The Pattern in the Pines

The first time I saw her, I was folding laundry in the living room of our cabin, the one my parents rented in the pines for the summer. The air smelled of cedar and dust, and the only sound was the rhythmic thump of the dryer down the hall. I glanced up to adjust the collar on a shirt, and there she was, seated in the worn leather armchair by the window. She wore a pale blue housedress, the kind my grandmother used to wear, and her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her face was etched with deep wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp, and her smile—it was too wide, too knowing, stretching her lips thin. I dropped the laundry basket and ran out the back door, not stopping until I reached the tire swing, my heart hammering.

The second time, I was at the kitchen table, helping my dad snap green beans for dinner. Our golden retriever, Biscuit, who normally begged at my feet, went rigid. A low, guttural growl rumbled from her chest, her hackles rising. She stared fixedly at the corner by the pantry. I followed her gaze, and there she was again—the same blue dress, but now she stood upright, one hand resting on the doorframe. Her smile was still there, but it seemed to have grown, showing too many teeth. My dad was telling a joke, oblivious. I tried to point her out, but my finger just wavered in the air. He looked, saw nothing, and laughed. I wanted to scream, but she held my gaze for a full minute, then dissolved like mist in the corners of my vision.

The third time was in the small study off the hallway. I was reading a comic on the floor, my back against the bookshelf. A cold draft swept through the room, rustling the pages. I looked up, and she was there, in the same corner as the kitchen. Her smile was wider now, almost splitting her face. She raised a hand, slowly, and pointed at the wall behind me. Then she was gone. I turned, but there was nothing but a faded wallpaper pattern of climbing vines.

I haven’t seen her since, but I’ve started noticing the pattern. The wallpaper in the study, the tiles in the kitchen, the weave of the rug in the living room—they all share the same repeating motif: a cluster of three pine trees, their trunks twisted together. I thought it was just a coincidence, but yesterday, I found an old photograph in a drawer. It was of the cabin, taken decades ago, and in the window was the same woman, wearing the same blue dress, smiling that same smile. On the back, in faded ink, was a single line: ‘She waits for the pattern to align.’ I don’t know what it means, but I’ve started drawing the pattern on my palm. And last night, I woke up to find a fresh pine needle on my pillow, arranged in the same shape. I think she’s not gone—she’s just changing the way she appears.