The Photograph on the Landing

In the autumn of 2012, my family and I were staying in an old crofter’s cottage on the Isle of Skye. The cottage was the last dwelling on a narrow, winding road that ended at a cliff overlooking the sea. The rest of the road was lined with abandoned fishing huts and a single, boarded-up post office. The cottage itself was a relic, with low ceilings, thick stone walls, and a musty smell that clung to our clothes. My brother, Callum, my little sister, Maisie, and I were given the attic room, a cramped space with a sloping ceiling and a single dormer window that looked out onto the grey Atlantic. My Nana had the downstairs bedroom, and my parents took the room adjacent to hers.

The attic was my least favorite part of the cottage. The air was always cold, even with the electric heater my father had brought up, and the floorboards creaked under the lightest step. In one corner stood a dusty wardrobe with a cracked mirror; in another, a stack of old trunks belonging to the previous owner. But the worst was the landing at the top of the stairs. There, in a heavy oak frame, hung a faded photograph of three little girls, dressed in white, standing in front of the cottage, their faces solemn and pale. The photo was labeled in faint pencil: ‘The MacLeod sisters, 1904.’ Every time I passed it, I felt their eyes follow me.

The first night was uneventful. We were tired from the journey, and the sound of the wind and waves lulled us to sleep. I remember Maisie clutching her teddy bear, her small chest rising and falling in the dim light from the moon. Callum was snoring softly in the bed opposite mine. I must have drifted off around midnight, but I was jolted awake by a sound. It was a child crying, a high-pitched, wavering wail that seemed to come from just outside our door. I sat up, my heart pounding. Maisie was still asleep, her face peaceful. Callum was dead to the world. I listened for a moment, but the crying stopped. I convinced myself it was the wind whistling through the cracked window frame and lay back down, pulling the blanket over my head.

The next morning, we gathered around the small kitchen table for breakfast. Nana was stirring her tea, her brow furrowed. She looked at Maisie and said, ‘Did you have a bad dream last night, dear? I heard you crying around midnight.’

Maisie shook her head, her mouth full of toast. ‘I didn’t cry, Nana. I slept fine.’

I froze. I had heard it too, but I had assumed it was the wind. My parents exchanged glances. Callum shrugged. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

But Nana was insistent. ‘It came from upstairs. I know it did. It was a child’s cry, not a grown-up’s. And it wasn’t the wind.’ She set down her teacup with a clatter. ‘This house has a history. They said the previous owners had a tragedy. Three little girls, you know.’ She nodded toward the landing. ‘I never liked that photograph.’

We tried to dismiss it as Nana’s imagination, but throughout the day, a tension hung over the cottage. I noticed the photograph on the landing seemed different. The girls’ faces, which had been blurred in my memory, now seemed clearer, their eyes darker, their expressions more forlorn. I mentioned it to Callum, but he just rolled his eyes.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The crying began again, just after the clock on the hallway struck twelve. It was unmistakable this time—a soft, hiccupping sob that seemed to come from the attic stairs. I shook Callum awake. ‘Do you hear it?’ I whispered.

He listened, his eyes wide. ‘No, nothing.’

But I could hear it, clear as day. ‘It’s coming from the landing,’ I said.

I crept out of bed and padded to the door, easing it open a crack. The landing was dark, but the moon cast a pale beam through the small window at the end of the hall. The photograph was just a dark rectangle on the wall. And then I saw it—a small figure, a girl in a white dress, standing in front of the photo, her back to me. She was sobbing, her shoulders shaking. I called out, ‘Hello?’

The girl turned. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. She pointed at me, and then she vanished. The crying stopped.

I stood there, trembling, until Callum pulled me back inside. ‘What did you see?’ he asked.

‘There’s a girl,’ I whispered. ‘In the photo. She’s real.’

The next morning, I told Nana. She turned pale and whispered, ‘The MacLeod sisters. They drowned in the cove, all three, in 1910. They say their spirits still roam the house.’

I looked at the photograph on the landing. The three girls were standing together, but now one was slightly forward, her hand raised as if pointing. I felt a chill. That night, I refused to go upstairs. My parents, now uneasy, agreed to sleep in the living room with us, leaving the attic empty. But the crying returned, louder, more desperate, and this time, everyone heard it. We huddled together in the living room, listening to the sobs echo down the stairs. When dawn broke, we packed our bags and left.

But as we drove away, I looked back at the cottage, and in the upstairs window, I saw the three girls, their hands pressed against the glass, their mouths open in silent wails. And in the front seat, my little sister Maisie began to cry. She didn’t stop until we reached the mainland. When we got home, we found a photograph of Maisie in her suitcase, a photo we had never taken—a faded sepia print of the three MacLeod sisters, and in the center, Maisie’s face, smiling. She has never been the same since, and neither have we. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear that crying, and I know they are still waiting, their eyes on the road, for another family to come.