Chapter 4: Knives and Nightmares

Soon, she came out, cursing, “Frank, you’re asking for trouble!”

Her face was red, hands still shaking. She slammed the door behind her, making the whole house rattle.

At that, the woman came over, grinning. “Ma’am, Frank is a fool and treats you bad. If you ask me, you should just kill him.”

She sidled up close, her grin growing wider. Her voice was soft, almost sing-song, but it made the hairs on my neck stand up. For a second, I thought she might really mean it.

At some point, she’d produced a sharp knife, which she handed to Grandma.

The blade gleamed in the porch light, thin and wicked. Grandma’s hand hovered over the handle, her breath coming in short gasps. For a second, I thought she might really do it.

Grandma took the knife and glared at Grandpa, hatred burning in her eyes.

The room went quiet, save for the ticking of the clock. I’d never seen Grandma look at Grandpa like that before. The weight of old grudges filled the air.

The woman laughed again, ghostly and shrill, circling Grandma and muttering, “Kill him… kill him. A man like that is a disaster.”

Her voice rose and fell, words twisting around us like smoke. Her eyes glowed bright red, shadows dancing across her face.

Her voice grew more vicious, her eyes glowing red like a demon’s.

She spun around, her hair flying, making the shadows crawl up the walls. I pressed closer to the couch, every muscle tense.

Grandpa looked at her with a dark expression. “The guest room is ready. You can stay one night, but you have to leave at dawn.”

His voice was flat, final. He stood straighter, as if daring her to argue. For a moment, the whole house felt like it was teetering on the edge of something.

The woman shot him a venomous glare and slipped into the guest room.

She glided across the floor, her eyes never leaving Grandpa’s. The guest room door shut with a quiet click that sounded way too loud.

Grandma’s grip on the knife loosened and it clattered to the floor.

The metal rang out on the hardwood, making everyone flinch. She stepped back, shaking her head as if waking from a bad dream.

She frowned, bewildered. “What just happened?”

She looked around, her face pale. The words hung in the air, unanswered.

Before she could finish, Grandpa said, “Let’s talk inside.”

He waved us back into the kitchen, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying a weight no one else could see.

We all went in. Grandpa closed the door and whispered, “Tonight, the woman in the guest room will knock three times. The first time, she’ll call for Eli and ask him to fill the water tank in the guest room…”

He looked at me, eyes tired, as if he’d lived through this a hundred times before.

Before he could finish, Grandma interrupted, “No! Eli can’t go out at night! Who is that woman? Why is she here? If you ask me, we should just throw her out—she’s evil!”

She slammed her hand on the kitchen table, voice high and thin. Her eyes darted to the guest room door, fear and anger warring in her face.

Grandpa took a deep breath. “Helen, if you want to live, do as I say.”

His voice was quieter now, but there was something desperate in it—like he was fighting for all of us, whether we understood or not.

He turned to me. “Eli, if the woman in the guest room asks you to fetch water, just fill the tank. No matter what you see or hear, don’t make a sound. Remember, it takes three buckets to fill it. After three buckets, come straight back—no matter what she says or does to keep you, you must return. Understand?”

His eyes locked on mine, dark and unwavering. I swallowed hard, nodding. The weight of his words pressed on my shoulders.

I nodded. “Understood.”

I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but the words stuck in my throat. I could feel Grandma’s hand trembling in mine.

No sooner had I answered than three knocks sounded at the door.

The sound was slow, deliberate—one, two, three—echoing down the hallway. I jerked, my heart leaping into my throat.

Outside, the woman’s eerie voice called, “Sir, I’m thirsty. There’s no water in the tank. I want Eli to fetch me some.”

Her voice was muffled but clear, the syllables stretched out until my skin crawled.

Grandma’s face changed instantly. She hugged me tight. “No! Eli can’t go. I won’t allow it!”

She clutched me to her, fingers digging into my arms. Her breath was fast and shallow, panic rising.

Grandpa frowned. “Let go. If Eli doesn’t go, she’ll break in and none of us will make it.”

He reached for me, jaw set. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to Grandma, silently pleading for her to trust him.

Grandma began to sob, cursing, “You old fool, have you no heart? Eli is our grandson! That woman outside is clearly evil, and you want to send him to his death? You’re insane!”

Tears streaked down her cheeks, her voice raw and broken. She squeezed me so tight it hurt, but I didn’t want to pull away.

The woman’s voice came again, sharper this time. “Sir, I’m thirsty. Let Eli fetch me some water!”

It was louder now, almost angry, rattling the windows. I flinched at the sound.

Grandpa, stronger than Grandma, pried me from her arms. “Eli, remember what I said. Go.”

He held me by the shoulders, looking me in the eye. His grip was gentle, but firm—like he was passing me something invisible but heavy.

He lifted me off the old couch, opened the bedroom door, and pushed me out.

The cold hit me like a slap, wind biting through my jacket. The porch light flickered, casting long shadows over the snow-covered yard.

It was freezing outside. The woman’s hand gripped my neck. She crouched down, smiling. “Eli, how old are you?”

Her voice slithered into my ear, sweet and poisonous. Her fingers were icy, squeezing just hard enough to make me shiver.

As she spoke, I smelled a strong, rank goat odor, thick and foul.

It filled my nose, burning the back of my throat—like wet wool and old blood, heavier than anything I’d ever smelled.

When I looked at her, her eyes had become horizontal pupils—just like the old goat’s—staring straight at me.

They glowed in the porch light, slit and wild, boring into me like they could see right through my skin.

My legs buckled in terror and I collapsed to the ground.

The snow was cold and sharp against my knees. My breath came out in little clouds, heart pounding so loud I thought she could hear it.

Seeing my fear, she smiled and asked again, “Eli, how old are you?”

Her voice was soft, sweet, but the words felt wrong—like broken glass hidden in cotton candy. I pressed my lips together, refusing to answer.

She was deliberately trying to make me speak. I quickly covered my mouth with my hand so I wouldn’t say a word.

I squeezed my hand tight, knuckles white. I remembered Grandpa’s warning—no matter what, don’t speak.

When she saw I wouldn’t answer, her smile faded and she stared at me coldly, sending chills down my spine.

Her eyes narrowed, and the cold around us seemed to deepen. I wrapped my arms around myself, shrinking away.

I didn’t dare look at her, afraid I’d see something even more horrifying.

I fixed my gaze on the snow, focusing on the tiny blue shadows it cast in the moonlight. My breath shuddered in the air.

I turned my face away, forced myself up, and walked toward the well.

Each step felt like wading through molasses, my boots crunching on the ice. The wind picked up, stinging my cheeks.

Just as I reached it, she grabbed my shoulder from behind. Her hand was deathly pale, cold as ice.

Her grip froze me in place, the cold leaching right through my jacket and into my bones.

She smiled. “Eli, don’t fetch water just yet. Come inside and sit with me. I’ll give you candy. Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you.”

Her words were smooth, coaxing, but her fingers tightened on my shoulder. I could feel her breath on my ear, heavy and sweet with the stink of goat.

My heart hammered in my chest, cold sweat soaking through my clothes.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. My teeth chattered—not just from the cold, but from the terror crawling up my spine.

Seeing I wouldn’t speak, she nudged my shoulder gently, coaxing, “Eli, I have caramel candy in my hand. Turn around and see.”

She dangled the promise in front of me, voice high and lilting, as if she knew how much I loved caramel. My throat went dry.

I ignored her and dropped the bucket into the well.

The rope burned my hands as I let it out, the bucket splashing into the black water below. I focused on the sound, tuning out everything else.

When I didn’t answer, she moved closer. I squeezed my eyes shut, not daring to look at her face. Just now, I’d glimpsed her reflection in the well water—a twisted, broken visage, with two streams of bloody tears in her eyes, filled with hatred and horror.

The memory seared into my mind, so awful I wanted to scream. I bit my tongue, holding back the sound.

I didn’t dare look at her up close, afraid I’d scream and lose control.

I focused on breathing, counting each inhale and exhale. The world narrowed to the well, the bucket, and the icy night air.

I knew she was right in front of me, staring. I kept my eyes closed and, relying on memory, hauled up the bucket.

Each crank was slow and heavy, the rope creaking under the weight. My arms trembled, but I refused to let go.

Carrying the water, I walked toward the guest room, the woman following behind. Near the door, I opened my eyes.

The porch light shone weakly, throwing shadows across the floor. I dared a glance back, but she was only a few steps behind, her eyes never leaving me.

The guest room was pitch black, not a trace of light.

It was as if the darkness had swallowed the whole room, snuffing out even the glow from the hall.

There was moonlight outside, but none of it reached inside.

The snow reflected enough to light up the yard, but the guest room remained a deep, swallowing void.

I remembered the water tank was beside the bed, so I had to go in.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. The door creaked as I pushed it open wider.

I was terrified, afraid I’d encounter something unspeakable.

Every step inside was a battle, my feet dragging. The air felt thick, heavy, as if something waited in the dark.

Sensing my fear, the woman said behind me, “Eli, it’s so dark in there. Want me to turn on the light for you?”

Her voice was soft, almost motherly, but it twisted around my brain like a snake. I shook my head, not trusting her for a second.

She was still trying to tempt me into speaking. Gritting my teeth, I carried the bucket and stepped into the guest room.

I held my breath, counting every step, forcing myself not to look back. My heart pounded in my ears.

It was pitch black. I could only grope my way forward, but what should have been just a few steps now felt endless, like a bottomless pit. I walked and walked, but couldn’t find the tank.

My feet scraped against the old carpet, the smell of dust and goat and something else pressing in. The room stretched on and on, the darkness closing around me.

My anxiety grew. I was scared.

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the bucket. The silence pressed on my ears, thick and suffocating.

Suddenly, the woman’s voice sounded behind me: “Eli, I’m so thirsty. Give me a drink.”

Her words slithered through the dark, closer than before. I tensed, gripping the handle until my knuckles ached.

Her voice was urgent, as if she’d snatch the water if I didn’t give it to her.

She sounded desperate, hungry, every syllable scraping against my nerves.

Grandpa had said it would take three buckets to fill the tank, and I couldn’t let her drink any.

I squeezed the handle, repeating Grandpa’s instructions in my head. Three buckets, then run. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

I said nothing and kept feeling my way forward.

I pressed on, moving by memory alone, refusing to give in to the fear gnawing at my insides.

Suddenly, my hand touched the light switch.

The cold plastic was a shock, snapping me back to myself. My breath came out shaky, but hope flickered in my chest.

A wave of relief washed over me. If I turned on the light, I could find the tank.

I hesitated only a moment, then flicked the switch, heart hammering.

Click. The light came on.

The bulb buzzed to life, flooding the room with harsh yellow light that chased away the shadows. The room was just a room again—old dresser, faded quilt, the battered metal water tank beside the bed.

At that moment, I saw the woman sitting on top of the tank, glaring at me with a vicious hunger—as if she wanted to swallow me whole.

She crouched there like an animal, her eyes burning holes into me. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. The goat smell was overwhelming, and I realized, deep in my bones, that this wasn’t just any visitor. I was staring into the eyes of something ancient, hungry, and very, very real.

The woman’s gaze locked onto mine, and I knew—if I spoke, if I even breathed too loud—she’d swallow me whole before dawn.