The Christmas Visitor

Our family moved into the old farmhouse when I was four, a rambling place with a sagging porch and windows that seemed to watch the road. The first time I saw her was in my bedroom, a girl about my age with pale hair and a dress that seemed to shimmer like water. She asked me to play, and I did. We played hide-and-seek in the attic and tag in the field behind the barn, though she never left footprints in the frost. My mother said she was my imaginary friend, and I accepted that, because it was easier than explaining the chill that settled in my bones whenever she was near.

That Christmas, we had a tree in the corner of the sitting room, and I was staring at the angel topper when I saw her standing beside the tree, reaching for a red ornament. I tugged my mother’s sleeve and said, ‘Mommy, Karen is with Santa Claus!’ My mother laughed and patted my head, but I saw how her smile flickered for a moment. That night, I heard laughter from the chimney, but it wasn’t jolly.

The years passed, and Karen never forgot me. She’d appear in mirrors, in the corner of my eye, always asking to play. My younger sister, Lily, started sleeping in my room when she was six, and one afternoon we were cleaning the toy room, a dusty space under the stairs. Lily knocked over a stack of wooden blocks and cried out, ‘Ow! That hurt!’ I told her to finish up and meet me outside. As she closed the door, I heard a voice, thin and off-key, repeat, ‘Ow! That hurt!’ followed by a high-pitched giggle. I spun around, but the room was empty. When Lily came back in, I didn’t tell her what I’d heard.

When I was sixteen, my older sister Claire was moving out to attend college, and we had a farewell party. The living room was full of relatives, and someone brought up the old stories about Karen, joking that I had a wild imagination. The adults laughed, and my mother said, ‘It was just a phase.’ But as they argued, the lights began to strobe, flickering in a frantic rhythm. My mother looked at me sharply and asked, ‘Why did you do that?’ I hadn’t touched the switch. The flickering stopped, and the room fell silent. I saw my reflection in the dark window, and behind it, a small shape with white-blond hair staring back.

That night, I stood in the hallway, facing my bedroom door. I knew what I had to do. I had to tell Karen to leave. I took a deep breath and spoke into the darkness: ‘Karen, I can’t play anymore.’ For a moment, nothing. Then the door creaked open, and I saw her standing in my room, her eyes black and wide. She tilted her head and smiled, her mouth opening too wide, and she said in a voice that wasn’t hers, ‘But we’re just getting started.’ The light bulb above me burst, and in the blackness, I felt a cold hand grip my wrist. I pulled away and ran to my parents’ room, but when I barged in, my mother looked at me with the same black eyes, and she said, ‘Dear, who are you?’