The Plaster Saint

The first time I noticed the quiet was wrong was the night the dog refused to come inside. He was a good dog, a mutt we’d had for six years, and he’d never once lingered in the yard after dark. But that night, he stood at the edge of the porch, hackles raised, staring at the hydrangea bushes near the fence. No growl, no bark, just a rigid stillness that made my skin prickle. My husband was out of town on a business trip, the girls were asleep, and I was left to coax him in with treats and a soft voice. He finally slunk inside, his tail between his legs, but he spent the rest of the night pressed against my legs, trembling.

The next morning, I found a dead crow on the back step, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. I told myself it was a cat, but there were no marks on it, no sign of a struggle. I disposed of it with a shovel and tried to forget. But Alice, my six-year-old, looked at the spot where the bird had been and said, ‘The lady in the yellow dress told me to leave it.’ I froze. My heart pounded. ‘What lady, honey?’ I asked, keeping my voice light. ‘The one who stands by the giant tree in the backyard at night. She has a yellow dress and no face.’ A cold shiver ran down my spine. I forced a smile and said, ‘That’s just a dream, sweetie. Come on, let’s get breakfast.’ But I couldn’t shake the image.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I had always had a sixth sense, a vague awareness of presences, but living here for eighteen months, I’d felt nothing. I thought the place was clean. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I grabbed a flashlight and went to the backyard, ignoring the thudding of my heart. The giant oak tree stood at the back fence, its branches like skeletal arms. I swept the light across the trunk, expecting to see nothing. But there, carved into the bark at eye level, was a crude symbol—a circle with a cross through it, or maybe a distorted flower. I’d never noticed it before. I ran my fingers over the grooves; they felt fresh, the wood splintered. I turned to go inside, but a sound made me stop: a faint rustling, like fabric. I spun around, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. For a split second, I thought I saw a figure at the base of the tree, a tall, thin shape in pale yellow. But when I blinked, it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a branch swaying, but I didn’t believe myself.

The next day, I called a priest. He was a young man with kind eyes, and he listened as I recounted the events, trying not to sound like a hysterical mother. He nodded slowly, then walked the property, his fingers brushing the walls and doorframes. When he reached the backyard, he stopped at the oak tree and traced the symbol. ‘This is old,’ he said. ‘It’s a warding sigil, meant to keep something in or out. But it’s been defaced—scratched over.’ He looked at me with concern. ‘There’s something here. I can feel it. It’s not strong yet, but it’s growing. I’ll come back with some blessed oil and a few prayers. In the meantime, keep the children close.’ I thanked him, but a dark dread settled in my stomach.

The priest came the next day. He performed a simple blessing, sprinkling oil at the corners of the house and muttering in Latin. Alice watched from the window, her face pressed to the glass. After he left, she grabbed my hand and said, ‘The lady is mad now, Mommy. She doesn’t like the water.’ My blood ran cold. I told her to stay inside and went to the backyard. The symbol on the tree was gone, replaced by a fresh carving: a crude face with hollow eyes. That night, I set up a baby monitor in Alice’s room, not for safety but for reassurance. Around midnight, I heard a noise—a low, rhythmic scratching, like nails on a chalkboard. I crept to her door and opened it. Alice was sitting up in bed, staring at the corner. In the dim glow of her nightlight, I saw nothing, but I felt the presence, a pressure in the air, heavy and cold. ‘Alice, who are you talking to?’ I whispered. She turned to me, her eyes wide. ‘The lady in the yellow dress. She says she’s going to take me to her garden.’ I scooped her up and, for the first time in years, I slept with her in my bed.

Over the next week, things escalated. Objects moved on their own—a tumbler slid off the counter, a door slammed shut with no draft. My husband, home now, dismissed it as a draft and gremlins, but he saw the fear in my eyes. I didn’t tell him about the woman in yellow; he’d think I was losing it. But then, he saw her too. It was late, and we were watching TV. He got up to grab a snack, and when he passed the hallway, he stopped. ‘Babe, is that Alice?’ he called. I joined him, and there, at the end of the hall, stood a figure—tall, draped in a yellow gown, its face a smooth void. We both froze. It tilted its head, as if aware of our gaze, and then vanished. My husband’s face went white. He didn’t say a word, but that night we slept with the lights on.

That’s when I found the letters. They were in the attic, hidden behind a loose floorboard, wrapped in a moth-eaten shawl. They were written by a woman named Eleanora, dated over a hundred years ago. I read them, my hands trembling, and I discovered the truth. Eleanora had been a widow, living in this very house with her young daughter. She loved her daughter fiercely, but she suffered from a madness, a grief that consumed her after her husband’s death. She began to dress in yellow, her favorite color, and she would walk the grounds at night, talking to the trees. She believed her daughter was a changeling, that she had been swapped by forest spirits. In a fit of delusion, she buried the child beneath the oak tree, believing she was returning a spirit to the earth. Then, filled with remorse, she hanged herself in the attic. I dropped the letters, my mouth dry. The woman in yellow was Eleanora, and she was looking for her daughter. But Alice was not her daughter—I was.

I called the priest again, begging him to come. He arrived with a bag of salt and a iron cross. He performed a more intense ritual, binding the spirit to the tree, but as he spoke, the lights flickered and a cold wind swept through the house. Alice started screaming from her room. We ran, and found her standing by the window, pointing. In the backyard, under the oak, stood the woman in yellow, her empty face turned toward us. The priest shouted a command, but the figure only grew more solid. Then, Alice walked toward the door. I grabbed her, but she fought me, her strength impossible. ‘Let me go! She needs me!’ she cried. I held her tight, and the priest tossed salt at the window, chanting. The figure flickered, and slowly faded. The priest, exhausted, said, ‘It’s not done. It’s tied to the tree. Cut it down. Burn it. It’s the only way.’

I didn’t want to, but I agreed. The next morning, we hired a crew to cut down the oak. As the chainsaw bit into the trunk, a terrible wail filled the air, and the ground seemed to shudder. The workers stopped, pale and shaken, but I urged them on. When the tree fell, there was a crash, and a cloud of dust. In the roots, we found a small, homemade grave—a tiny skeleton wrapped in a yellowed cloth. I felt a sob rise in my throat. The priest said a prayer, and we buried the remains properly in the back garden, with a small wooden cross. The dog, who had been hiding inside, finally emerged, and he was no longer trembling.

For weeks, the house was quiet. Alice stopped mentioning the lady. My husband and I pretended it never happened. But I couldn’t forget. One night, I couldn’t sleep, and I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. On the counter, in the moonlight, I saw Alice’s small handprint on the window, but it was slightly distorted, with an extra finger. My blood turned to ice. I walked to her room and opened the door. She was sleeping, peaceful, her face serene. I closed the door and leaned against the wall, telling myself it was just a shadow. But then, in the mirror at the end of the hall, I saw a faint reflection behind me—a tall figure in yellow, holding the hand of a small child. I spun around, but there was nothing. I stood there, my heart pounding, and I knew: the woman in yellow wasn’t gone. She had found her daughter, and she was waiting. Not for me, but for Alice, my Alice, to join them. And I realized with a sickening fear that the only way to stop her was to give her what she wanted. I couldn’t do that. So I made a choice: I packed my bags, and I left that house in the middle of the night, taking Alice and my husband with me. I never told them why, but they saw the terror in my eyes. And as I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror, and I saw a figure standing in the upstairs window, its hollow face following us. I pressed the gas, and I didn’t stop until we were miles away. But even now, in our new home, in a different town, I see her sometimes in the corner of my eye, standing by a tree, waiting. And I know that she will not rest until she has what she believes is hers. I live with that fear every day, but I will do whatever it takes to keep my daughter safe. Even if it means running forever.