The Constant Guest

The old farmhouse at the edge of Morrow Hollow had never felt like mine. I’d moved in after my aunt passed, mostly to escape the city, but also because the rent was laughably cheap. At first, I chalked up the creaks and groans to the house settling, the flickering porch light to a faulty wire. Even the sensation of being watched—a prickling at the back of my neck as I cooked or read—I dismissed as loneliness playing tricks.

Tonight, the rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the windows, and the wind rattled the shutters. I sat in the worn armchair by the fireplace, a dog-eared mystery novel in my hands. The only light came from a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows. That’s when I saw it—out of the corner of my eye, a figure standing by the linen closet, half-hidden in the gloom. He was tall, thin, with a pale face and a smile that was too wide, too fixed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there, watching.

My heart hammered. I blinked, and he was still there. But he wasn’t doing anything threatening. Just… standing. And smiling. My aunt had left behind an old Ouija board in the attic, a relic I’d found while exploring. I’d never used one, but desperation made me reach for it. I set it on the coffee table, the planchette cold under my trembling fingers. ‘Who are you?’ I spelled.

The planchette moved on its own, sliding to H, then T, then W. ‘THW.’

‘Are those your initials?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

‘Yes.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Friend.’

‘Whose friend?’

‘Yours.’

‘I can’t,’ I said, a sob catching in my throat.

‘Why?’

‘I’m scared.’

‘I won’t hurt you.’

Tears blurred my vision. ‘Please go away.’

‘Please be friend.’

‘No.’

‘Why won’t be friend?’

I slammed my hand on the board, knocking the planchette to the floor, and the connection broke. The room was silent again, save for the rain. The figure was gone. I told myself it was my imagination, a trick of the light, a hallucination from too much wine. But I couldn’t sleep.

The next morning, I noticed the porch light was on again, even though I’d turned it off. And in the dust of the floor near the closet, there were footprints—bare, too large, leading nowhere. Over the next week, small things began to change. My toothbrush would be moved, a book left open to a page I never turned to, the radio occasionally tuned to a static-filled station that whispered my name.

One evening, I found a child’s drawing on the kitchen table: a stick figure holding hands with a bigger one, with the words ‘FRIEND’ scrawled in crayon. A wave of nausea hit me. I threw it in the trash, but when I looked again later, it was back, now pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet.

I tried to ignore it, to go about my life. But he was always there at the edge of my vision—in the mirror, behind the shower curtain, in the backyard, staring at the window. He never advanced, never harmed me, but his smile never wavered, and his eyes were always fixed on me.

Desperate, I searched the house for some clue. In the attic, beneath a loose floorboard, I found a photograph: a man in his thirties, with that same too-wide smile, standing next to a woman and a boy. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘Tom, Helen, and Warren. Forever family.’ The date was 1972.

I went to the town library, asking about the farmhouse’s history. The old librarian, a woman named Mrs. Crowley, went pale when I mentioned the photo. She told me that the house had belonged to a man named Thomas Warren, who had lived there with his wife and son. One night, Thomas had murdered his family, then killed himself. They said he’d gone mad, haunted by the ghost of his childhood friend who drowned in the pond out back—a boy named Henry. Thomas had never recovered, and he would often talk to ‘Henry’ as if he were still there.

I returned home, my skin crawling. I wanted to leave, but the storm had knocked out the power, and the road was flooded. I sat in the dark, the candlelight flickering, and I could feel him in the room with me, his presence oppressive. The Ouija board sat on the table, untouched.

‘You’re Thomas,’ I said aloud. The temperature dropped. The candle flame bent toward the closet. ‘You’re not Warren. You’re Thomas. And you want a friend because you lost yours.’

A cold draft wrapped around me, and I saw him clearly now, not just a glimpse but fully—his face twisted with longing, his hands outstretched. ‘Be friend,’ he said, but his lips didn’t move. The words formed in my head, pleading, desperate.

I began to cry, overwhelmed. ‘I can’t. You’re not real. You’re dead.’

‘I am real,’ he said. ‘I will always be your friend. I will never leave you.’

He stepped closer, and I felt an icy hand on my shoulder. I screamed, and the candle went out. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and held it shaking in front of me. But when I turned, the room was empty.

Since then, I’ve tried to leave, but my car won’t start, and the phone lines are dead. My sleep is filled with dreams of a little boy standing at the edge of a pond, calling my name. And every morning, I find a new gift on my pillow: a single flower, a smooth stone, a child’s marble. He is always there, just out of sight, waiting. I am his friend now, whether I want to be or not.

Last night, I looked in the mirror and saw his reflection behind me, his smile a little wider, his eyes a little more hollow. And I realized that I no longer felt fear. Instead, I smiled back. Perhaps, in this lonely house, we can keep each other company. Perhaps, even the dead need a friend.