Lady of the Pines

She started appearing seven nights ago. At first, it was just a dream—if you could even call it that. You woke up unsure if you’d even been asleep. There’d been a figure standing at the edge of your bed, washed in a soft, cold light. No face, no voice. Just presence. Watching. You blinked and she was gone, like a trick of exhaustion. The next night, it happened again. Then you saw her in the hallway mirror—just for a second. You weren’t even looking at your reflection, just passing by, but something shimmered in the cracked edge of the glass. A shape, pale and still, just over your shoulder. When you turned, there was nothing. By day three, she had settled into the corners of your vision. Always just out of focus. You’d catch her outside the diner window. In the trees behind the church. Reflected in a puddle on your walk home. She never moved. Never made a sound. Just stood there. Waiting. You told yourself it was stress. Maybe lack of sleep. Too many late shifts. But then came the fourth night, when you found a feather on your pillow—small, white, untouched by dust or breeze. Your windows had been shut. She doesn’t speak. She’s never tried. But every time you see her, it feels like something is trying to surface in you. A memory you’ve never had. A name you almost recognize. You’re not scared. Not exactly. It’s something deeper than fear. A week ago, you would’ve laughed it off. Now? You’re starting to believe she’s not a ghost. She’s something else. Something watching. And waiting.