The Waking Pattern

I didn’t think much of the old farmhouse when we moved in. It was cheap, and the landlord was desperate. The previous tenants had left in a hurry, according to him, ‘some kind of family emergency.’ He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. I needed a place after the divorce, and my daughter, Elara, needed a yard. The house itself was fine, if a bit run-down. The only oddity was the converted pantry off the kitchen, which had been turned into a small bedroom. The landlord shrugged and said it was ‘extra space’ from when the original owners wanted a maid. I gave it to Elara because it was closest to the bathroom.

From the first night, Elara woke up at exactly 3:17 AM. Not crying, not scared, just standing in the doorway of my room, staring at the kitchen. I’d find her there, her small feet cold on the linoleum, her eyes wide but vacant. I’d guide her back to bed, and she’d sleep the rest of the night. In the morning, she remembered nothing. I chalked it up to sleepwalking, a phase, stress from the move. But the pattern was relentless. Every night, same time, same spot. It started to wear on me, the sleeplessness, the worry.

Then the kitchen began to change. Little things at first: the salt shaker would be upside down in the morning, the fridge door left ajar. I locked everything before bed. I even taped the salt shaker to the counter. It looked absurd, but it stayed. But one night, I heard the distinct sound of a drawer sliding open and closed. I crept downstairs, heart pounding, and found the drawer that held the cutlery open. The knives were all arranged in a neat row, except one missing. The next morning, I found the missing knife in the garden, stuck in the vegetable patch, blade glinting in the sun.

I began to wonder about the previous tenants. I found letters in a box in the attic, addressed to a woman named Margaret. They were from her sister, begging her to leave the house, to come stay with her. The letters spoke of ‘the pattern’ and ‘the calling.’ I dismissed it as a family dispute. But then Elara started drawing. She’d always been artistic, but now she drew only one thing: a woman with long, dark hair, standing in a doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. The face was always blank, just a pale oval. I asked her who it was. She said, ‘Maggie.’ My blood ran cold.

I decided to sleep in Elara’s room one night, to see if I could catch her in the act of sleepwalking. But I was the one who woke at 3:17. I wasn’t sleepwalking. I was awake, lying in the bed, but I couldn’t move. I could feel a presence at the door, a chill radiating from the hallway. I tried to speak, to call out to Elara, but my voice was gone. And then I saw her, not Elara, but the woman from the drawings. She was tall, gaunt, with dark hair that moved as if underwater. Her face was not blank; it was a mask of sorrow and hunger. She looked at me, and then slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand and placed it on the kitchen counter.

I must have blacked out because the next thing I knew, it was morning. Elara was shaking me, telling me I’d slept in her bed. I had no memory of how I got there. When I went to the kitchen, I found a line of salt had been poured across the threshold of the pantry. And the pantry door, which I knew I’d wedged shut with a chair, was wide open. Inside, on the bare mattress, was a small, child-sized handprint burned into the fabric.

I called the landlord, demanding answers. He finally confessed: the previous tenant, a woman named Margaret, had drowned her two children in the bathtub, then hanged herself in that very pantry. The house had been silent for years, but recently, he’d been getting calls from tenants about ‘the pattern.’ He said, ‘She wants to finish the pattern. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.’ I hung up.

That night, I packed our bags. I told Elara we were going on a surprise trip to her grandma’s. She looked at me with those big, serious eyes and said, ‘Can Maggie come too?’ I didn’t answer. We drove away without looking back. But as we sped down the country road, the radio flickered to static, and then a woman’s voice, soft and sad, whispered, ‘Come back. I’ll keep the pattern.’ I pressed the gas. Elara was silent in the back seat, staring out the window. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw, for just a moment, a dark shape standing at the edge of the farmhouse, watching us go. I didn’t blink. I drove until the sun came up, and only then did I allow myself to breathe. We’ve been at my mother’s for a month now. Elara hasn’t sleepwalked once. But sometimes, when I check on her at night, I see her smiling in her sleep, and her lips move as if whispering to someone only she can see. And I wonder if we ever really left.