The chill of winter gripped the small town of Grey Hollow as tightly as a miser clutching his last coin. Snow blanketed the streets, muffling sounds and cloaking the world in an eerie silence. The kind of silence that invited unease. The residents knew better than to speak of her, but when the knock came at the door, no one could pretend not to hear it.
Her name was Miriam Grayer. Some said she had always been old, her face a web of wrinkles and her thin frame swathed in layers of tattered clothing. Others swore they remembered her as a young woman, her hair black as raven feathers, though that was impossible. The truth was, Miriam’s visits were a legend—a whisper of dread passed down through generations. When she visited, death followed. Always.
The first recorded visit occurred decades ago, though no one in Grey Hollow could agree on the exact date. “Miriam Grayer’s Curse,” they called it. She would knock softly, politely, and ask for simple things—a cup of tea, a place to warm herself by the fire, or a morsel of bread. Those who turned her away claimed they could feel her eyes burning through the door. Those who welcomed her in never saw the morning.
The First Knock
It was the Carter family’s misfortune to hear her knock first that winter. A young couple, Alice and Jeremy, had moved to Grey Hollow the year before with their newborn son, Daniel. They knew the stories, of course. Everyone did. But they were outsiders, not steeped in the superstitions that ruled the town.
When the knock came at their door, Alice hesitated. “It’s late,” she murmured, clutching Daniel close. “Who could it be?”
Jeremy, ever the skeptic, waved off her concerns. “Probably just someone needing shelter from the storm. We can’t leave them out there.”
He opened the door to find Miriam standing on the stoop, snowflakes caught in her wild grey hair. Her eyes were dark and piercing, holding an intensity that made Jeremy’s resolve falter for a moment. “Evening,” she rasped, her voice like dry leaves rustling. “Might I trouble you for a cup of tea?”
Despite the unease prickling his skin, Jeremy forced a smile and stepped aside. “Of course. Come in and warm yourself.”
Miriam entered, her presence seeming to draw the warmth from the room. She sat by the fire, her bony hands extended toward the flames. Alice brewed tea, her movements stiff and reluctant. When she brought the cup to Miriam, the old woman grasped her hand briefly. Her touch was icy, like the grave.
“Thank you, dear,” Miriam said with a faint smile. “You’re very kind.”
She stayed for only an hour, sipping her tea in silence. When she left, the house felt heavier, as though her absence had left an indelible mark. That night, Daniel’s cries woke Alice. She found his crib empty, the sheets soaked with blood.
Jeremy was discovered the next morning in the barn, his body mangled beyond recognition. Alice was never found.
The Whisper Spreads
Word of the Carter family’s demise spread quickly. The town’s whispers grew louder, more frantic. Miriam Grayer had returned, and her visits brought death. The residents bolted their doors and windows, extinguished their lights, and prayed she would pass them by.
But Miriam was persistent. She knocked at the Johnsons’ door next. Sarah Johnson, a widow living alone, refused to answer. For hours, the knocking continued, soft but insistent. When it finally stopped, Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. But relief turned to horror when she awoke the next morning to find her dog’s body hanging from a tree in her yard, its blood dripping into the snow to spell out: You should have let me in.
Two nights later, Sarah’s house burned to the ground with her inside.
A Pattern Emerges
Miriam’s visits became more frequent as the weeks passed. The townsfolk kept count, though no one dared speak the tally aloud. The pattern was clear: she always came after sunset, always knocked three times, and always asked for something small. Those who denied her fared no better than those who welcomed her.
By now, the mayor, Henry Prescott, decided something had to be done. He called a town meeting in the church, the only place the residents felt safe enough to gather.
“We can’t just wait for her to pick us off one by one,” Prescott declared, his voice trembling. “We need to drive her out.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?” snapped old Margaret Bennett. “She’s not human. You think torches and pitchforks will scare her?”
No one had an answer.
The Witch’s Curse
Rumours swirled that Miriam was a witch, cursed to wander the earth and sow death wherever she went. Some said she had been wronged by the townsfolk centuries ago, though no one could recall what sin they had committed against her. Others believed she was Death itself, walking among them in human form.
In the end, desperation outweighed reason. The men of Grey Hollow armed themselves and set out to find Miriam. They followed her trail to the edge of the forest, where they discovered a small, decrepit shack hidden among the trees. The door creaked open at their approach, revealing a dim interior filled with strange symbols carved into the walls and ceiling. A fire burned low in the hearth, and in the centre of the room sat Miriam, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement.
“You came all this way for little old me?” she crooned. “How flattering.”
Prescott stepped forward, his hands trembling as he held a shotgun. “We’re not afraid of you, Miriam. Leave this town and never come back.”
She laughed, a sound that chilled them to their bones. “You think you can banish me? Foolish man. I am bound to this place as surely as the snow falls in winter.”
Prescott raised the gun, his finger hovering over the trigger. But before he could fire, Miriam uttered a single word: “Enough.”
The men dropped to their knees, clutching their chests as a searing pain overtook them. One by one, they fell to the ground, their eyes wide with terror. Prescott was the last to succumb, his lips forming a silent plea for mercy.
Miriam stood, her frail form suddenly towering over him. “You cannot stop what has already begun,” she said softly. “You should have accepted me when I first knocked.”
A Town Abandoned
By spring, Grey Hollow was a ghost town. The remaining residents fled, leaving their homes to rot and their memories to fester. Miriam’s shack stood untouched, a grim reminder of the price of defiance.
Years later, hikers passing through the area reported strange occurrences: the sound of soft knocking echoing through the woods, whispers carried on the wind, and the feeling of being watched. Few dared to investigate, and those who did were never seen again.
Miriam Grayer remains a cautionary tale, a spectre of vengeance and despair. And if you ever hear a knock at your door on a cold winter night, remember this: some invitations cannot be refused.
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