The Rose-Scented Visitor

It began when I was seven, during a summer visit to my great-aunt Helena’s rambling farmhouse in the Appalachian foothills. My cousin, Marcus, who was five, and I were sent to bed early while the adults played cards downstairs. As I climbed the creaking staircase, a wave of cloying rose perfume hit me, so strong it made my eyes water. Neither of the women wore anything like that, and we were the only ones upstairs. I shrugged it off, blaming old sachets in the linen closet.

I fell asleep to the sound of crickets, but woke in the dead of night to a woman’s voice singing an aria, so clear it might have been in the room. It was a mournful, wordless melody that seemed to come from the walls. I tiptoed to the top of the stairs, but the downstairs was dark and silent. The singing stopped. A cold dread settled in my stomach, but I forced myself back to bed.

The second time I woke, it was to a crushing weight of terror, like something was sitting on my chest. My eyes snapped open, and at the foot of my bed stood a tall figure draped in a tattered black shroud, its face hidden in shadow. It wasn’t the Grim Reaper; it was thinner, more brittle, like a dried husk. It raised a long, bony finger, not to touch Marcus’s cot, but to point directly at me. Then it dissolved into the darkness.

I screamed, and the adults rushed up. They found me shaking, drenched in sweat. Aunt Helena, a formidable woman with sharp eyes, asked what I’d seen. When I described the figure, her face went pale. She exchanged a look with my mother, then walked to an old trunk in the corner and lifted out a portrait. It showed a woman in a high-collared Victorian dress, with the same sharp cheekbones and a cold, knowing stare. ‘Eleanor,’ Aunt Helena whispered. ‘My great-grandmother. She died in this house, waiting for her lover who never returned. She was a singer.’

I refused to stay there that night, and we left the next morning. But as we drove away, I saw in the rear window a shape standing at the upstairs window, and on the glass, a pattern of frost forming the letters of my name. That was the first time, but not the last. Over the years, she’s appeared at every significant moment of my life—always accompanied by that rose perfume, always with that pointing finger, as if she’s waiting for me to join her. I’ve never told anyone the full truth, but I’ve started to hear her singing in my own dreams. I’m afraid of what happens when I finally learn the words.