After our grandmother’s death, my sister and I moved into a rented house on the edge of town. We didn’t bring much with us. The place felt unused, as if it had been waiting.

We saw the woman on the second night.

She stood at the end of the hallway, facing the wall. Long hair, pale dress. Completely still. When I whispered my sister’s name, the woman vanished.

My sister saw her the next morning in the kitchen, standing behind me. She disappeared the moment my sister spoke.

We realized the rule quickly: only one of us could see her at a time.

If I looked directly at her, my sister couldn’t. If my sister acknowledged her, she vanished for me. It wasn’t about belief. It was about attention.

The woman never approached. She waited. Always just out of reach. Always watching.

After a week, my sister began forgetting things. Conversations we had. Meals we ate. She said the woman watched her sleep. I didn’t see that happen.

I started staying awake.

That’s when I noticed something worse.

When my sister saw the woman, time passed normally for me. When I saw her, time skipped. Minutes vanished. Hours thinned out. The woman wasn’t watching us both.

She was choosing.

One night, my sister shook me awake and asked why I had been standing in her room for so long, whispering to someone who wasn’t there.

I told her I hadn’t moved.

She said the woman had been smiling at me.

This morning, my sister says she can’t see the woman anymore.

I can.

The woman is closer now.

She looks almost relieved.

And my sister hasn’t spoken all day.
- 𝓘𝓭𝓲𝓸𝓽ᵇᵃᵏᵃ ᶜˡᵃⁿ