The Unseen Guest

The house had been in our family for generations, but it wasn’t until my parents left for the night that I felt its true age. I had just returned from a long shift at the library, my mind still buzzing with the quiet hum of old books. The moment I stepped through the back door, the silence hit me like a wall. Normally, our home was a chorus: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmur of the television, the click of my mother’s heels on the hardwood. But tonight, there was nothing. Even the creaks of the floorboards seemed to hold their breath.

I called out a tentative ‘Hello?’ but the word dissolved into the thick air. The place felt… expectant. I shook off the unease, blaming it on the unusual quiet. I made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen, the whistle of the kettle a jarring relief. As I waited for the water to boil, I noticed the calendar on the wall was flipped to a date from three weeks ago, and the sticky note with my mother’s handwriting—’pick up dry cleaning’—had faded, as if it had been there for a decade.

I settled in the living room, turning on the TV for company, but the channels were all static. I switched it off and pulled out my phone, scrolling through social media. That’s when I heard it: a faint, repetitive thumping, like a heartbeat, coming from upstairs. I paused, listening. It stopped. I resumed scrolling, but it started again, a little louder. This time, it was rhythmic, like a child bouncing a ball. But we didn’t have a ball in the house, and my cat was away with my sisters.

My heart quickened. I set my phone down and walked to the stairs. The thumping continued, now accompanied by a low, murmuring voice, too distorted to make out words. I called out again, but no one answered. I climbed the stairs slowly, each step groaning under my weight. The sound seemed to come from my parents’ bedroom at the end of the hall.

The door was ajar, a sliver of darkness visible. I pushed it open with a trembling hand. Inside, the room was bathed in the pale glow of the streetlight through the window. The curtains billowed as if a window was open, but I knew I had checked them earlier. There, in the corner, stood an old mirror that had belonged to my great-grandmother. It was covered with a white sheet, but the sheet had been partially pulled back, revealing a dark, oily glass. In the reflection, I saw not the room, but a figure: a gaunt, tall silhouette, like a man in a long coat, with no discernible features. It was standing behind me.

I spun around, but no one was there. The thumping stopped. A moment later, I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck, and a voice, not in my ears but inside my head, whispered in French: ‘Pourquoi es-tu seul?’ I knew the translation: ‘Why are you alone?’

I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet, and scrambled down the stairs. I tore out of the house and sat in my car, locking the doors, my hands shaking. I called my parents, but they didn’t answer, probably caught up in the wedding festivities. I called my sisters, but they were already asleep at the cottage. I was alone.

After a while, I gathered the courage to go back in. The house was quiet again, the thumping gone. I went to bed, leaving every light on and the TV blaring. I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening for any sound. Just as I was about to drift off, I heard that thumping again, now from directly beneath my bed. I froze. The murmuring grew louder, and I could make out the words: ‘Je suis là.’ ‘I am here.’

The next morning, I found the sheet that had been over the mirror lying crumpled on the floor of my parents’ room, and the mirror itself was no longer reflecting the room, but a hallway that didn’t exist. I moved out to my sisters’ cottage that day. I haven’t been back since. But sometimes, in the quiet of the cottage, I still hear that thumping, and I know I am not truly alone.