The Pale Visitor at the Glass Door

The house we moved into when I was twelve sat on the edge of a small town in the wheat belt of Western Australia. It was a sprawling Federation-style house with high ceilings and wide hallways, but it had a peculiar layout: the room I chose for my bedroom was directly opposite the open-plan dining and living area. From my bed, I could see straight through the archway into the kitchen and the sliding glass door that led to the back porch.

For the first year, I slept soundly. But then I started to see her. At first, I thought it was my mother checking on me, or my sister coming back from the bathroom. But the figures were always a tall, thin silhouette with long hair that hung over its face, and it would stand at the foot of my bed, perfectly still, as if watching me sleep. I would wake up with a jolt, my heart pounding, and the figure would be gone. I told my parents, but they dismissed it as night terrors or my imagination. After a while, I couldn’t take the sleepless nights, so I moved my bedroom to the converted office at the back of the house, a small, windowless room that previously served as a study. My old room became the computer room, where my mother would work late into the night.

One night, I was up late chatting to my friends on a now-obsolete messaging program. My dog, a loyal kelpie cross, was curled at my feet. The room was lit only by the glow of the monitor, casting eerie shadows on the walls. It was just past midnight when I heard a faint rustling sound from the direction of the living room. I looked up, expecting to see my mother or sister, but the hallway was empty. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure pass by the glass door that led from the living room to the back porch. It was a woman in a flowing white nightgown, her hair obscuring her face. My dog gave a low growl, the kind he reserves for when someone approaches the house, but softer, as if uncertain.

I froze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The figure stopped at the glass door, her back to me. She didn’t move, just stood there, silhouetted against the moonlit porch. The growl grew louder, and my dog’s hackles rose. I whispered his name, trying to calm him, but he wouldn’t stop. Then, the figure turned its head slowly, and I saw that the face was not a face but a smooth, pale void, like a porcelain mask with no features. I screamed, and the figure vanished, leaving only the faint imprint of a hand on the glass, as if it had pressed against the pane.

I ran to my parents’ room, shaking, and told them what I saw. My father came out with a flashlight, but there was no one there. The imprint on the glass remained for days, a definite handprint with impossibly long fingers. We never spoke of it again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the figure was not just a vision. It had a purpose. And I knew, with a cold certainty, that it was waiting for me to be alone again.

Months passed, and I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the light. But one evening, my mother mentioned that the old computer in my previous room had started acting up, showing messages in a language she didn’t recognize. When she showed me, I saw that the screen was filled with a single phrase, repeated over and over: ‘I see you.’ The words were typed in a thin, spidery font, and the cursor was blinking at the end of the last line, as if waiting for a response. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I backed away from the screen.

That night, I slept with the lights on, my dog beside me. But when I woke at 3 a.m., I saw her again, standing at the foot of my new bed, her featureless face tilted toward me. This time, she reached out a hand, and I saw that her fingers were too long, with joints in the wrong places, and they dripped with a clear liquid that smelled of salt. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. She touched my forehead, and I felt a cold, numbing sensation spread through my body. Then she was gone.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. The next day, I went to the town’s library, the only place with internet access, and searched for local legends. I found a story about a woman who had drowned in a well on the property in the 1920s, and that her spirit was said to wander the house, searching for her lost child. The article mentioned that she would appear to young people, trying to lead them to the well. I felt a sickening dread as I read on: the well was in the far corner of the backyard, and it had been sealed off after a boy’s disappearance in the 1970s.

I went home, my legs trembling, and walked to the back corner of the yard. The ground was overgrown with weeds, but I could see the outline of a stone circle under the brush. I pushed aside the undergrowth and found the old well, covered with a rusted grate. I knelt down and peered through the gaps, but it was too dark to see anything. As I stood up, I noticed something glinting at the bottom. I fetched a flashlight and shone it down, and there, at the bottom of the well, lay a child’s shoe, still intact despite the years.

I felt a presence behind me, and I turned, expecting to see the woman again. But it was my mother, who had followed me out. She looked pale, and she whispered, ‘I found that shoe when we first moved in. I buried it in the garden, but it keeps coming back.’

We never spoke of it again, but every night since, I hear a soft tapping on my window, as if long, cold fingers are gently rapping on the glass. And in the morning, there is a handprint, wet and salty, on the pane. I know she is still there, waiting. And one day, when I least expect it, she will take me down to the well, to join her in the dark, watery depths.

I’m 18 now, and I still live in that house. I’ve tried to leave, but every time I pack my bags, I see her standing at the door, her featureless face watching me. And I know that, no matter where I go, she will follow. The pale visitor at the glass door has claimed me as her own, and my fate is sealed.