The Weight of the Third Morning

The flight from Toronto to Porto had been a blur of recycled air and the low hum of engines, but now, at thirty-four, Ana sat in the back of her uncle’s dusty Renault, watching the familiar green hills of the Minho region roll past. She hadn’t been back in seven years, and the last visit had been for her grandmother’s funeral. Now it was her great-uncle Tomas, a man she barely remembered beyond his silent presence at family gatherings and the faint smell of pipe tobacco that clung to his wool sweaters.

They were staying at her cousin Margarida’s farmhouse, a sprawling stone building with thick walls and small windows that seemed to swallow the afternoon light. Margarida, a stout woman with a perpetual frown, had assigned Ana the guest room at the end of the hallway, a room that looked out onto the overgrown garden where Tomas had spent his last months tending to tomatoes that never ripened.

The room was sparse: a narrow bed with a lumpy mattress, a wooden dresser, and a framed photograph of a young couple on the wall—Ana’s grandparents, she assumed. The only company was Margarida’s cat, a scruffy orange tabby named Ferrugem, who had taken an immediate liking to Ana, following her around the house and curling up on her suitcase the moment she set it down.

That first night, exhaustion from the journey pulled Ana into a deep sleep. But she woke with a start at 3:17 AM, according to the glowing red numbers on her travel alarm clock. The room was pitch black, the only sound the wind rattling the loose shutter. Then she felt it: a dip in the mattress beside her, as if someone had sat down. The weight was undeniable, pressing the old springs into a groan. Ana held her breath, her heart thudding. She slowly turned her head, but there was nothing there. The pressure remained for a full minute, then gradually lifted, as if the person had stood up and walked away. Ferrugem, who had been sleeping at her feet, raised his head, his eyes glowing in the dark, and let out a low hiss.

Ana told herself it was the old bed settling, a draft, her imagination. She didn’t sleep again that night. The next day was a blur of funeral rites: the black clothes, the incense, the whispered condolences in a dialect she barely understood. She didn’t mention the incident to anyone, not even Margarida, who was already on edge, snapping at her husband about the goats that had gotten loose.

The second night, Ana was more prepared. She left the small lamp on the dresser burning, casting a weak halo. She lay on her side, watching the door, her body tense. At 3:17 AM, without fail, the lamp flickered, and the mattress dipped again. This time, the weight was heavier, and it shifted, as if someone was getting comfortable. She felt a cold draft brush her neck, and a faint smell of pipe tobacco filled the room. Ferrugem, who had been under the bed, shot out and ran to the door, scratching at it frantically.

Ana sat up, her voice a hoarse whisper: ‘Who’s there?’ The pressure remained. She could almost see a faint indentation in the quilt, a shape vaguely human. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it vanished. The lamp steadied, the air warmed. Ana didn’t sleep.

In the morning, she confronted Margarida. ‘Is there something about that room? Does it have a history?’ Margarida frowned at her, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘That was Tomas’s room. He died in that bed. But he was a good man. Why would he haunt you?’ She said it as if it were absurd, but Ana saw a flicker of something in her cousin’s eyes—fear, or maybe guilt.

The night before the funeral, the third night, Ana decided she wouldn’t sleep. She sat upright in the chair by the window, watching the bed. At 3:17, the lamp flickered, and the bed depressed with such force that the wooden frame creaked. The smell of tobacco was overwhelming. This time, Ana spoke firmly: ‘Tomas, if that’s you, I’m sorry you’re suffering. But I need to rest. Please leave me alone.’

For a moment, the pressure lessened. Then, a voice, thin and dry like autumn leaves, whispered in her ear: ‘I’m not Tomas. I’m the one who helped him. I’ve been waiting for a new visitor.’ The words were in Portuguese, but the accent was old, archaic. The hair on Ana’s arms stood up. The mattress suddenly sprang back up, and the wardrobe door swung open with a bang. In the mirror on the wardrobe, Ana saw a reflection—not of herself, but of an old woman in a black shawl, her eyes hollow, her mouth a dark O. The reflection smiled, and the lamp went out.

In the darkness, Ana heard Ferrugem growl, a deep, guttural sound she’d never heard from a cat. Then a crash, and the cat yowled. Ana fumbled for her phone, turned on the flashlight, and saw Ferrugem backed against the wall, his fur on end, staring at the empty bed. The wardrobe mirror was cracked, a spiderweb of lines radiating from a central point.

She didn’t stay in that room. She slept on the sofa in the living room, and the next morning, she told Margarida she’d had a nightmare. The funeral was held, and Tomas was laid to rest. But as the coffin was lowered, Ana noticed an old woman in black at the edge of the cemetery, watching from behind a cypress tree. She was gone when Ana looked again.

Ana flew back to Canada the next day, but she never forgot the weight on the bed, the whispered words. She tried to rationalize it: sleep paralysis, a neurological disturbance, the stress of grief. But the memory of that cracked mirror, and the reflection that smiled, remained, a splinter in her mind. Occasionally, at night, she would lie in her own bed in her Toronto apartment, and she would feel the mattress dip beside her. And a faint scent of pipe tobacco would drift through the room, and a voice, old and thin, would whisper in her ear, ‘I’ve been waiting for a new visitor.’