The Red Cloak and the Pale Visitor

The first time I remember seeing something was when I was about six, sitting cross-legged on the worn floral duvet of my parents’ bed. My brother, Leo, was bouncing on the mattress beside me, while Mom and Dad wrestled with folding a mountain of laundry. The room smelled of fabric softener and the faint musk of my father’s work jacket. I wasn’t paying attention to their chatter; my gaze had drifted to the hallway door, left ajar, where a slice of dim light from the landing fell across the floor.

And then she walked by—a woman in a deep crimson cloak, the color of dried blood. She moved with an unhurried glide, her steps silent on the carpet, heading toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. I saw her profile briefly, pale face obscured by the hood, but I knew she was female, perhaps from the slight sway of her hips or the way the cloak clung to her form. I felt no fear, only a calm curiosity, as if I were watching a scene from a movie. I called out, ‘Hey, someone’s here,’ but by the time my parents looked, the hallway was empty. They exchanged a glance, my mother’s brow furrowed, and said I must have imagined it. I didn’t argue, but I knew what I saw.

Years passed, and the memory faded into the background of adolescence. We moved to a new town, a brick duplex with creaky stairs and a cellar that always smelled of damp earth. I grew up, the sightings became rare, and I dismissed them as childhood fancy. But last Tuesday, at 2:17 AM, the world tilted again.

I was in my room, cocooned in darkness, the only light a cold blue glow from my phone screen as I texted a friend about a failed exam. My back was to the door, and I was half-laughing at a meme, when a flicker of white at the edge of my vision made me freeze. It was a quick, darting motion, like a white sheet caught in a draft, but there was no window open. I turned my head slowly, and that’s when I saw it.

At the foot of my bed, where the darkness pooled thickest, stood a figure. It was tall and thin, bone-white, like a mannequin stripped of paint. Its limbs were elongated, almost spider-like, and its head was featureless except for a face that seemed painted on—two black voids for eyes, a slit for a mouth, no nose. It stared at me, and I stared back, my breath caught in my throat. The air grew cold, and I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

I didn’t think; I just grabbed my phone and, in a frantic motion, flung it at the figure. The phone hit the wall with a crack and clattered to the floor, and the light vanished, plunging the room into absolute blackness. I scrambled for the lamp, clicked it on with shaking fingers, and the room was empty. The figure was gone, but the cold remained, and I knew with a growing dread that it had not been a trick of the light.

I haven’t slept with the lights off since. Every time I close my eyes, I see that pale face, and I can’t help but wonder: the woman in red, the white thing—were they the same entity, or different visitors from the same place? And why do they only appear when I’m alone, in the stillness of night? The worst part is, I’ve started seeing flashes of white in my peripheral vision everywhere—in the reflection of a shop window, in the corner of my eye at traffic lights. Last night, I woke at 3 AM, and the closet door was ajar. I swear I saw a sliver of red cloth, just like the cloak, peeking out from the shadows. I know it’s only a matter of time before one of them finally steps out for good.