The Visitor by the Window

The night of June 3rd, 2016, I turned in early, exhausted from a long day of cataloging antique books at the local library. My old cat, Jasper, curled up at the foot of the bed, and I cracked the window to let in the cool breeze from the nearby marsh. I drifted off around 8 PM, the last light of dusk fading beyond the reeds.

At what must have been 3 AM, a soft voice cut through the silence: ‘Hello.’ My eyes snapped open. A figure knelt beside my bed, silhouetted against the moonlit window. I gasped, heart hammering, but then I recognized the familiar shape of my neighbor, Mrs. Calloway, who often checked on me. I exhaled, relaxing.

‘Sorry, you startled me,’ I whispered, but she didn’t respond. She just sat there, smiling, her hand stroking Jasper. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked, but silence. I noticed her hair was wet, dripping onto the floor. ‘Did you go for a swim in the marsh?’ I joked, but still no answer.

I propped myself up on my elbows, squinting. The angle shifted, and the illusion shattered. The figure wasn’t Mrs. Calloway at all. It was a woman I had never seen, her skin pale as the moon, her eyes dark hollows. She continued smiling, but her smile seemed too wide, too fixed. I screamed, scrambling back, but she vanished like mist when I blinked.

Jasper, who had been purring, now hissed and arched his back, staring at the empty spot. I flicked on the lamp, but the room was empty. Only a puddle of water remained on the hardwood floor, and a small, dark feather floated in it.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I kept thinking about the marsh, and how a few months ago, a woman had drowned there. They never found her body. I remembered walking Jasper along the boardwalk, passing a faded missing person poster. Her name was Etta, and she loved cats. Jasper had always paused at that poster, staring.

Now, as I stare at the puddle, I realize the water isn’t evaporating. It’s spreading, forming a thin trail toward the window. On the windowsill, I see a smear of mud, like a handprint. And in the distance, from the marsh, I hear a faint, melodious humming. I know I should close the window, but something holds me back, a pull I can’t explain. I whisper, ‘Etta?’ The humming stops, and the water ripples without wind.

I spend the next weeks obsessed, digging through newspaper archives. I learn that Etta was a recluse who lived in a cottage on the marsh’s edge. She disappeared after a storm, and her cottage burned down years ago. Locals say she still wanders, looking for her cat. I have Jasper, but he’s not hers. Yet, every night, I see her kneeling beside my bed, smiling, waiting. And every night, she leaves a small gift on the windowsill: a feather, a shell, a dead frog. I’m terrified, but I can’t tell anyone. They’ll think I’m crazy.

Last night, I woke to find Jaspers missing. I searched the house, my heart pounding. I found him in the backyard, standing at the edge of the marsh, facing the water. He was purring, rubbing against the air. And there, in the mist, I saw her form, more solid than before. She reached out and stroked Jasper’s fur, then looked up at me with those hollow eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and the mist swallowed her.

Jasper trotted back to me, and I scooped him up. I know now she was never malevolent. She was lonely, and she found comfort in my presence and my cat. I still don’t fully understand, but I leave the window open every night. And sometimes, when the moon is high, she sits by my bed, and we watch the marsh together. It’s not scary anymore. It’s the most peaceful, surreal friendship I’ve ever known. But I’m always aware: she’s from the water, and one day, she might call me to join her. But I like her company, so I’ll stay.