The Third Stroke of Midnight

Marta and I shared a cramped attic room in our grandmother’s farmhouse, a place we’d been sent to for the summer while our parents sorted out their troubles. The room was stifling, the single window overlooking a field of dead sunflowers that rustled even when there was no wind. We’d taken to sleeping with the window cracked open, hoping for a breeze, but that night the air was still and heavy, like the whole world was holding its breath.

I was drifting off when I heard it—a voice, rough and low, like gravel rolling under a door. It called my name: ‘Elena.’ Not a question, not a shout, just a flat, certain statement. I froze. My eyes stayed shut, because somehow I knew that if I opened them, something would be there, waiting. I told myself it was the wind or an animal, but the sound had been too close, too intimate, like someone had whispered right into my ear.

I lay there, heart pounding, trying to force myself back to sleep, when Marta’s hand grabbed my arm. Her fingers were ice-cold. ‘Elena,’ she hissed. ‘Did you hear that?’ I opened my eyes. The room was dark, but I could see the outline of Marta’s face, pale as the moon, her eyes wide. ‘Someone called your name,’ she said. ‘It came from the foot of the bed.’

My blood turned to sludge. The foot of the bed was at the far end, near the door, where the shadows pooled thick and black. I didn’t want to look, but Marta’s grip was iron. We both stared into that darkness, waiting. Nothing moved. The dead sunflowers outside scratched against the glass. Then, from that very spot, I heard it again—my name, dragged out in that raspy whisper: ‘Elena.’ This time, Marta heard it too. Her nails dug into my arm, and I felt a sob rise in my throat.

We didn’t sleep that night. We huddled together, backs against the headboard, watching the end of the bed until dawn. When the first gray light crept through the window, we saw it: a dark, wet patch on the wooden floor, shaped like a footprint, but the toes were backward, pointing toward the bed. We told our grandmother, but she just shook her head and said, ‘Don’t go wandering after dark.’ We never found out what it was, but every night since, at the third stroke of midnight, I hear that voice again, and I know—it’s still waiting at the foot of the bed, watching us sleep.