The Visitor

A lonely widow in an ancestral Scottish home is haunted by grief and isolation until a mysterious visitor forces her to confront painful truths about her past and the choices that led to her solitude.

The old house stood at the end of an open field in the Scottish Highlands. Its stone walls, stained by rain, seemed to absorb the gloom. Trees leaned over it, their branches clawing at the roof. Moss covered the slate, pulling it down under its weight. The windows were clouded, their frames cracked and peeling. The garden sprawled in chaos, vines choking the gate.

Rain drummed on the roof, filling the silence with its steady rhythm. The floor groaned beneath her steps, a sound that broke the oppressive stillness. Light filtered weakly through the windows, catching on the dust that hung thick in the air. Each room whispered of a life long gone, a faint echo of something once warm.

The wind outside howled like a warning. Thunder growled in the distance, rolling through the highlands. The house seemed alive, its secrets weighing on her. The walls felt watchful, their unseen stories pulling her deeper. Her unease grew with each passing moment, the silence pressing in closer.

By the fire, Kathleen sat stiffly. The flames twisted and spat, but their warmth felt shallow. The cold clung to the house like a second skin, the damp seeped into her bones. Her life had collapsed into routine. The war had taken her husband. Her daughter had left and never come back. She spent her days walking through empty fields, reading books she never finished, staring at fires that gave no comfort. Tonight, the silence felt different, as if something unseen was waiting.

A knock.

At first, it was barely there, swallowed by the rain. Kathleen almost dismissed it, chalking it up to the wind playing tricks on her. But then she heard it again, clearer this time, more demanding. Her pulse quickened as she turned to face the door. No one ever came out here. No one had any reason to.

Another knock, louder now.

She got to her feet too quickly, and the room spun. Her fingers shook as she gripped the latch, hesitating for just a moment before she pulled the door open.

The door creaked as it swung slowly, and her breath caught in her throat. A man stood on the other side, drenched, rainwater running down his face. His eyes gleamed oddly in the dim light from the porch. For a brief instant, unease crept up her spine—something felt strange. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and she pushed the door wider.

The young man no older than twenty, was soaked to the skin. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his clothes hanging heavy with rain, water pooling at his feet on the stone steps. Erringly, he reminded her of her late husband albeit 40 year younger than how she last remembered him. Married 40 years. The love of her life.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, his voice smooth—too smooth. “My car broke down just up the road. I was hoping I could use your phone.”

Kathleen blinked, her mind scrambling to catch up. She hadn’t seen another person in months. The rain was a wall, making it impossible to see beyond her yard, but she knew the road was there, winding through the hills, stretching out for miles with nothing and no one. People didn’t just show up here.

“Your car?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

He nodded. “Yes, just around the bend. I think the rain flooded the engine. Tried calling for help, but there’s no signal out here.”

She swallowed, her throat tight. He seemed harmless—young, clean-cut—but there was something in his eyes, a sharpness that didn’t match the situation. Something that made her hesitate.

Still, she couldn’t leave him standing out there in the rain.

“Come in,” she said, her voice stiffer than she intended. “You must be freezing.”

He stepped over the threshold, bringing with him the smell of damp earth and something else that lingered in the air—something she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it sparked her intuition, like a memory that was quite familiar yet felt confusing.

“Thank you,” he said, shaking droplets from his coat as he scanned her hallway. “I wasn’t sure anyone would be home this late.”

Kathleen forced a tight smile, her fingers nervously grazing the edge of the door. “I don’t usually get visitors out here.”

He smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a distraction about him, as if his mind was elsewhere. The way he moved felt too smooth, almost rehearsed. But she pushed the thought aside—she was just being paranoid again.

“I’ll grab you a towel,” she said, backing away toward the hallway cupboard. Her hands fumbled with the latch as she fought to steady her breathing. He’s just a stranger, she reminded herself. A lost traveller. Nothing more.

When she returned with the towel, he was already in her living room, standing still in front of the fireplace looking at the photos on the mantel. He hadn’t bothered to take off his coat or move toward the phone.

“It’s a lovely house,” he remarked, his voice low and curious. “Must get lonely out here, though.”

Kathleen tensed. He was just making small talk, she told herself. People did that all the time. But the way he said it felt too calculated, as if he were stating a fact rather than asking a question.