by Justin Beckler

The Night Visitor


The witch never had to tread lightly when entering Tom Haggerty’s bedroom at night because her steps made no sound. She’d glide into the house through a back door that led into the kitchen and hover past the room of a sleeping child. Her only contact was with the doorknob of Tom’s bedroom. The only sound was the click of the knob mechanism, followed by a whine of the hinges squeaking as the door creaked open. If the noise ever woke the man or his wife, the witch was a master at hiding in plain sight. A skill she developed during her years spent in solitude.

Her dress was torn from gliding through the brush of the Georgia wilderness, and a black netted veil concealed her face, shielding the world from a scarred and disfigured scowl. With the veil, she moved unnoticed. She’d grown so fluent in this deception that she would frequently float into the homes of her prey and whisper into their ears as they drank their morning coffee. She could even observe the hundreds of teenagers in the Ware County High School cafeteria without risk of being discovered. She moved in the shadows—a living ghost.

Tom Haggerty slept on his stomach, drooling. His wife, Susan, snored next to him. The room was pitch black except for a tight crevice of light that bled through the blinds and splashed against the headboard. For the last eleven nights, the same streak had illuminated the room from the street lamp on the corner. The bed covers rested on Susan’s side, with Tom clutching the corner of a flower printed comforter—a familiar sight. While the room and its inhabitants hadn’t changed, the witch’s purpose had. Tonight was special. An introduction was long overdue. Just a quick hello, and she’d be on her way. So far, the relationship had been dolefully one sided. It was time to shake things up.

He mustn’t be afraid.

Tricky. Even with the veil covering her burn scars, the sight of a mystery woman at the foot of his bed could shake the man into panic. There might even be screams. He’d reach for that Louisville Slugger leaning against the bedside table. She spotted it on her first visit two weeks ago. He may even get a few swings off before she could put him back down. No, that wouldn’t do. She’d need to devolve into someone or something with less bite.


Three drops of goat’s blood into his mouth.


She pulled the vial from her fanny pack and unscrewed the lid. The tiny bottle had once been sold at Eckerd Drugstore as an eyedropper. She scooped it up at the Waycross dump on one of her routine scavenging quests, along with a few other useful treasures.

Tom Haggerty shifted onto his side, draping one arm over his body while the other hugged his pillow. A feather under his nose flipped him on his backside.

One…

Two…

Three…

The third drop splashed his teeth.

She found Tom slept much deeper than Susan, who woke multiple times from a night from a passing car outside or a shift in the bed. Tonight, the culprit was her choked snores. Susan sprang up, and the witch froze, still pinching the rubber bulb of the dropper.

Saldastra… es-reek-en,” the witch whispered through clenched teeth.

Mrs. Haggerty settled back into her pillow.

The language was Bao Tongue, a long abandoned dialect developed by Scottish covens dating back centuries. It was comprised of syllables and mouth rhythms that existed only in subtext. Stacked consonants and flowing sibilance that, when used correctly, were a devastating method of hijacking the subconscious.


Shri-stm- shu- ck-ck shtim-sir zhu-li

A flock of ravens has returned.

Sulu-stm-tsu-tsu-es-reek-en

Feed the flame, let the witches burn


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Please…,” the whispered voice called out. “Help me, Tom.”

“What’s that, honey?” Tom snickered and nudged his wife.

“Go back to bed,” Susan rolled away.

“Tom… Find me.”

He sat up quickly. The voice echoed like a child’s plea. Haunting and immediate.

“Come to the mirror.” Tom swung his legs off the mattress and searched his bedroom.

“Over here. The mirror…”

He stood, timidly inching toward the mirrored dresser on the wall. His silhouette cast a vague reflection in the pitch black room.

It’s Brenda. Do you remember, Tom?”

Brenda? His sister. A stabbing memory that he might have been able to bury if he didn’t have the scars on his hands and forearms to remind him. When he was six, a veering delivery truck had sent her shooting through the windshield and rolling into traffic. Tom’s seatbelt kept him in the car. He spent a month recovering at the hospital in Suwanee.

The present faded into past and six-year-old Tom Haggerty sat in the backseat of his mother’s Dodge station wagon, trying to suppress the tickle in his nose. He dreamed this scene through many restless sleeps in his adult years, but never had it been so vivid. Buddy Holly thumped through the car speakers as a chill wind blasted Tom’s face. His mother drove with the windows down and smoked with her left hand. The ashes flew back and occasionally greeted him with a sparkling ember.

His nose tickle surfaced on schedule, and Tom released his mucus. Brenda was nine years old and just as freckled as he remembered. She wore a faded Bugs Bunny tank top and her last word had been “Gross!” after he sneezed on her. This time, however, her lack of reaction seemed off. This was usually where she’d scream in his face. Instead, Brenda gently rested her hand on top of his.

“You forgot about me,” she said through deathly personal eyes.

“I didn’t,” Tom pleaded.

“It wasn’t an accident, Tom.”

She pointed out the front windshield, where a swaying truck drifted over the double yellow lines. His mother’s scream raked his ears like grinding steel. Brenda’s body rocketed through the glass.


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Susan opened her eyes to find her husband standing at the dresser and staring into the mirror. Sleepwalking again.