The Constant Playmate

The old farmhouse had stood for over a century, its weathered boards groaning with the weight of countless generations. When my great-grandfather Elias passed in the bleak January, we inherited not just the land but the weight of his silence. My little brother, Theo, had just turned two, and his world was a swirl of colors and sounds, too young to grasp the finality of death. To him, Elias was simply ‘Boppa,’ a warm voice and a pair of sticky candy hands. He didn’t understand the funeral, the black clothes, the tears. He just knew Boppa wasn’t there anymore.

The first sign was the toys. Theo’s room, once a tidy if chaotic jumble of blocks and cars, began to arrange itself in patterns. A row of matchbox cars lined up on the windowsill, perfectly spaced. His stuffed animals, usually a tangled heap, would sit upright in a semicircle on the floor, as if in conversation. I chalked it up to his budding imagination, but then the talking began.

It was late February, the month after Elias’s passing. The house was still cold, the radiators clanking like ghostly applause. One morning, before the sun had even thought about rising, I was jolted awake by Theo’s loud, cheerful chatter from his room. He was laughing, and I heard him say, ‘Boppa, you go vroom vroom!’ My stepmother, Rachel, stirred beside me in the hallway as we both peeked into his room. He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by his toy cars, but he was facing the empty rocking chair in the corner.

‘Who are you talking to, honey?’ Rachel asked, her voice heavy with sleep.

Theo turned, his eyes wide and bright. ‘Boppa! He’s playing cars with me.’

Rachel shot me a look, half amused, half uneasy. ‘Sweetie, you know Boppa is in heaven now.’

Theo’s face scrunched in confusion. ‘No, he’s right there!’ He pointed at the chair, which creaked slightly, as if someone had just shifted their weight.

A cold draft slithered through the room, and the hairs on my arm stood up. Rachel, rubbing her eyes, said, ‘I’m going back to bed. You’ve got this?’ I nodded, a strange excitement fluttering in my chest. I had never been close to Elias—he was a stoic man who rarely spoke except to tell stories of the old country—but the idea of him lingering, watching over Theo, felt like a gift.

‘Hey, sissy,’ Theo said, tugging my sleeve. ‘You wanna play with me and Boppa?’

I knelt down, my heart racing. ‘Is Boppa here right now?’

‘Yeap!’ he said, grinning. ‘He’s sitting in the chair. He likes you.’

I looked at the chair. It was a heavy oak rocking chair that had belonged to Elias. It was empty, but the air around it seemed thicker, almost shimmering with a faint warmth. I felt a presence, not menacing, but watchful.

‘Can I say hi?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Theo nodded solemnly. ‘He says hi. He says he’s happy you’re here.’

Over the next weeks, Theo’s play sessions became a routine. Every morning, he’d wake early and chatter away to ‘Boppa.’ He’d tell me what Boppa said, who was mostly silent according to Theo, but occasionally gave advice: ‘Boppa says I should eat my peas,’ or ‘Boppa says the big tree might fall in the storm.’ And indeed, the big willow by the barn did lose a branch in a windstorm, which Theo insisted was Boppa’s warning.

I began to feel a sense of peace, a connection to a past I hadn’t known. I started sitting in the room during his playtime, just watching the chair, trying to sense something. Sometimes I’d feel a subtle brush of air, like a hand passing near my cheek. Other times, I’d catch a whiff of pipe tobacco, Elias’s scent. But it was always gentle.

Then, the dreams started. The first night, I dreamt of Elias standing in the field, his face weathered, his eyes kind. He held a small wooden car, the kind he used to carve. He handed it to me and said, ‘Remember the roots.’ I woke with a start, the phrase echoing in my mind.

The next day, I asked my father about Elias’s old workshop. He told me Elias had a small shed behind the barn where he did his woodworking. I had never bothered to explore it. Late that afternoon, I went to the shed. The door was swollen from moisture, and I had to shoulder it open. Inside, dust motes danced in the slanted sunlight. Workbenches lined the walls, covered in tools and half-finished carvings. In a corner, I found a small chest, locked. I pried it open with a crowbar.

Inside were dozens of wooden toys—cars, animals, dolls—each crafted with loving precision. But what caught my eye was a letter, yellowed and folded. It was addressed to ‘My dearest family.’ I opened it, my hands trembling.

‘My dear ones,’ it began. ‘If you’re reading this, I am gone. But know that I will never truly leave this land. My stubbornness kept me rooted here, and my love for you keeps my spirit tied to this house. I will watch over the little ones, especially the youngest. I have carved a small figurine for each of you, to remember me by. But beware—there are other spirits in these woods, older and less kind. They seek to attach themselves to the living, to feed on their energy. They might mimic my voice or my form. Trust your heart. The roots run deep, but so do the snares.’

I read the letter three times, a chill creeping up my spine. The toys in the chest seemed to stare at me with button eyes. I thought of Theo, so trusting, so open. Was he really playing with Elias? Or was something else wearing his grandfather’s face?

That evening, after Theo went to bed, I sat in the hallway, listening. Through the crack in his door, I heard him talking. ‘Boppa, why is your hand so cold?’

There was a pause, then a voice, not Theo’s, but a low whisper that seemed to crawl through the floorboards: ‘Because the ground is cold, child.’

My blood turned to ice. I rushed into the room, flicking on the light. Theo was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. The rocking chair was empty, but it was rocking slowly, back and forth, as if someone had just stepped away.

‘Theo, who were you talking to?’ I asked, my voice sharp.

He looked at me, his face innocent. ‘Boppa. He was telling me a story about the woods.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said there’s a lady who lives under the old oak, and she’s lonely. She wants me to come play with her.’

My heart hammered. ‘You said no, right?’

‘Boppa said I shouldn’t go. He said she’s not nice. But she’s calling me.’

I scooped him up, holding him tight. ‘Listen to Boppa. Never go with strangers, even if they say they know you.’

That night, I slept in his room. I had the dream again. This time, Elias was standing in the doorway, but his face was different—his eyes were hollow, and his mouth dripped with something dark. He held out his hand, and at the end of his fingers were long, needle-like claws. ‘Come,’ he said, but his voice was wrong, all slither and hiss. I woke screaming.

The next day, I went to the shed and found the letter again. At the bottom, there was a postscript I had missed: ‘If you see me in the mirror, run. It is not me.’ I looked into the dusty mirror in the shed, and for a split second, I saw a figure standing behind me—an old man with a smile too wide. I spun around, but there was nothing.

I realized then that Elias had left us protection, but also warning. The toys were talismans, carved with symbols to ward off what lurked. I gathered them all, placing them around Theo’s room. I told my father, and he brought in a medium, a woman with silver hair and eyes that seemed to see through walls. She walked the property, chanting in a language I didn’t recognize. After three days, she said the malevolent presence was gone, but that it might return, drawn to the innocence of children.

We moved shortly after, leaving the farmhouse behind. But sometimes, when I tuck Theo in at night, he’ll look over my shoulder and say, ‘Boppa says goodbye.’ And I’ll turn, expecting to see him, but there’s always nothing. The letter remains in my nightstand, and on the anniversary of Elias’s death, the rocking chair—which we kept—rocks by itself, a gentle, rhythmic creak. Theo says it’s Boppa, just visiting. But I never know if it’s really him, or something wearing his memory, waiting for us to grow careless.

The last time I checked the letter, a new line had appeared in the old man’s handwriting: ‘The roots run deep, but so do the lies.’ I don’t know what it means. But I’ll never trust the empty chair again.