The Woman at the Door

I was twelve when I first saw her.

It was a rainy Thursday night, the kind where thunder rumbled so loud the windows shook. I had just gotten out of the shower, and the house was already too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your chest feel heavy, like the air itself is warning you to run.

My little brother, Eli, was already asleep. I passed his room on the way to mine and paused to pull his covers tighter over him. He looked so small, barely seven years old. He had this habit of kicking off his blanket while sleeping, and Mom always said he’d catch a cold like that.

I left his door slightly open and headed to my room across the hall.

The first sign that something was wrong came at 2:47 a.m.

I woke suddenly, no sound, no movement, just this cold pressure sitting on my chest. Not sleep paralysis. I could move. But I didn’t want to.

Because she was there.

Standing at the edge of my doorway, half in shadow, half bathed in pale moonlight, was a woman.

Blood-red skin. Black eyes like holes dug into her skull. And her hair—shoulder-length, jet black, and deathly still despite the breeze from my fan. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe.

She only stared.

And then, slowly, she raised one arm and pointed.

Not at me.

At Eli’s door.

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. My tongue felt like stone in my mouth. I blinked once.

She vanished.

I jumped up, heart slamming in my chest, and ran straight to Eli’s room. He was still in bed, sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened.

But his skin…

It was pale before. That soft peachy tone of a healthy kid. But now, it had a faint red hue, almost like the beginning of a sunburn.

I shook him awake.

“Eli,” I whispered. “Eli, wake up.”

He opened his eyes slowly, groggy, confused.

“What?” he mumbled, rubbing his face.

“Do you feel okay? Does your skin hurt?”

He blinked at me, his lip quivering slightly. “She was here.”

My blood ran cold.

“Who?”

“The red woman. She stood by my bed.”

By morning, Eli had a fever. His skin was redder. My mom brushed it off as a viral infection. “Kids catch things,” she said, preparing a bowl of soup. “You’re just stressed, that’s all.”

But I knew.

Over the next three days, Eli’s condition worsened. His eyes sunk deeper, his lips cracked, and he became thinner. He barely ate. He barely spoke.

Except when he slept.

At night, he whispered things. Horrible things.

“She’s watching me.”

“She’s in the corner.”

“She wants me to go with her.”

I recorded him once. I wanted proof. But the audio was corrupted the next morning. A screeching static replaced his voice.

I played it again and again, trying to find something useful.

But then I heard it—hidden behind the noise.

A woman’s laugh.

Not loud. Not mocking.

A slow, breathy chuckle like she was savoring something.

I stopped the recording and deleted it.

I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up every night, watching his room from the hallway. Praying. Pleading silently for her not to return.

But on the seventh night, she did.

It started with Eli screaming.

I rushed into his room, Mom right behind me, and we both froze.

He wasn’t on the bed.

He was standing in the middle of the room, back arched, eyes rolled up into his head. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, and his hands were twisted like claws. A red glow flickered across his skin, as if his veins were glowing.

Then she stepped from the corner.

Not from the doorway.

From the shadows themselves.

Her black eyes met mine.

And she smiled.

“Give him to me,” she said, voice low, crackling, like dry leaves burning.

“No!” I shouted.

I ran to Eli and wrapped my arms around him.

Mom was screaming. Crying. Praying out loud.

“She’s not real!” she kept yelling. “It’s a dream! Wake up!”

But it wasn’t a dream.

The woman raised her hand again.

And this time, she pointed at me.

“I’ll come back for you,” she said.

Then everything went black.

Eli died that night.

The doctors said it was some kind of organ failure, sudden and unexplainable. No illness. No virus. Nothing in his blood.

Just death.

His face was frozen in terror. Eyes wide, lips parted in a silent scream. Skin red like fresh blood.

Mom never spoke of it again.

She moved us to a new town. Burned his clothes. Removed every picture of him from the house. Said it was the only way she could cope.

But I couldn’t forget.

I saw her. I heard her.

And she wasn’t done with me.

Months passed. I tried to live normally. Went to school. Tried making friends. But the fear never left.

Until one night, while brushing my teeth, I glanced up at the mirror.

She was behind me.

No reflection. No noise.

Just her.

Smiling.

She leaned forward and whispered into my ear.

“You blinked.”

I screamed and dropped to the floor. When Mom rushed in, I begged her to believe me. I cried for hours.

But she just held me and repeated, “It’s the trauma, baby. It’s just the trauma.”

I stopped talking about it after that.

But she kept showing up.

In the mirror.

In the windows.

Reflected on my phone screen when it was off.

She was always there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The End......

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DISCLAIMER: IMAGE USED IS AI GENERATED