"The Visitor"

It was the scratching that first woke her. Amelia sat up in bed, listening in the dark. The house was old, creaky, with all the usual complaints—whispers in the walls, thumps in the attic. But this? This was different.

The scratching came again, faint but deliberate, just outside her bedroom window. She tiptoed across the room, heart pounding, and peered through the glass, half expecting a raccoon or maybe a stray branch brushing against the house. But the yard was empty.

The sound stopped, but she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling, the way her skin prickled as if the room itself were holding its breath.

The next night, the scratching returned—closer, more insistent. She pressed her ear to the wall and could almost hear a faint whispering, something just out of reach, like someone trying to remember how to speak. Then came a soft, slow tapping, almost polite, as if asking permission.

She didn’t sleep that night.

By the third night, Amelia had convinced herself it was all in her head. She stayed up, lights on, sipping tea and waiting for the sun. But at midnight, the lights flickered, and the scratching began again, louder this time. The whispers were clearer now, weaving words just barely recognizable: Let me in.

Panic seized her as the walls around her seemed to close in. She backed up, nearly tripping over the bed, her eyes locked on the window. And there, for just a second, she saw it—a pale face pressed to the glass, eyes dark and empty, a smile stretching too wide.

Amelia screamed, scrambling backward as the face faded into the darkness. But the whisper lingered in her ears, curling like smoke, a promise she couldn’t ignore.

Tomorrow night, it breathed, I’m coming in.