The Beige Pants

The first thing I noticed was the silence. Not the peaceful kind that settles over a neighborhood at dusk, but the heavy, expectant kind that makes you feel like the walls are holding their breath. My mother, sister, and I had just moved into the old farmhouse on Mulberry Lane, and the previous tenants had left in a hurry, leaving behind a half-filled box of children’s toys and a strange, sour smell in the pantry. I was fourteen, my sister ten, and my mother—well, she was always ‘handling things.’

The fading sun cast long, ribbon-like shadows across the wooden floor as I walked from my room to the kitchen. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but the house was eerily still. I called out for Mom, my voice swallowed by the creaking floorboards. No answer. I checked the dining room, the dusty parlor with its sheet-draped furniture, even the mudroom where our boots sat in a neat row. Nothing.

A draft from the side door caught my attention. It was ajar, which was odd—Mom always insisted on locking it. Beyond, the gravel driveway curved toward the detached garage. The garage door, an old manual roll-up, was open about two feet from the ground, a soft yellow light spilling out like a tongue.

My feet crunched on the gravel as I approached. The light inside flickered—maybe a faulty bulb. I crouched low, intending to peek under the gap, when I saw them. Legs. Standing perfectly still, facing the back wall of the garage. The legs wore beige, wrinkle-resistant fabric, the kind my father used to wear to his accounting job, but he’d been gone for years. The shoes were scuffed white sneakers, and the feet—they were enormous. Size fourteen at least.

My heart hammered. I knew it wasn’t Mom. The pants were men’s, the stance wide, confident. A stranger. I stood up, ready to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The light inside seemed to pulse, and the legs turned—not pivoting, but a smooth, unnatural swivel, the rest of the body still hidden by the gap.

I heard a sound, soft and wet, like a footstep on damp soil. The gap widened slightly, as if someone had nudged the door from inside. I saw the man’s waist, a dark belt, and a shirt—a plaid flannel, but the pattern seemed to shift, the colors bleeding into each other. Then the door began to rise, not jerkily, but smoothly, like it was being controlled.

I stumbled backward, my sneakers catching on a loose stone. My mother’s voice called from the house, ‘Elise? Are you out there?’ I tried to scream, but my throat tightened. The man stepped into the light. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but his face was a pale blur, like a photograph left in the sun. He didn’t have eyes—just smooth, hollow sockets, but I could feel him watching me.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ I managed to whisper.

He tilted his head, the only human gesture, and a voice that sounded like dry leaves rustling came from his direction. ‘I’ve always been here. You just didn’t see me.’

I turned and ran, but the distance to the house felt like miles. My mother stood on the porch, her face creased with worry. I crashed into her arms, sobbing, and told her about the man. She held me stiffly, her gaze fixed on the garage. ‘There’s no one there, sweetheart. You’re just tired.’ But as she led me inside, I saw her hand tremble on the doorknob.

The next morning, I refused to go near the garage. My sister noticed my fear and mocked me, calling me a scaredy-cat. That afternoon, she went to fetch a garden tool. She came back pale, saying she saw a man in beige pants vanish into the wall. My mother finally believed us, and we called the police. They searched the garage and found nothing, but the officer who examined the floor turned white. He pointed to a set of footprints in the dust—huge, barefoot impressions leading from the back wall to the door. And on the wall, faint but legible, were the words, ‘I liked you better when you slept.’

We moved out within the week, but the dreams followed. In them, I see the garage, the light spilling out, a man with no eyes sitting on a dusty crate, waiting. And I know, with a certainty that makes my blood run cold, that he doesn’t want the house. He wants us. He wants to be seen. And the beige pants are just the beginning.