The Visitor

Clara had just moved into the old house on Elm Street. It was cheaper than most places she had looked at, and she figured the history of the house didn’t matter as long as it suited her needs. It was a small, two-story cottage with peeling paint, a creaky porch, and an overgrown garden. Everything about it felt like it belonged in a ghost story.

The first few nights passed without incident, though Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her. At first, she attributed it to the newness of the house, the unfamiliar creaks and moans of an old structure settling.

But then she started hearing footsteps—slow, deliberate, like someone walking around upstairs when she was alone. It always happened at night, just after the sun dipped below the horizon.

One evening, after hearing the footsteps again, Clara decided to investigate. The air in the hallway was cold as she ascended the stairs, and she swore she could smell something faintly… metallic. The footsteps led her to the spare bedroom at the end of the hall.

The door was slightly ajar. Clara hesitated for a moment, then pushed it open.

Inside was nothing but darkness.

She took a deep breath and switched on the light. The room was empty. Nothing out of place. Yet, she couldn’t shake the sensation of being not alone.

She backed out of the room and closed the door, but as she turned to leave, the floorboard creaked behind her. Clara whipped around, but there was still no one there. Her pulse quickened. She was starting to feel like she was losing her mind.

That night, the footsteps returned. This time, they were louder. Closer.

Clara’s heart pounded in her chest as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, too afraid to move. The house groaned under the weight of the footsteps, each one drawing nearer and nearer to her room.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, just a crack.

Clara could feel her breath catch in her throat. She was too scared to look, but she had to. Slowly, she turned her head to the door.

A figure stood in the doorway, its features obscured by the dim light in the hallway.

Clara opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The figure didn’t move, just stood there, watching her.

Then, it stepped into the room.

Clara tried to scramble backward, but the figure reached out, its cold fingers brushing her arm. A chill spread through her body, and she felt a sharp pain in her chest—like a weight, pressing down on her very soul.

The figure leaned forward, its face now visible in the dim light.

It was her face.

Clara gasped, recoiling as the other version of herself smiled, a twisted grin stretching unnaturally wide.

“You shouldn’t have moved in,” the figure whispered, its voice a low, rasping sound. “I was waiting for you.”

Clara tried to scream again, but the voice of her doppelgänger drowned her out, whispering the same words over and over: “I was waiting for you. I was waiting for you…”

As the world around her grew darker, Clara realized there would be no escape.

The figure stepped closer, and everything went black.