The Widow’s Lace

I’ve been staying at my fiancé’s grandmother’s old farmhouse while he’s on a research trip in Greenland. The house is a Victorian relic, all creaking floors and drafty windows, with a garden that’s gone feral. The only neighbors are a retired couple half a mile down the dirt road, and the nearest town is a twenty-minute drive. It’s been a month, and I’ve learned to ignore the house’s groans, but the past few weeks have been different. The air feels thick, like the house is holding its breath.

Last Tuesday, I was in bed, reading by the dim bedside lamp, when the door to the hallway—a heavy oak thing—creaked open by itself. I froze, expecting the cat, but the cat was curled at my feet. The door swung all the way open, then shut with a soft click. I sat up, heart pounding, but the hallway was empty. I checked the lock, but it was old and loose—it could have been the wind. But there was no wind that night. I tried to convince myself it was the house settling, but my hands were shaking as I turned the light back on and hugged my pillow. I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I found the lace runner on the dining table had been folded into a perfect square and placed on the chair—the chair where my grandmother used to sit when she visited, before she passed. No one had touched it. I told myself I must have done it in a daze, but I hadn’t been in the dining room all day.

Then came Friday. My fiancé’s parents were at work, and the handyman was fixing the fence out back. I decided to take the dogs for a walk in the orchard, an overgrown tangle of apple trees at the edge of the property. The dogs, two Labs, usually loved it, but that day they refused to go past the first row of trees. They whined and tugged at their leashes, pulling back toward the house. I tried to coax them, but they wouldn’t budge. I gave up and turned to head back, and that’s when I saw it—a figure standing at the far end of the orchard, half-hidden by the twisted branches. It was tall, draped in something white and flowing, like a shroud. It didn’t move. I blinked, and it was gone.

I told myself it was a scarecrow, but there was no scarecrow in the orchard. I hurried back inside, my skin crawling. That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me from the edge of the property. I left every light on and locked my bedroom door for the first time.

The next morning, I found the front door ajar. The dogs were inside, whining at the door as if they’d been waiting. I checked the house, but nothing was missing. On the kitchen table, there was a small, worn photograph of a woman I didn’t recognize—young, with dark hair and sad eyes. On the back, someone had written in faded ink: ‘For the one who will come after.’ I put it in a drawer, trying to forget it.

But the house felt different now, like it was settling into a rhythm I couldn’t hear. And last night, I woke to the sound of a woman humming. It was soft, melodic, coming from the hallway. I squeezed my eyes shut, terrified, and pulled the covers over my head. The humming grew louder, then stopped. I heard the floorboards creak, as if someone was walking past my door. And then, a whisper, so close to my ear that I felt the breath on my skin: ‘You’ll be next.’

The morning light brought no comfort. I called my fiancé, but the connection was terrible, and all I could hear was static. I drove to town, sat in the library, and searched the local newspaper archives. That’s when I found it: a story from 1962 about a woman named Margaret Hale, who had lived in this house—the farmhouse was called ‘Hale’s Hollow’ back then. Margaret had died in the orchard, and the coroner ruled it a heart attack, but the article hinted at suicide, perhaps over her husband’s death in the war. Her son, William, inherited the house. But there was a photo of Margaret in the paper—and it was the same face as the photograph I’d found. The same sad eyes.

I returned home determined to leave, but my car wouldn’t start. The battery was dead, even though it was new. I called a tow truck, but the town’s only mechanic said he couldn’t make it until Monday. So I’m stuck here, in this house, with the humming at night and the figure in the orchard. The dogs refuse to go outside after dark. And last night, I found the lace runner folded again, placed on my pillow. I didn’t sleep a wink.

I don’t know what Margaret wants, but I’m terrified she’s planning a welcome for me—one that I won’t survive. And there’s something else. When I looked in the mirror this morning, I saw a faint bruise on my neck, shaped like fingerprints. I’m not sure if I did it to myself in my sleep, or if something else did. I’m posting this from the library to get it off my chest, but every sound makes me flinch. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. I’m hoping someone out there has an answer, because I’m running out of time.