing into the bathroom. I was too terrified to move. I just lay there, staring at the empty hallway, until the sun came up.

I told my mother, but she dismissed it as a dream. ‘You were probably dreaming, sweetheart. The stress of moving and worrying about me.’ But I knew what I saw. My brother confirmed it. He’d seen it too. We tried to forget about it, but over the next few weeks, the presence grew stronger. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and feel a cold spot in the room, as if something was standing beside my bed. Once, I saw a shadow move across the wall, but when I turned, there was nothing. My brother started sleeping with his nightlight on, and he would often cry in his sleep.

Then my mother’s health took a turn for the worse. She was in and out of the hospital, and when she was home, she was too weak to leave her bed. My aunts and grandmother spent most of their time in the kitchen or in the living room, and I was left alone with my brother and the oppressive silence of the house. I began to explore, trying to find an explanation for what I’d seen. I discovered an old diary in the attic, hidden behind a loose floorboard. It belonged to a woman named Constance Harlow, who had lived in the house in the 1920s. According to her diary, she had a husband who was a doctor, and they had a son named Samuel. Samuel died when he was five, from a fever. Constance grieved deeply, but her husband tried to ‘cure’ her grief with experimental treatments. She wrote about a ‘white presence’ that came to her at night, offering comfort, but she also wrote that it demanded something in return: her memories. Over time, her entries became more fragmented, and the last entry was just a scrawl: ‘It has taken my face. Don’t let it take yours.’

I started to piece things together. The figure I’d seen was probably the spirit of Constance, or something that wore her shape. It had been around for decades, feeding on the sorrow and fear of the living. And now it was feeding on my mother’s weakness. I knew I had to do something, but I didn’t know what. I tried to talk to my grandmother about it, but she just crossed herself and said, ‘That house has its own memories. Don’t stir them.’

One night, my brother woke up screaming. I rushed to his side, and he pointed at the hallway. The figure was standing there, but this time it was closer, and I could see the faint outline of a face. It was my mother’s face, but twisted, with empty black eyes. ‘It wants to take me,’ my mother said weakly from her bed, as if she were dreaming. And I realized that the figure was trying to become her, to wear her form like a skin. In that moment, I felt a surge of anger, not fear. I grabbed my grandfather’s old shotgun from the closet, even though I had never fired it, and I ran toward the figure. It didn’t move, but as I got closer, the shotgun grew cold in my hands, and I saw the figure’s mouth open in a silent scream. I pulled the trigger, but the gun just clicked. The figure reached out a hand, and I felt a freezing cold touch on my forehead. And then everything went black.

When I woke up, I was on the floor in front of the bathroom. The sun was coming in through the windows, and the figure was gone. My mother was still alive, but she was weaker than before. She passed away a week later. After her death, the presence in the house seemed to fade, but I know it’s still there, waiting. I know because I still see it sometimes in my dreams, wearing my mother’s face, reaching out to me. And I’m afraid that one day, it will come for me too, and I’ll have no one to save me.