Chapter 4: The Visitor

The air had become heavier in the days following Sophie's discovery in the room with the faded note. She felt as though the house had taken on a new weight, a palpable sense of presence that hung over her every movement, every thought. The visitor had not yet arrived, but Sophie could feel it—an unspoken promise, an impending encounter that loomed just beyond her reach, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

The walls of the house had begun to speak to her in ways she could not understand. Each creak of the floorboards, each groan of the house's shifting foundation, seemed to whisper secrets from long ago. The visitor, whoever—or whatever—they were, had made their mark on Sophie's mind. In the silence of her own thoughts, she had begun to wonder if perhaps the house was not merely a vessel for these strange happenings, but an active participant in something far darker. The walls themselves seemed to breathe in time with her own pulse, responding to the rhythm of her unease.

It was late afternoon when the first knock came. At first, Sophie thought it was the wind, perhaps a branch scraping against the door, or the distant rattle of something loosening in the old wood. But as the sound echoed through the house—sharp, deliberate, and impossibly close—she knew it was not the wind. No, this knock was intentional, a solid, commanding sound that reverberated through her chest, making her heart stutter in her ribcage.

She stood frozen for a moment, her breath shallow, her gaze fixed on the door. It wasn't possible. No one came to visit here—not in this desolate corner of the world. She had never even met her neighbors, and she rarely left the house. The isolation had been part of the reason she had chosen this place, after all. It was supposed to be her refuge, a place where the weight of her past could dissolve into the void, where the noise of her grief could be drowned out by the quiet of solitude.

And yet, the knock persisted. Again. Louder this time.

Sophie's pulse quickened, her thoughts spiraling into confusion. Who could it be? A stranger? A passerby? Her mind tried to latch onto some rational explanation, some simple, mundane answer, but her heart—her intuition—sensed that this was not a simple visit. She could feel it in the air, thick and heavy, like the atmosphere before a storm. A storm that she had no control over.

Stepping carefully, cautiously, Sophie moved toward the front door, her feet making soft, hesitant sounds on the floor. Each step felt like an eternity, each heartbeat louder than the last. She reached for the doorknob, her fingers trembling, the cold brass sending a jolt through her hand. The silence in the house had deepened, if such a thing were even possible. It was as if the entire world outside had been muted, swallowed by the same force that had claimed the house.

She pulled open the door, her breath catching in her throat as she faced the empty porch.

No one.

For a moment, Sophie stared out into the fading light of the evening, her eyes scanning the yard, the trees, the empty path that led to nowhere. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and the last rays of the sun glowed faintly behind the branches of the hawthorn trees. The world outside felt suspended in time—frozen, as though waiting for something to unfold.

But there was nothing. No visitor.

Confused, Sophie began to close the door, her mind working to find an explanation, a reason for the knock that seemed so real. And then, just as she was about to turn away, a figure appeared in the shadows near the edge of the porch.

She froze.

The figure was shrouded in darkness, almost indistinct at first, like a shadow drifting on the edge of her vision. The night had deepened quickly, and the fading light made it difficult to discern details, but there was something undeniably wrong about this presence. It wasn't just the darkness. No, it was the stillness—unnatural, unyielding—and the way the figure seemed to blend with the very air itself, as though it was part of the house, part of the earth beneath her feet.

The figure took a step forward, and Sophie's breath caught in her throat. She could make out the outline of a person now, a woman—tall, thin, and draped in a long, flowing black dress that billowed slightly in the breeze. Her face, pale and gaunt, was obscured by a veil, the fabric hanging loosely, just enough to suggest the features of a person without revealing anything clearly. The woman stood motionless, as though waiting for something. Or someone.

Sophie's body locked in place, her instincts screaming for her to turn and run, but her legs would not move. There was something hypnotic about the figure, something that kept her rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sight of this stranger in the dark.

The woman did not speak. She did not move. She simply stood there, as if suspended in time, the faint glow of the porch light casting eerie shadows across her form. Sophie could feel the air grow colder, a chill seeping into her bones as the minutes stretched on. It was as if the very presence of the woman was sucking the warmth from the world around her.

Finally, Sophie found her voice, though it came out in a whisper, trembling and uncertain. "Who are you?"

The woman did not answer. Instead, she took a step closer, her movement fluid, like the slow, deliberate sweep of a shadow in the dark. Sophie instinctively stepped back, but her eyes remained fixed on the woman's form. There was something in the way she moved—too smooth, too graceful—that sent a shiver up Sophie's spine.

The woman's voice, when it came, was soft and distant, like the echo of a memory. "I've been waiting for you."

Sophie's breath caught in her throat. She could barely comprehend the words, as if they had been spoken in a language she did not recognize, a language that felt both ancient and familiar, like the murmur of something long buried. Waiting for her? Who was this woman? Why was she here?

The figure took another step forward, and Sophie's heart raced. There was an unsettling familiarity in her presence, a sense of inevitability, as though this encounter had been written long before Sophie had ever set foot in the house on Hawthorn Street.

The woman's veil shifted slightly in the wind, revealing a glimpse of her eyes—dark, hollow, and endless, as though they contained the very depths of time itself. Sophie's breath faltered as she stared into them, feeling as though something was being pulled from her, something precious and intangible, as though the very essence of her soul was being drawn into the void within those eyes.

And then, as suddenly as the woman had appeared, she was gone. The air shifted, the chill faded, and the world returned to its stillness. Sophie blinked, her mind reeling, her heart pounding in her chest. She could no longer see the woman, could no longer hear her breath or feel her presence. The porch was empty again, the shadows stretching long across the yard, as if nothing had happened at all.

But Sophie knew better. She knew that something had changed.

The visitor had come.

And Sophie could not shake the feeling that the house was no longer just a place of refuge. It was something else now. It was a stage. And she was only beginning to understand the role she had been cast to play.

She stepped back into the house, her feet heavy with the weight of what she had just witnessed. The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that made her stomach churn. The house felt different now, colder, as though the very walls had shifted to accommodate the presence of the woman—the visitor.

Sophie leaned against the door, her breath shallow, trying to process what had just happened. But the more she tried to make sense of it, the more it slipped through her fingers, like water running through her hands. She knew one thing with certainty—the visitor had not come to simply knock. She had come for something.

And Sophie had no idea what she would be asked to give.