The Sunlit Doorway

I was eight when I first met the woman in the yellow dress. It was the summer before fourth grade, and my family had just moved to a small town in the middle of nowhere, where the only sounds were the hum of cicadas and the occasional train whistle. Our new house was an old Victorian with peeling paint and a porch that sagged in the middle, but my parents were thrilled about the ‘character.’ I was less impressed.

One afternoon, while my parents were unpacking boxes in the living room, I decided to explore the backyard. The sun was high, and the grass was overgrown, tickling my ankles as I walked. I was heading toward the rusty swing set when I noticed a figure by the garden shed. My heart jumped, thinking it was my mom, but as I got closer, I saw it wasn’t her. The woman was tall, with dark hair pulled back, and she wore a bright yellow sundress that seemed to glow in the sunlight. She was standing perfectly still, facing the shed, as if waiting for something.

‘Hello?’ I called out, my voice trembling a little. She didn’t turn around. I took a step closer, feeling the heat of the sun on my neck. ‘Can I help you?’ Still nothing. I remember feeling a strange mix of curiosity and unease, but I was a kid, and I thought maybe she was a neighbor who had wandered into our yard. I walked right up to her, close enough to see the faint pattern of flowers on her dress. ‘Excuse me?’ I said, reaching out to tap her shoulder. My hand passed through her as if she were made of smoke.

I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat. The woman slowly turned her head, and I saw her face clearly for the first time. It was not my mother’s face, but it was familiar in a way that made my skin crawl. Her eyes were dark, empty pools, and her lips moved as if she were speaking, but no sound came out. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone, leaving behind the smell of lavender and dust. I stood there, shaking, staring at the empty spot where she had been.

I didn’t tell my parents, because I thought I had imagined it, but that night, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I lay in bed, listening to the creaking of the floorboards, praying it was just the house settling. But the steps stopped right outside my door, and I felt a cold draft seep under the crack. I pulled the covers over my head, and when I peeked out, I saw the silhouette of the woman in the yellow dress standing in the doorway, her head tilted as if she were studying me.

From that day on, the encounters grew more frequent. I would see her out of the corner of my eye in the kitchen, or hear her humming in the attic. She never hurt me, but she always seemed to be watching, waiting. My parents dismissed it as a vivid imagination, but I knew she was real. I started leaving small offerings for her, like a glass of water or a flower from the yard, hoping to appease her.

One day, about a month after we moved in, I found an old photograph in the attic, tucked inside a dusty album. It showed a family standing in front of our house, and there she was, the woman in the yellow dress, smiling brightly. She looked alive, happy, and in the background, I could see a little girl playing in the same spot where I had first seen her. I turned the photo over, and written in faded ink were the words: ‘Margaret, age 34, and her daughter, Lily, 1937.’

I spent days researching the history of the house and learned that a woman named Margaret had lived there with her daughter during the Great Depression. She had died in the front bedroom after a long illness, and her daughter, Lily, had been sent to live with relatives. The story said that Margaret never found peace, always searching for her little girl.

As I read those words, I realized why she had been following me. The next time I saw her, I didn’t run. I stood in the backyard, watching her by the shed, and I said, ‘I’m not Lily.’ The woman’s face contorted in what looked like pain, and she shook her head slowly. Then she raised her hand, pointing toward the house, toward the front bedroom window. I knew then that she wasn’t trying to hurt me; she was trying to get back to her child.

From that night on, she stopped appearing in my room. Instead, I would sometimes see her standing at the window, looking out at the street, as if waiting for Lily to come home. The house grew quieter, and life returned to normal, but I never forgot her.

Years later, when I was in high school, I found an old box in the attic with a yellowed envelope addressed to ‘Lily.’ I opened it, and inside was a letter from Margaret, written in beautiful cursive, telling her daughter how much she loved her and how sorry she was for leaving. I felt a chill run down my spine as I read the final words: ‘I will always be with you, my darling. I will never really be gone.’

I kept the letter, and to this day, I can still feel her presence sometimes, a faint warmth in the air, the smell of lavender, and a whisper in the wind that says, ‘I’m still here.’ And I believe her, because she is. She always will be.