The Visitor at Midnight

On winter nights, when the wind howled through the trees and rattled the shutters, the people of Galloway locked their doors early. They all knew the legend of the Visitor—a figure who wandered the village roads at midnight, cloaked in shadow and searching for someone willing to listen.

Eleanor had heard the stories as a child, warnings from her grandmother about strange knocks in the dead of night and voices that sounded too familiar. But she never believed them. Legends were just that—stories to scare children.

That winter night, however, she was alone, and the wind sounded especially mournful. She was tucked in with a good book, trying to ignore the howling outside, when she heard a soft knock at her door. Three taps, evenly spaced, barely loud enough to hear over the storm.

Her stomach twisted, but she laughed it off. “Probably just a branch,” she muttered, forcing herself to ignore the prickling at the back of her neck.

Then came another knock—soft, yet insistent.

She set down her book, heart racing. “Hello?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady.

There was no answer, just a silence that stretched uncomfortably, like someone was listening for her next move. She glanced at the clock—it was just past midnight. Her grandmother’s warnings bubbled up in her mind, but she shook them off, annoyed at her own nervousness. This was silly.

She opened the door, peering out into the night. A bitter chill swept in, and in the dim glow from her porch light, she saw only an empty path, the fog twisting through the trees. She was about to shut the door when she noticed a figure at the edge of her yard, barely visible through the mist.

“Hello?” she called again, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The figure didn’t move. It was tall and draped in a dark cloak, its face obscured in shadow. There was something deeply unsettling about the way it stood there, utterly still.

“Are you… are you lost?” she asked, forcing her voice to be louder.

The figure tilted its head slowly, as if considering her question, before finally stepping forward. Each movement was unnatural, like it took effort to shift its weight from one step to the next. Eleanor took a step back, gripping the door, every instinct screaming to close it and lock herself inside.

But then she heard it—a voice, soft and painfully familiar.

“Eleanor…”

Her breath caught in her throat. It was her father’s voice, the same voice that used to call her in from playing outside, the voice she hadn’t heard since his passing last year.

“Dad?” she whispered, her hands trembling.

The figure took another step, its face still hidden. “Eleanor… it’s so cold… let me in.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she fought against every warning her grandmother had drilled into her. The urge to see him again, to speak with him, was overwhelming.

“Are… are you really…?” she began, but her voice trailed off as the figure moved into the light. The face was not her father’s—it was hollow, sunken, with eyes that glowed faintly, empty and ravenous.

Her blood turned to ice as the figure reached out, its voice twisting, growing harsher. “It’s so cold… let me in.”

With a scream, Eleanor slammed the door, bolting it and pressing her back against it as the knocking resumed, louder, more frantic. She covered her ears, trembling, trying to block out the voice that had once been her father’s but now sounded twisted and wrong.

When the sun rose, she opened the door cautiously, stepping out into the icy morning light. The path was empty, but on her doorstep, etched in frost, were three words:

I’ll be back.