The old lady was often outside, sitting on the bench by her cement steps, or standing on the narrow walk in her lawn. She was standing outside when the young family moved in next door. Emily, always the outgoing sort, wanted to say hello and introduce herself. But with the busy work of the move, she never got around to it.

The weeks following the move, she would try to catch the eye of the old lady on her way to the car in the morning. The old lady’s eyes were always squinting, staring at nothing with a scowl on her face.

At last, Emily could not stand it any longer. One morning, before heading to her car, she crossed her lawn and stood by the low stone wall that divided her yard from the old lady’s.

“Good morning,” she greeted. “Beautiful day.”

The old lady hrumffed.

“I’m Emily Watson,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

When the old lady didn’t respond, Emily took a few steps toward the car.

“She died right where you are,” the old lady gruffed. “My son’s daughter. Adopted. She was some type of northern indigenous gal. I don’t know. It was strange. She was strange. Died right there.”

Emily forced her feet to stay planted. All hopes for a pleasant conversation evaporated. She stared at the woman, into the deep wrinkles, the sagging eyes. She seemed sane, but it wasn’t like Alzheimer’s had a special appearance.

“The girl was such a handful right from the start. Drove off my son’s wife. She couldn’t handle her anymore. He and the child ended up living here with me until he eventually left. I didn’t mind too much. The girl was a lot, even at six, but I could tell she didn’t mean to be. She snuck outside at night. It didn’t matter the weather. Rain, storm, freezing temperatures. She would go outside, wander off, and return when the sun came up. Nothing I did could stop her. Nails on the windows, she’d bloody her fingers prying them out. It was the coldest night of the year. They told me she had been sitting on the roof for a little while, judging from the melted ice there. She could access the roof from her window. I don’t know if she fell or if she was trying to get down, but somehow she landed on the ground and injured herself. She didn’t try to come home. Nope. She never did any of the other times she snuck out. She would never come home ‘til morning. But no matter. They found a little trail of blood in her tracks. She climbed this low stone wall right here and began knocking on the neighbor’s door. Knocking and knocking. They never answered. She was found the next morning right there in that spot you’re standing. Huddled in a frozen ball. When the coroners tried to lift her body up, she disappeared. Turned into a pile of snow. Left nothing but her clothes behind. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”

Emily couldn’t help it. She was taking a few steps backwards, now. Toward her car.

The old lady’s foggy blue eyes landed hard on her. “I told you the story, now. So, you know if you hear any knocking on your door at night, you do not answer it. Understand? Even if she begs you to let her inside. Don’t even acknowledge that you see or hear her.”

Emily was pressed up against her car now, fumbling with the fob.

“There,” the old lady smacked her lips. “I warned you.”

Weeks turned to months, then years. Emily Watson never tried to speak to the old lady after that. She made sure to avoid her whenever possible. She told her husband, Vahn, the tale. He laughed it off and they never spoke of it again.

So when the night came that there was a banging on the door, the story could not be further from their minds.

Vahn shot up, muttering, “Wha? Who’s there?”

“It’s the middle of the night,” groaned Emily.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The knocking was persistent, the sound conveying the need behind it.

Vahn was to his feet and out into the hallway when the person at the door let out a tiny sob. A child’s sob. Emily was up in seconds, trailing from her room to her daughter’s. The little one was sleeping soundly in the bed, wrapped in a nest of covers.

Please let me in. The voice came from the other side of the front door. Small, shivering from the cold. A little girl trapped outside.

Vahn was motionless in front of the door when Emily found him. They locked eyes. They were both thinking it.

“Should I answer?” he breathed.

Emily’s face broke into a smile. Nervous laughter came out no louder than a sigh. “All I can think about is the old lady’s story.”

Vahn nodded, but his lips did not curl upward. “Me too.”

The banging at the door started up again, this time much more urgent. It was the bang of someone with authority. Someone who expected to be let in by then. Then the voice changed. It was deeper, muffled by much more than the door. The voice of a person buried beneath snow.

Let. Me. In!

Vahn’s hand reached forward and Emily moved to stop him. But he didn’t go for the doorknob. He just touched the lock, making sure it was secure.

Footsteps through the dry leaves were heard moving around to the side of the house. They both turned their heads to the window that looked out from their yard to the old lady’s. A face appeared in the window. A child’s face, white-washed in the darkness, a halo of black hair shadowing her features. A tiny, bony, white hand pounded on the glass.

Please!

She sounded ready to cry. Vahn rubbed his forehead. “Jesus Christ. This is stupid. She’s just a child.”

And he unlocked the door, gripped the knob, and opened it.

***

Authorities were called later the next day. Emily’s sister waited at the coffee shop for an hour. She’d never forgotten their weekly chats and never, ever failed to answer a call or text. Something was wrong.

Police appeared on the scene for a wellness check and found the front door wide open. No one was home, but they did find two piles of clothes by the door, frozen solid. Snow melting into the carpet. A similar discovery was found in the child’s room. A onesie pajama outfit was frozen in a curled-up position, surrounded by blankets.

The bodies of the Watson family were never found, but every now and again, on the coldest night of the year, whenever there was snow on the ground, child-sized tracks could be found leaving the old lady’s house. The tracks met up with three sets of footprints that left from the neighbor’s house. A woman’s, a man’s, and another child’s. But they would always return home once the sun came up.