The White Crawler

In the autumn of 2013, I was a sophomore at a small college in upstate New York, living with my family in an old Victorian house that had more drafts than warmth. My parents and younger brother were heading to a family reunion in Pennsylvania, but I begged off, citing a mountain of homework and a stack of horror movies I wanted to binge. They left with the usual warnings about locking up and not staying up too late.

The house was a maze of creaking floors and half-lit rooms. We kept most of the lights off to save on the electric bill, so the corridors were always swathed in dimness, especially after sunset. On that particular Saturday, the sky had turned a bruised purple by seven, and the house felt even more cavernous than usual.

I camped out in the living room with a bowl of popcorn and a selection of films. By ten, my eyes were dry and my back ached from slouching. I decided to use the bathroom on the third floor, the one near the attic stairs, because it was the only one with a window that opened to the fire escape. The house had a second-floor hallway with a massive stained-glass window, which cast eerie patterns on the floor when the sun hit it, but at night it was just a dark void.

I climbed the creaky stairs, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The bathroom door was at the end of the hall, and I flicked the switch, but the bulb flickered and then died. I cursed, fumbling in the dark, and finally used the sink light’s glow to do my business. As I washed my hands, I caught my reflection in the mirror, looking pale and tired.

Done, I stepped out into the hallway, which was lit only by the faint light from the bathroom behind me. I could see the dark outline of the stairs ahead. I didn’t bother turning on the hallway light, as it was just a short walk, but as I reached the landing, I felt a sudden chill, like a cold breath on my neck. I looked up.

At the far end of the hallway, where the stained-glass window was, something stood. It was white, impossibly white, as if it had been bleached by the sun and moon at once. It was tall, taller than any man, with a hunched posture, and its limbs were thin and spindly, like a spider’s legs, but it also had a human torso and head. Its face was featureless, a blank oval, and it was staring right at me.

I froze. My mind screamed to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The thing began to move toward me, not walking, but crawling, its long limbs scraping against the wooden floor, making a sound like nails on a chalkboard. It was impossibly fast, covering half the distance in seconds.

I finally snapped out of it and turned to run, but I slipped on the polished floor and fell. I scrambled backward, trying to get away, but the creature was already on top of me. It didn’t touch me, but it leaned close, and I could see that its featureless face had a mouth, a slit that opened wide, and from it came a sound like a thousand whispers, all speaking in a language I couldn’t understand.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the end, but then I heard my own voice, screaming. I opened my eyes and I was lying on the floor of the bathroom, the sink light still on. I had fainted. I didn’t remember falling.

I stumbled downstairs, shaking, and didn’t sleep that night. I told my parents when they returned, but they dismissed it as a nightmare or a trick of the light. But I knew what I saw.

I’ve never been able to forget it. I’ve searched online, asked around, but no one has ever seen anything like it. I call it the White Crawler, because that’s what it was. And sometimes, when I’m in a dark hallway, I think I see a glimpse of white out of the corner of my eye, and I run.

I don’t know if it ever left. I don’t think it did. It’s still there, in the corners of old houses, waiting for someone to turn off the lights.