The Uninvited Guest

It was a sweltering August evening in 2012 when I returned home with my parents after a long day of visiting relatives. The old Victorian house on Birchwood Lane had always felt a bit eerie, especially at dusk, but tonight the shadows seemed deeper, the creaks louder. I was the first to step inside, the heavy oak door groaning behind me. My parents followed, but I immediately headed to my room, eager to shed my sweaty clothes and take a long, cool shower.

As I unbuttoned my shirt, I heard my mother’s voice from the hallway, calling my name in that familiar, gentle tone. ‘Emma, come here.’ I paused, thinking she needed help with the groceries. I stepped out and walked toward her room, but the door was closed. I knocked softly. ‘Mom? Did you call me?’ No answer. I called out louder, ‘Mom? You okay?’ Still nothing. I turned to see my father lugging a suitcase up the stairs. He looked at me, puzzled. ‘What are you doing? Your mother’s in the kitchen, making tea.’

A chill ran down my spine. ‘But I just heard her call me,’ I insisted. My father shrugged, dismissing it as my imagination. I tried the doorknob to my mother’s room; it was locked. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. I rushed back to my room, grabbed my towel, and took the fastest shower of my life, the water cold and startling. That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying that voice in my head. It had sounded so real, so close.

The next morning, I confronted my mother at breakfast. ‘Mom, did you call me last night?’ She looked at me over her coffee, frowning. ‘No, dear, I was in the kitchen the whole time. Why?’ I told her what I heard, and she laughed it off, saying it was probably the wind. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

A few weeks later, while cleaning the attic, I found an old journal belonging to the previous owner, a reclusive woman named Margaret Ashworth. The final entry, dated October 31, 1987, read: ‘They come to me in the walls. They whisper my name in her voice. She is the key. I must not answer.’ I closed the book, my hands trembling. I had been hearing that voice again, sometimes at night, sometimes during the day. It always sounded like my mother, but it was never her.

One evening, I was home alone. My parents had gone to a dinner party. I was reading in the living room when I heard it again: ‘Emma, come here.’ It came from my mother’s bedroom upstairs. My heart pounded. I knew she wasn’t there. But curiosity got the better of me. I climbed the stairs, each step creaking under my weight. The door was slightly ajar, not locked as before. I pushed it open. The room was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight streaming through the lacy curtains.

I saw a figure standing by the window, its back to me. It wore my mother’s favorite blue dress. ‘Mom?’ I whispered. The figure didn’t turn. ‘I’m not your mother,’ a voice said, but it was my mother’s voice. The figure slowly turned around. It had my mother’s face, but its eyes were black, like voids. It smiled, and its mouth stretched too wide. ‘But I know who is.’ It pointed to the closet. The closet door creaked open, and I saw my mother, bound and gagged, tears streaming down her face. The thing that wore her face laughed, a sound that echoed through the house.

I screamed and ran. I burst through the front door, into the cool night air. I called the police from a neighbor’s house. When they arrived, they found nothing. No figure, no bound mother. My parents came home to find me sobbing in the kitchen. They tried to calm me, but I kept babbling about the thing in the mirror.

They had me see a therapist. Diagnosed with acute stress and given sedatives. But I knew what I saw. Weeks passed, and I tried to push it away. Then, one night, I woke to a sound. A soft knocking on my bedroom door. ‘Emma, let me in.’ It was my mother’s voice, but with a strange, hollow tone. ‘Emma, it’s me.’ I froze. The doorknob rattled. ‘Let me in, sweetheart.’ I saw the shadow of feet beneath the door. But my mother was in the next room, I could hear her snoring. I didn’t answer. I pulled the covers over my head and whispered a prayer. The knocking continued for what felt like hours, then stopped.

The next morning, I found scratch marks on the inside of my door, deep gouges in the wood, as if something had tried to claw its way in. I never spoke of the night again. But to this day, whenever someone calls my name in a quiet house, I hesitate to answer. And I always lock my door.