The Blue-Ribbon Visitor

The old ski lodge at the edge of Frosthollow had been our home for three winters now. Mum managed the place for a reclusive owner who never showed his face, and we lived in the cramped apartment above the main hall. That December, with snow piling against the windows and the guests yet to arrive for Christmas week, the lodge felt emptier than ever. Mum was in the kitchen below, humming as she rolled meatballs for the staff dinner, while I sat in our little living room, my dolls arrayed on the threadbare carpet.

I had just finished dressing my favorite doll, a blonde named Astrid, when I noticed a man sitting in the armchair by the window. He was young, maybe twenty, with a pale face and a woolen sweater that looked too thin for the cold. He wasn’t there a moment ago, but I wasn’t scared. Children accept such things easily. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Would you like to play?’ He didn’t answer, just stared at his hands. I saw that his hands were trembling, and his eyes were wet. I knelt before him, my doll forgotten. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’s okay. Please don’t cry.’

That’s when Mum came up the stairs, her footsteps heavy on the creaking boards. She froze at the doorway, her face going white. ‘Who are you talking to?’ she asked, her voice steady but thin. I turned to her and smiled. ‘The man in the chair. He’s sad, so I gave him my blue ribbon for his hair.’ I pointed to the armchair, and the ribbon—my favorite, from last summer’s harvest festival—was gone. Mum’s eyes darted around the room, and she took a step back. ‘Come, darling,’ she said, reaching for me. ‘We need to go.’

That evening, Mum closed the lodge to all but the most urgent reservations. Snow had drifted so high that the road was impassable, and the guests who had been due to arrive called to cancel. We were alone in the building, except for the creaks and groans of the old structure. Mum tried to keep me busy, baking gingerbread and telling stories, but I kept looking toward the armchair. The man was still there, but only when Mum wasn’t looking. He didn’t speak, but he seemed to understand me. He kept holding the blue ribbon, twisting it in his fingers.

That night, I woke to a sound like sobbing. I crept out of bed and into the living room. The man was kneeling by the window, his forehead against the glass, frost forming on the pane. ‘Why are you crying?’ I asked. He turned to me, and for the first time, he opened his mouth. A faint, hollow whisper came out, like wind through a cracked door. ‘I went up to the attic,’ he said. ‘I never came down.’ I didn’t understand, but I felt a chill. I ran back to my room and pulled the covers over my head.

The next morning, Mum was packing our bags, her movements quick and nervous. ‘The owner called,’ she said. ‘He says we need to leave. An ice storm is coming.’ But I knew she was lying. She had a map spread on the table, and she was tracing a route through the woods to the neighboring village. I wanted to tell her about the man’s words, but she looked so frightened that I stayed quiet. Instead, I asked, ‘Can I bring my ribbon?’ Mum paused. ‘It’s gone,’ she said. ‘I found it in the attic.’ My blood went cold. ‘The attic?’ I repeated. Mum’s face was pale. ‘The attic of this lodge. I don’t know how it got there.’

Mum and I took the snowmobile, heading through the white wilderness toward the village of Tornefors. The wind howled, and the trees bent under the weight of snow. We were halfway there when I saw the man standing among the pines, watching us. He was wearing my ribbon, tied around his neck like a scarf. I gasped, and Mum swerved, almost hitting a snowbank. ‘What is it?’ she cried. I pointed, but when she looked, he was gone.

That night, in the village inn, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The man appeared in the doorway, his body faint, almost transparent. He mouthed the words ‘thank you.’ I felt a strange warmth, and then he vanished. But from that day on, I could see him often. Mum never spoke of it, but I knew she saw him too, because she started leaving food out for the spirits, as the old country folk did. And every winter, when the snow fell thick and the lodge was empty, a blue ribbon would appear on my pillow. I never told Mum, but I wore it every day, until it frayed and faded.

Years later, I learned the lodge’s tragic history. A young man named Lars had died in the attic during the lodge’s first winter, a suicide by hanging. His body was not found until spring. They said he had been heartbroken, for his love had wed another. I like to think I gave him some peace. And sometimes, when I’m alone in a quiet room, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and I hear a whisper: ‘Don’t worry. It’s okay.’ But now I know who’s saying it. It’s me.