A Night Time Visitor
In the dim hush of her bedroom, Eleanor lay motionless under the weight of her duvet, the digital clock on her nightstand glowing 2:47 AM in sterile red numerals. The house was old, a Victorian relic she’d inherited from her aunt, creaking with the ghosts of settling foundations and wind-swept eaves. Insomnia had plagued her for weeks, ever since the layoff from her accounting firm, leaving her days blurred into nights of restless staring at the ceiling’s cracked plaster. Tonight was no different—or so she thought. The city outside her window was a distant murmur, traffic fading into oblivion, leaving only the occasional siren wailing like a banshee in the distance.
She shifted slightly, the bedsprings protesting with a faint groan. That’s when she heard it: a soft scrape, like nails dragging across wood, coming from somewhere downstairs. Eleanor froze, her breath catching in her throat. It was probably the neighbor’s cat, she rationalized, the one that sometimes scratched at the back door. Or perhaps a branch tapping the siding in the breeze. She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, but the sound repeated—deliberate, rhythmic. Scrape. Pause. Scrape.
Her heart quickened, a subtle thrum against her ribs. The house had always been full of noises, but this felt… off. Too purposeful. She strained her ears, the silence amplifying every tiny creak. There it was again, closer now? No, that couldn’t be. The scrape seemed to emanate from the hallway leading to the kitchen, muffled by walls and distance. Eleanor pulled the covers higher, tucking them under her chin like a child warding off monsters. “It’s nothing,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. But doubt gnawed at her. She hadn’t locked the back door tonight—had she? The thought sent a chill skittering down her spine. She recalled the evening routine: dinner alone, a glass of wine, scrolling through job listings on her laptop. The door… she couldn’t remember turning the key.
Minutes ticked by, the clock now reading 2:53. The scraping stopped, replaced by a new sound: a faint shuffling, like feet dragging across the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Eleanor’s eyes snapped open, staring into the darkness. The bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of black hallway visible beyond. She could picture the layout—the kitchen at the far end of the hall, the stairs curling up to her room. Was someone down there? A burglar? Her mind raced through possibilities: the recent spate of break-ins in the neighborhood, reported on the local news. Thieves targeting isolated houses like hers, slipping in through unlocked doors. But no alarms had gone off; she didn’t have any. She regretted not installing that security system Mark had suggested before he died.
The shuffling grew intermittent, as if whatever was making it paused to listen, just as she was. Then, a clink—metal on metal, like a utensil being lifted from the drawer. Eleanor’s breath came in shallow bursts. What were they doing? Searching for valuables? Or something more sinister? She imagined a figure rifling through her cutlery, selecting a knife. The thought made her stomach twist. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cool screen. The battery was at 5%; she’d forgotten to charge it again. Dial 911? But what if it was nothing? The police would think she was paranoid, an overreacting widow in her fifties. Still, she unlocked the screen, the glow illuminating her pale face, casting shadows that danced like phantoms on the walls.
Before she could decide, the sound evolved. Footsteps now, slow and uneven, padding from the kitchen toward the base of the stairs. Thud. Thud. Not heavy boots, but something softer, almost barefoot, with a slight drag that suggested… injury? Or age? Eleanor clutched the phone tighter, her thumb hovering over the emergency button. The footsteps ascended the first step, the old wood creaking under pressure. She counted them in her head: one, two, three. There were fourteen steps to the upstairs landing. At this pace, it would take minutes, but each one brought it nearer. Her mind flashed to childhood fears, hiding under blankets from imaginary bogeymen. But this was real; the creaks were too consistent, too methodical.
Her body screamed at her to get up, to barricade the door, to flee to the bathroom and lock herself in. But her limbs felt leaden, pinned by an invisible force. It was as if the bed had become a trap, the mattress sucking her down. “Move,” she urged herself silently, but fear had paralyzed her, turning her into a statue of flesh and bone. The footsteps continued: four, five. A pause on the sixth, and then a low rasp, like labored breathing echoing up the stairwell. Was it human? The sound was wet, gurgling, as if through congested lungs or a throat filled with phlegm.
Eleanor’s imagination spiraled into darker territories. She remembered the stories her aunt used to tell over tea, whispers of a family curse. Her great-grandfather, a miner who had perished in a cave-in, his lungs filled with coal dust, choking to death in this house. He’d been brought home to die in the downstairs parlor. Superstition, Eleanor had always dismissed it as the ramblings of an old woman. But now, in the dead of night, with the rasping breath growing louder, doubt crept in like fog seeping under the door. Was it him, risen from the grave, seeking company in his eternal agony? The breathing synced with the footsteps: seven, eight. It was halfway up. She could almost feel the air displacing, a cold draft accompanying the presence as it climbed inexorably toward her.
What if it was a squatter, someone who’d been living in the basement unbeknownst to her? The house had a crawlspace she rarely ventured into, filled with dust and forgotten boxes. The thought of a stranger dwelling there, watching her routines, made her skin crawl. Nine, ten. The rasping was clearer now, accompanied by a faint wheeze, like air escaping a punctured bellows. Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the sounds invaded her mind, painting vivid pictures.
The phone was still in her hand, but calling now seemed futile. By the time help arrived, it would be too late. Eleven, twelve. Now it was on the landing, just outside her door. The shuffling stopped, replaced by a scratching at the base of the door, like claws testing the wood. Eleanor’s pulse roared in her ears, a deafening drumbeat. She could hear it breathing now, inches away, the wheeze turning into a guttural murmur, almost words but not quite. “El…ea…nor…” it seemed to hiss, the syllables stretched and distorted. Her name? How could it know her name? Panic surged, a wave of nausea rising in her throat.
Terror clamped her throat shut. She wanted to scream, to call for neighbors, but no sound emerged. The door creaked open wider, pushed by an unseen force. A shadow elongated across the floor, humanoid but distorted, limbs too long, posture hunched like a predator stalking prey. It paused in the threshold, the breathing now a ragged symphony filling the room, vibrating the air. Eleanor lay there, sweat beading on her forehead, her body betraying her with immobility. The smell hit her then—a faint, acrid tang, like decay mixed with damp earth, the scent of something long buried.
The murmuring grew clearer, a whisper slithering into her ears: “Eleanor… join me…” It was Mark’s voice, twisted and hollow, echoing from beyond the grave. Mark, who had died in this bed, his heart failing in the night while she slept beside him. She’d woken to his cold body, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Guilt flooded her—had she ignored his gasps, mistaking them for snores? Was this his revenge, his spirit returned to drag her into the void? “No,” she thought desperately, “ghosts aren’t real.” But the voice persisted, laced with malice: “You let me die alone…”
A step into the room—soft, padding on the hardwood. Then another. It was inside now, drawing nearer to the bed. The floorboards groaned under its weight, each one marking its progress. One step. Two. It was at the foot of the bed. Eleanor’s body trembled uncontrollably, but still, she couldn’t move, couldn’t roll away or kick off the covers. The paralysis was absolute, as if invisible hands pinned her down, forcing her to confront the approaching horror.
The mattress dipped slightly at the foot, as if weight was being applied. Then, a slow creep upward, the fabric shifting as something crawled onto the bed. Eleanor felt the depression moving, inch by inch, toward her legs. The breathing was hotter now, closer, the wheeze turning into a chuckle, low and menacing. Three steps—wait, no, it was crawling now, the bed sinking under knees and hands. She could feel the vibration, the subtle shift of the springs.
Her eyes flew open against her will. In the gloom, she glimpsed it: a silhouette, gaunt and spectral, skin hanging loose like rotten cloth, eyes gleaming with unnatural hunger from sunken sockets. It was Mark, but not Mark—his face decayed, lips pulled back in a rictus grin, teeth yellowed and sharp. It leaned in, closer, its breath mingling with hers, fetid and cold as the grave. “I’ve waited so long,” it rasped, a claw-like hand reaching toward her throat, fingers bony and unyielding.
Eleanor’s scream finally broke free, a piercing wail that echoed through the empty house. But it was too late. The thing’s grip closed around her neck, squeezing the life from her as it pulled her down into the darkness. She never left the bed, her body found the next morning by concerned neighbors, eyes wide in eternal terror, with no sign of forced entry or struggle.
The house stood silent once more, waiting for its next occupant.
