The Haunting Tale of a Little Girl in the Hallway

Title: The Girl in the Hallway

The autumn air bit with a promise of winter as Pastor Elias stepped onto the creaking porch of the Thompson family home. He rang the bell, greeted by the warm laughter of his old friend Martin, whose handshake still carried the firmness of a man who once built houses for a living. Inside, the scent of spiced cider and aged wood filled the air, a comforting contrast to the chilly afternoon outside.

They settled into the living room, mugs of tea in hand, trading stories of life’s detours—the pastor’s recent sermon stumbles, Martin’s retirement, the way the world had “spun on without them.” Elias leaned back, savoring the banter, until a flicker of movement caught his eye.

At the far end of the hallway stood a child.

No older than three, with sun-kissed curls that spiraled like question marks around her face. She wore a faded yellow dress, the kind his own niece had outgrown last summer. She didn’t move, just watched him, her eyes wide and unblinking, a tiny hand resting on the wall as if steadying herself between worlds.

Elias cleared his throat. “Did you see—” he began, but the words jammed when he met Martin’s gaze. His friend stared blankly, then glanced at his wife, Clara, who sat knitting by the fire. “See what?” Martin asked.

Elias gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “A little girl. Blond hair. She was just there.”

Clara’s needles stilled. Her face went waxen, and she rose so abruptly her chair screeched. Without a word, she fled to the kitchen, leaving a trail of silence in her wake. Martin exhaled, rubbing his temples. “You’re sure you saw… her?”

The question hung sharp in the air. Elias nodded.

“She’s not there, Elias,” Martin said, though his voice wavered. “Not anymore.”

Martin explained in a rush: their granddaughter, Lily, had been that age—two years old—when a fever swept through her like a rogue tide. She’d slipped away in the night, her tiny hand clutching Clara’s finger. Since then, strangers sometimes claimed to see her in the house: a flash of curls in the garden, a giggle in the attic, once even a child’s footprint in the snow when no one was outside. Yet Clara, her mother, had never glimpsed her. “It’s like Lily’s waiting,” Martin said, “but for what, I don’t know.”

Elias stood, excusing himself to check on Clara. He found her at the sink, her back rigid, tears splashing into the soapy water. When he touched her shoulder, she flinched. “I wish she’d leave me alone,” she whispered. “Everyone gets to see her but me.” Her voice broke. “Why isn’t she mine to say goodbye to?”

Later, Elias sat in his car, the Thompson house receding in the rearview mirror. The road blurred with dusk, and his mind churned. Ghosts, he thought, aren’t in the Bible. Yet here was a memory, vivid as a photograph: Lily’s curls, the way her gaze had seemed less spectral than curious, as though she were the one trying to understand why he couldn’t step into her world.

He thought of Clara’s anguish, the way grief could carve a person hollow. Was it faith to dismiss the inexplicable, or was it a kind of unbelief—refusing to look where God might be working? The highway stretched ahead, silent. Elias didn’t know what to call what he’d seen, only that some love, even after loss, refuses to vanish.

And somewhere, a little girl in a yellow dress continued to wait.