The Seventh Visitor

It was a Tuesday in late February, exactly four days before the annual Harvest Moon Festival. My wife, Elena, and I had just settled into our farmhouse on the edge of Bitterroot, a town so small that the only event of the year was this festival. Our bedroom overlooked the sprawling wheat fields that turned silver under the moon. That night, as we drifted off, I had a dream—a void of a room, a doorway outlined in darkness. A man stood there, his face obscured. As I stepped forward, he raised his hand and shouted, ‘No, stop!’ But I crossed the threshold. A jolt, like lightning, shot through me. I woke with my heart pounding, and the sensation of electricity humming under my skin. For a few minutes, I lay there, feeling it fade, but then I noticed the air around the bed felt thick, as if something was pressing down on the quilt. I didn’t see anything, but I felt a subtle shift, like a paw stepping along the fabric. I convinced myself it was my imagination and tried to sleep. The next morning, over coffee, Elena said, ‘You know, I had the strangest dream last night. But first, how did you sleep?’ I hesitated, then told her about my dream. She stared at me, then whispered, ‘That’s odd—I was going to ask if you felt a cat walking on the bed last night. I felt it too, but there was nothing there.’ We laughed it off, but that was seven months ago.

Since then, the energy has become a nightly visitor. It’s not hostile—it’s more like a presence that watches. The first few weeks, we’d wake to find the quilt neatly folded at the foot of the bed, something we never do. Then, the livestock started acting strange. Our dog, a usually placid border collie, would growl at the empty corner of the bedroom. The chickens, one by one, refused to lay eggs. And in the fields, the wheat would sometimes flatten in a pattern that looked like a giant handprint. The townsfolk, who are superstitious, started whispering about a ‘seventh visitor’—a spirit from the old abandoned church on the hill. They say it comes to those who have unsettled business. But we’ve lived here for three years, and we never set foot in that church. The energy, though, has started to take form. At first, it was just a breeze. Then, a shape—a humanoid outline, slightly darker than the night. Last week, I woke to find a handprint pressed into the dust on the nightstand. It was larger than mine, with fingers that tapered to points.

Elena has grown accustomed to it. She claims it’s a protector, that it saved us from a fire when a spark from the stove jumped onto the kitchen curtain. I don’t know. I just know that it’s growing stronger. Two days ago, I heard a voice, not in my ear, but in my mind. It said, ‘You took my place.’ I thought I was dreaming, but Elena saw me shiver. She said, ‘It’s talking to you now?’ I nodded, and she gave me a look I’ve never seen before—not fear, but something like envy. That night, I woke to find Elena sitting upright, staring at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were open, but unfocused. She whispered, ‘He’s waiting for you.’ I shook her, and she came to, but she had no memory of it. I decided then that we needed to leave. I packed our things in the truck, but the engine wouldn’t start. The battery was dead, despite being new. The next morning, we found a dead crow on the hood, its wings spread as if it had been placed there. The stall at the edge of town, the one that sells religious trinkets, had a sign that said ‘The Doorway Is Open.’ I asked the old woman what it meant. She looked at me, her eyes milky, and said, ‘The one you saw in your dream is waiting. He has been waiting for a hundred years. You must go to him.’

I’ll be honest, I have always been a rational man. But this, I can’t explain. Last night, I woke to the sound of a door creaking. Our bedroom door was open, though we always close it. In the hallway, I saw a light—a faint blue glow, like a will-o’-the-wisp. It moved toward the stairs, then descended. I followed, my heart hammering. The glow led me to the basement, where we never go, because the floor is unstable. But the glow illuminated a trapdoor I had never noticed. As I knelt to inspect it, the glow extinguished. I heard a whisper, so close it could have been my own breath: ‘Open it.’ I put my hand on the ring, and the metal was ice-cold. I pulled, and the door swung open, revealing a stone staircase leading down into the earth. And from below, a voice—deep, resonant, and unmistakably human—said, ‘You’re late.’

I bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat. Elena was sleeping peacefully beside me. The clock showed 3:33 AM. The window was open, which we never leave open. I got up to close it, and that’s when I saw it: in the field, a figure, tall and indistinct, standing at the edge, its arm raised as if beckoning. I closed the window and locked it. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. This morning, I told Elena we’re leaving today. She didn’t argue. She just looked at me with an expression I can only describe as resignation. We packed again, and this time the truck started. We drove past the church on the hill, and I saw a figure in the doorway. It was the man from my dream. He wasn’t dark. He was gray, the color of ash. And he was smiling.

We’re on the road now, heading east. But the road loops around the town, and the highway signs keep pointing back to Bitterroot. The radio plays static, and every so often, I hear his voice in the crackle. Elena hasn’t spoken in hours. She just stares at her hands, and I notice her nails are caked with dirt, though she hasn’t been outside. I don’t know where we’re going. I only know that the energy is still with us. It’s in the car. I can feel it. And tonight, when we stop, I know what will happen. The door will open. And this time, I will step through, not as a dreamer, but as a visitor. The seventh visitor. And I will never come back.