The Waking Hour

In the late summer of 2011, I was house-sitting for my aunt in the remote town of Derry, Maine. The house was an old Victorian relic, creaking with every breath of wind, and my aunt had warned me about the peculiar quiet that settled after midnight. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I respected the unease that clung to the walls like dust. My nights were spent in the dim glow of my tablet, scrolling through old forum posts, while the rest of the house drowned in shadow.

One night, around 1:47 AM, I looked up from a particularly engrossing thread about local folklore. The room was dark, lit only by the screen’s pale light, and the silence was so thick I could hear my own heartbeat. My eyes drifted to the doorway leading to the hallway. There, in the corner, stood a figure. It was not solid, but a column of darkness that seemed to absorb the light around it. It was tall, nearly touching the ceiling, and its edges were undefined, like smoke. But within that darkness, there was a slow, churning motion, as if something inside was alive and restless.

I froze, my mind racing to find a logical explanation. A trick of the light? A moth? But there was no light source to cast such a shadow, and the room was still. The shape began to solidify, taking on a humanoid form, but smaller, childlike. It had no eyes, but I felt it watching me. A cold draft whispered across my skin, and the faint smell of dust and old paper filled my nostrils. I tried to speak, but my throat was dry.

The child-thing took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked under its weight, though it seemed to have no feet. It stopped at the edge of the pool of light from my tablet, and its form wavered, as if the light hurt it. I managed to whisper, ‘Who are you?’ The room remained silent, but I heard a faint, high-pitched giggle, like the sound of wind chimes caught in a breeze. The shape tilted its head, and I could swear it was smiling.

Suddenly, the tablet’s screen flickered and died, plunging the room into absolute darkness. My heart hammered. I fumbled for the lamp on the side table, but when my hand touched it, the bulb exploded with a sharp pop. I stumbled backward, knocking over a chair, and in the chaos, I felt a small, cold hand grasp my ankle. I yelped and kicked out, but the touch was gone. The room was silent again, but I knew it was still there, waiting.

I crawled to the hallway, my fingers finding the light switch, but it wouldn’t budge. The darkness was like a weight, pressing in on me. I heard the sound of bare feet padding on the hardwood, growing closer. I squeezed my eyes shut, repeating a prayer I hadn’t said in years. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pressure lifted. I opened my eyes to find the hallway bathed in the faint glow of the bathroom nightlight. The child was gone.

I spent the rest of the night huddled in the bathroom, my back against the door, listening for any sound. At dawn, I called my aunt and asked about the house’s history. She hesitated, then told me that a little girl had died in that house in the 1970s, after falling down the stairs. She had been about five, with bright red hair. My aunt never saw her, but she always felt a presence. She claimed the girl was harmless, just lonely.

I didn’t stay another night. I left the keys on the kitchen counter and drove away before the sun fully rose. But as I pulled out of the driveway, I glanced in the rearview mirror. In the upstairs window, I saw a small figure, a shadow against the glass, waving goodbye. I never told anyone the full story, but I’ve never forgotten that night. Sometimes, when I’m alone in a dark room, I still feel a tiny hand on my ankle, and I hear a faint giggle in the silence.

That was my first and only encounter with the child of Derry, but I know she’s still there, waiting for the next person to sit too long in the dark and look up at the wrong moment.