Chapter 14: The Visitor

I hadn't expected anyone. In fact, I hadn't expected anything at all that evening.

It was supposed to be just another quiet, solitary night. The kind I'd grown used to over the past few months, where the silence was only broken by the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the creak of the old house settling into itself. The kind where I could forget, at least for a few hours, that life outside my walls existed.

The knock at the door shattered that illusion.

It wasn't loud—just a soft, tentative rap, as though the person on the other side wasn't quite sure they should be there. For a moment, I thought I'd imagined it. I stood frozen in the living room, listening. The knock came again, a little louder this time, but still hesitant.

Who could it be? I wasn't expecting deliveries, and no one had visited me in… well, I couldn't remember the last time anyone had. Most people had stopped coming around after the accident, after I'd become a bit of a recluse. It was easier that way. Easier to avoid the pitying looks, the awkward conversations.

I hesitated before moving toward the door, my feet slow, almost reluctant. I told myself it was probably just someone lost, maybe a neighbor who needed something, but the unease I felt at the pit of my stomach said otherwise.

When I reached the door, I took a deep breath and opened it.

There was no one there.

At least, that's what I thought at first. But then I saw her.

A girl, no older than seven or eight, stood at the edge of the porch. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress, the kind you might see in black-and-white photographs, and her hair hung in long, tangled curls. She didn't look up at me. Instead, she stared down at the ground, one hand clutching a small, tattered doll.

For a second, I didn't say anything. I just stood there, staring at her, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. She didn't belong here. There were no children in this neighborhood, and certainly no one who would have been wandering around in a dress like that. Something about her felt… off. It wasn't just the clothes, or the fact that she appeared out of nowhere.

It was the stillness.

The way she stood there, unmoving, as if frozen in place. The way the air around her seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something.

"Can I help you?" I asked, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, too loud in the quiet.

The girl didn't answer.

For a long moment, we just stood there, me at the door, her at the edge of the porch. She still hadn't looked up at me, hadn't acknowledged my presence at all. It was unsettling, to say the least.

I cleared my throat, trying again. "Are you lost? Do you need help?"

Slowly, the girl lifted her head. Her eyes met mine, and I felt a chill run down my spine. There was something wrong with her eyes—something too dark, too hollow. They seemed to swallow the light, as if there was nothing behind them.

She didn't speak, but she took a step forward, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden porch. I stepped back instinctively, my hand tightening on the doorframe. The unease that had been simmering beneath the surface flared into something sharper, more urgent.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice lower now, wary.

The girl blinked, her expression blank. She took another step forward, and then another, until she was standing right in front of me. Her head tilted slightly to the side, as if she were studying me, trying to figure something out.

"I… I think you should go," I said, though my throat had gone dry, and the words felt weak, uncertain.

She didn't move.

Instead, she raised her hand and held out the doll she'd been clutching. It was old, its once-bright colors faded and worn, with one eye missing and a patch where the hair had been torn out. She held it out to me, as if offering it.

I shook my head, stepping back again. "No, I don't want—"

"Please," she whispered.

The word was barely audible, just a breath of sound, but it cut through the quiet like a knife. Her voice was thin and strained, like she hadn't used it in a long time.

I didn't know what to say, didn't know how to react. The unease had solidified into something darker now, something that gnawed at the edges of my mind, telling me to shut the door, to turn away.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't move.

The girl's hand remained outstretched, the doll dangling limply from her fingers. Her eyes—those dark, hollow eyes—were locked on mine, unblinking, expectant.

For reasons I still don't understand, I reached out and took the doll.

The moment my fingers closed around it, the air shifted. The silence grew thicker, heavier, as if the world itself was holding its breath. I felt a sudden weight on my chest, a pressure that made it hard to breathe.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, the girl was gone.

One moment she was standing in front of me, and the next, the porch was empty. The only sign that she'd ever been there was the doll in my hand, its worn fabric rough against my skin.

I stared down at it, my mind racing. What had just happened? Had I imagined the whole thing? But no—there was the doll, solid and real, a tangible reminder that the girl had been here, that she'd handed it to me.

I stepped back inside, closing the door behind me. The house felt different now, colder somehow. I looked down at the doll again, a sense of dread creeping over me.

I shouldn't have taken it. I didn't know why, but I knew, deep down, that I shouldn't have accepted the girl's offering.

I tried to put it down, to leave it on the table by the door, but my hand wouldn't let go. My fingers were locked around the doll's small body, as if some invisible force was keeping them there. Panic flared in my chest, and I yanked at my hand, trying to break free.

Finally, with a wrenching effort, I threw the doll across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud and fell to the floor, its button eye staring up at me.

I didn't sleep that night.

And in the morning, when I woke, the doll was sitting on the table, right where I had first tried to place it.