Part Three: The Visitor

Some nights, I wonder what the living would see if they passed here now.

Would they feel it—the weight in the air, the way the mist clings to the ground like breath from the underworld?

Would they see me?

Most don’t.

They drive through Whisper Lane like it’s any other silent road, eyes forward, music low. A shiver. A chill. A sense of not being alone—and then they’re gone.

But tonight… someone stops.

I feel it before I see her. A presence—alive. So loud in the silence of the dead.

Headlights cut through the mist like blades, and I hear tires crunch over gravel. A red hatchback slows, coughs… and stops just a few feet from where my car always stands.

The door opens.

A girl. College-aged. Headphones around her neck. Jacket zipped up to her chin. She steps out cautiously, phone held high like a flashlight.

I watch from the shadows.

She walks around the car, checking the tires, muttering to herself. She opens the hood, just like I did once. I want to call out to her, to warn her, to tell her to get back inside and drive. But I can’t. I haven’t spoken a word in decades.

Then she notices my car.

It’s parked just ahead, as always, slightly crooked, still intact—like it never crashed.

She frowns. Curious.

She walks toward it.

No.

My chest tightens. I move forward without meaning to. I want to stop her. But it’s already begun.

I see her—the pale woman in white—standing by the trunk.

And as always, she turns and begins to walk.

The girl calls out. “Hey! Excuse me? Are you okay?”

No response. Of course.

She follows. She always follows.

She reaches out, and like clockwork, her hand slices through empty air.

She freezes. Confused. Then afraid.

She backs away, breath trembling. Looks around. She sees the graveyard. The leaning stones. The mist. The girl in white now further down the road, waiting for him.

The new girl stumbles backward, bumps into me.

Her body passes straight through mine.

She gasps. Drops her phone.

It clatters, screen cracking on the stone.

She’s seen too much.

And just like that, the old story replays itself.

He comes.

The boy. Pale. Holding the suitcase. His eyes only for her.

They join hands.

Then, the rumble. The crowd. The mob appears—men with torches, fury in their voices, sticks raised high. The same hatred, the same chasing, the same blind rage.

The living girl stands frozen as the couple runs toward her.

They pass through her.

And now she’s not just frightened—she’s breaking.

I know that feeling. The moment when everything you believed about the world collapses.

Then comes the mob. Loud. Angry. Unreal.

And just like before… they pass through her.

She collapses to her knees. Shaking. Crying.

And then—she looks up and sees me.

Really sees me.

Not just a shape in the fog.

Not just a trick of the eyes.

Me.

And for the first time in thirty years…

I speak.

“Run.”

My voice is barely a whisper. But she hears it. I know she does.

She stares at me, wide-eyed. Her lips tremble.

“W-who are you?”

I shake my head. “Go. Before it’s too late.”

She hesitates. Her broken phone in one hand. Her keys in the other.

Then—she turns. Runs to her car. The red hatchback hums to life on the first try.

I don’t know why.

It never starts.

But tonight… it does.

She looks at me one last time before slamming the door shut. Her car reverses with a screech and disappears into the mist, taillights blinking like fireflies.

Silence again.

The couple fades into the fog. The mob vanishes into memory.

And I stand alone once more.

But something’s different.

For the first time in decades…

someone escaped.

To be continued......

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