The Red-Haired Visitor

I was seventeen when my parents left for a cousin’s wedding in Vancouver. They’d booked a four-day trip, and I’d insisted I could handle the farm alone. We lived in the middle of Saskatchewan, a two-hour drive from the nearest town, with neighbors a mile away. I had school work, chickens to feed, and a dog named Moose to keep me company. What could go wrong? The first two days were easy. I’d get up, feed the animals, do homework, and watch TV until late. Moose slept at the foot of my bed, his snoring a comforting rhythm. On the third night, the wind picked up. I was in the living room reading when I heard a knock at the kitchen window. It was a sharp, deliberate sound, not branches or debris. I turned off the lamp and crept to the kitchen. The window overlooked the back porch, and in the dim light from the moon, I saw a figure: an old woman, small and frail, with a wild mane of red hair that seemed to glow. She pressed her face against the glass, her breath fogging it. Her lips moved, and I could just make out the words, ‘Open the door. I’m hurt. I need help.’ My heart hammered. I shook my head, stepping back. She repeated, louder this time, her voice muffled but desperate. I refused. Then her expression shifted. Her mouth twisted, and she hissed, ‘WHAT KIND OF FCKING WOMAN ARE YOU?’ I retreated to the hallway, backing toward my downstairs bedroom, hoping to lock the door and call someone. But as I reached the room, the curtains fluttered. The window was open. She was already inside, silhouetted against the pale glass. Her voice was a low growl: ‘YOU LITTLE BICH, YOU THINK YOU COULD GET AWAY?’ I screamed for help, but the only response was the echo of my own voice. I grabbed my phone, but my fingers were useless. She took a step closer. Her red hair was not hair at all, but tangled roots, wet and dark. Her skin was bark, cracked and oozing. She smiled, and her teeth were like needles. I finally unlocked my phone and stumbled outside, running toward the barn. Moose was barking, but he was in the house, locked in. When I reached the barn, I turned to see her standing at the edge of the field, watching me. She didn’t move, just watched. Then she opened her mouth, and a sound came out—not a scream, but a low, wailing hum, like wind through a broken pipe. It burrowed into my ears and wrapped around my spine. I froze. My limbs went cold. The sound went on for thirty seconds, then ceased. She vanished. I spent the rest of the night huddled in the barn, shivering, until dawn. My parents returned two days later. The police searched the property, but found nothing. They chalked it up to a drifter. But I knew better. The red-haired woman was not human. She was a banshee, I reasoned, a harbinger of death. But she had not warned me of a future death; she had come to claim my present. She had been waiting for me to be alone, to be vulnerable. And I realized the truth: sometimes the banshee isn’t a warning, but a predator that feeds on fear. I’ve never stayed alone on the farm since. And every night, when the wind knocks against the kitchen window, I check to see if she’s there. So far, she hasn’t returned. But I know she will. The red-haired visitor has my scent now.