The Unseen Hand

In the autumn of 2019, I was living alone in a small, rented cottage nestled in the woods of Vermont. The house had a rustic charm, with exposed beams and a stone fireplace, but it was also old and prone to creaks and groans. That night, I was curled up on my bed with a mystery novel, the rain drumming a steady rhythm against the windows. A sudden, sharp crash from downstairs shattered the quiet, making me jump. It sounded like a window breaking or a heavy object hitting the floor. I assumed the wind had knocked something over, perhaps a plant or a picture frame. I sighed, marked my page, and padded down the narrow stairs to investigate.

The kitchen was pristine. Nothing was out of place. The counters were clean, the sink empty, the dishes in the drying rack. The back door was locked, the windows shut tight. I paused, listening. The only sound was the rain and the distant rumble of thunder. I shook my head, convinced I was hearing things, and returned to my book.

But the noise nagged at me. It was too distinct to be a figment of my imagination. So, I got up again, this time checking every room on the ground floor. The living room was next. I flipped the light switch, and the room flooded with warm, dim light from the overhead fixture. My eyes immediately went to the bookshelf that stood against one wall. It was a tall, oak piece that held my collection of first editions and a few sentimental knickknacks. On the top shelf, at the very back, sat a silver candlestick holder that had been a gift from my late grandmother. It was ornate, with intricate filigree and a heavy base. I had placed it there for safekeeping, away from the reach of my clumsy cat, Jasper.

But there it was, on the floor, in the middle of the room: the candlestick, its polished surface gleaming, and beside it, a thick, red taper candle that had snapped cleanly in two. Shards of glass were scattered across the hardwood floor, remnants of the glass chimney that had been part of the set. The holder itself was weighted and sturdy; it wouldn’t topple easily. And the candle was brand new, never even lit. I had put it there just a week ago.

My heart began to pound. I scanned the room, looking for any sign of an intruder or an animal. Jasper was sleeping soundly on the windowsill, unfazed. No windows were broken, no doors forced. The room was exactly as I had left it, save for the debris. I carefully picked up the pieces and placed them on the coffee table, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the draft. As I knelt to gather the glass, I noticed something odd: a faint, dusty footprint on the wooden floor, but it wasn’t from any shoe. It was bare, and too small to be an adult’s. More like a child’s foot, perhaps.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe a raccoon had gotten in somehow? But the footprint was too human. I called out, ‘Hello?’ The only answer was the echo of my own voice. I told myself I was overreacting, that I’d had too much coffee, that there was a rational explanation. I swept up the glass, put the pieces in the trash, and went back to bed. But sleep was elusive. I lay in the dark, every creak and groan of the house amplified.

At 3 a.m., I heard a faint scraping sound from the living room, like furniture being dragged across the floor. I froze, straining to listen. Then silence. I grabbed my phone and tiptoed down the stairs, ready to call 911 at the slightest sign of danger. The living room was dark, the light switch just inside the door. I flicked it on, and my breath caught in my throat. The candlestick and candle were back on the top shelf, exactly where they had been before. But now, they were turned to face the door, as if someone had deliberately placed them to watch me. The glass chimney, which I had thrown in the trash, was now sitting on the coffee table, perfectly intact. The trash bag was tied and by the back door, unopened.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the kitchen, all the lights on, until dawn. The next day, I called a handyman to inspect the house for drafts, animals, or structural issues. He found nothing. He did mention a strange feeling in the living room, a cold spot near the bookshelf, but he chalked it up to poor insulation.

Over the next few nights, I became paranoid. I checked the room multiple times before bed, but nothing else happened. I began to think it was a one-time anomaly, a trick of my mind. But on the third night, as I was getting ready for bed, I heard the crash again. I ran down, heart pounding, and found the candlestick on the floor, the candle snapped in two, a fresh footprint in the dust – but this time, it was larger, as if it were growing. The footprint was now the size of an adult’s bare foot.

I called the police, but they found no sign of entry. They suggested it might be a practical joke, or that I was imagining things. They told me to check carbon monoxide detectors, but I had one, and it was fine. I couldn’t stay in that house any longer. I packed a bag and went to a motel.

When I returned the next day to gather more things, the candlestick was on the floor again, but this time, the candle was on the bookshelf, standing upright, as if it had been neatly placed there. And on the floor, in the dust, was a message written in a shaky hand: ‘SHE WAS HERE.’

I never found out who ‘she’ was, or what the footprint meant. I moved out a week later, never to return. But the memory of that night lingers. Sometimes, I wake up in my new apartment, in a different state, and I think I hear the crash of glass and the scrape of a candle being broken in two. And I wonder if the unseen hand that moved that candlestick followed me, waiting for a moment to reveal itself again.