The Pale Visitor at the Cottage Door

Our cottage stood on the edge of a vast, mist-laden moor in the north of England, far from the bustle of any town. The nearest neighbor was a half-hour’s walk, and the only sounds at night were the wind rattling the old windows and the distant bleating of sheep. I lived there with my mother, father, and two sisters: Mary, who was two years older, and little Clara, who was four years younger. They shared the attic room, which had two narrow iron beds, relics of a forgotten time. My grandfather, whom we barely knew, had come to stay from the west coast of Ireland. He was a gaunt, silent man with eyes like grey stones, and he rarely spoke beyond a gruff ‘aye’ or ‘no.’ His visit was a rare event, and my mother had fussed over the guest room, but Grandpa had insisted on sleeping in the attic, in Clara’s bed, claiming he ‘preferred the draughts.’ Clara, in turn, was moved to a pallet on the floor of my room, which she grumbled about but eventually accepted.

On his first night with us, the house settled into an uneasy quiet. The wind had died, and an oppressive stillness hung in the air. I lay in my bed, listening to Clara’s soft breathing from the floor, and drifted into a restless sleep. At around one in the morning, a sharp hiss sliced through the darkness, like steam escaping a kettle. My eyes snapped open, and I turned toward the door, which was slightly ajar. A slender figure stood there, bathed in a faint, sickly luminescence. At first, my sleep-addled mind assumed it was Clara, awake and needing the toilet. But a glance down at the floor showed Clara, still motionless, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. I looked back at the door, and the figure was still there—a young girl, no older than ten, dressed in a pale, old-fashioned nightgown that seemed to glow from within. Her hair was long and black, hanging in lank strands over a face that was unnaturally white, almost translucent. She did not move, but her eyes—dark and empty like holes—fixed on me with an intensity that made my blood run cold.

I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the moonlight, a shadow cast by the coats on the rack. But the light in the room was dim, and the figure had a presence that was solid, tangible. Slowly, I reached for the candle on my bedside table, striking a match. The flame flickered to life, and in its glow, the specter became more defined. It was a girl, but her features were wrong—too smooth, like a porcelain doll that had been left in the rain. She wore a white dress with lace at the collar, and her feet were bare, but they did not touch the floor; they hovered a few inches above, as if she were suspended by invisible strings. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a strangled whisper came out: ‘Who are you?’ The girl tilted her head, and a faint, mocking smile curved her lips. Then, without a sound, she stepped backward into the hallway and vanished, leaving behind a chill that seeped into my bones.

I was too terrified to move. I pinched myself, hard, but the fear remained. I looked at Clara, who was still asleep, oblivious. For the rest of the night, I lay rigid, staring at the dark doorway, expecting her to return. But she did not. When dawn finally crept in, I told myself it had been a nightmare, but the image of that pale girl stayed with me.

The next morning, I asked my grandmother, who had come with Grandpa, if she knew anything about a girl in a nightgown. She grew pale and made the sign of the cross. ‘Hush, child. That is not a thing to speak of lightly.’ I pressed her, and she whispered that there had been a legend about a girl who had died in a nearby village, the daughter of a miller, who had been drowned in the millpond on the night of her thirteenth birthday. ‘She wanders,’ my grandmother said, ‘looking for company.’ This only deepened my dread.

The following night, I was determined not to be caught off guard. I placed a candle and a knife on my bedside table, though I knew a knife would be useless. I forced myself to stay awake, listening for any sound. At the same hour, the hiss came again, sharper this time. The figure appeared at the door, but now she was closer, just inside the threshold. Her smile was wider, and her eyes seemed to bore into mine. I felt a strange pull, a temptation to rise and follow her. But I gripped the bedsheet, my knuckles white, and managed to croak, ‘Leave us alone.’ The girl’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of betrayal. She raised a finger to her lips, as if to shush me, and then pointed to Clara. My blood froze. She mouthed something—I could not tell what—but her lips formed the words, ‘She sees me.’

I looked at Clara, who was now awake, sitting up and staring at the apparition with wide, fascinated eyes. Clara whispered, ‘She’s pretty.’ The girl turned and beckoned to Clara, and Clara started to stand up. I lunged, grabbing Clara’s arm and pulling her to me, shouting, ‘No! Don’t look at her!’ The girl’s face contorted into a mask of rage, and she let out a piercing shriek that was not human. The sound shattered the window, and the curtains billowed as if caught in a gale. Then, she was gone, leaving only a lingering cold and a faint smell of damp earth and old flowers.

Clara began to cry, and I held her, shaking. The next day, Grandpa packed his belongings and left without a word, his face as grey as stone. My mother made strange phone calls in hushed tones, and my father boarded up the broken window, never explaining how it had shattered.

Months passed, but the memory did not fade. I often woke at night to the faint sound of a hiss, or a glimpse of white in the darkness. But the figure never appeared again. Yet, sometimes, when Clara slept, she would whisper to the air, ‘She’s still here.’ And I knew the pale visitor had found what she had come for—a new companion, and a new name to haunt.