The Constant Visitor

I was six when I first saw him, standing at the foot of my bed in the old farmhouse my parents rented on the outskirts of Verona, Wisconsin. The moonlight coming through the window made him look like a smear of ink against the pale wallpaper. He didn’t move or speak; he just watched me with eyes that were not quite there, like holes in the fabric of the night. I called out for my mother, but by the time she flicked on the light, he was gone. She told me it was a dream, and I believed her because children believe what they must to feel safe. But I knew the mothball smell that lingered in the room was real, and I knew he would be back.

He was back the next night, and the night after that. He always stood at the foot of my bed, then gradually moved closer over the weeks. By the time I turned seven, he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his weight pressing a shallow dent in the quilt. I never felt afraid of him, not exactly. He was more like a constant visitor, a presence I grew used to. When we left that farmhouse and moved into a cramped apartment in Madison, he followed. He stood in the corner of my room next to the stack of cardboard boxes, a silent shadow that flickered when the fluorescent light buzzed. My parents thought I had an imaginary friend; they even bought me a plush rabbit to keep him company. But he didn’t care for the rabbit. He only cared about watching me.

As I grew older, his habits became ritual. In every room I lived in, he would pace a path between my dresser and my door, always five steps, then a pause, a turn, a stare, and then continue. He did this for hours each night. And every morning, I would wake to find him lying beside me, his form pressed against my side, cold as a winter draft, though I never felt him touch me. My girlfriends would laugh when I mentioned him, assuming it was a joke. My boyfriends pretended to believe but smirked behind my back. I learned to keep him to myself, a private companion that only I could see.

Two years ago, I was dating a man named Marcus. He claimed to be sensitive to what he called ‘the thin places’ between worlds. He said he could feel spirits, see their outlines on the periphery of his vision. I didn’t believe him; I thought it was a way to seem mysterious. But one night, he stayed over at my tiny apartment. The radiator clanked, and the city hummed outside the window. I was lying in bed, watching my visitor—I still hadn’t given him a name—pacing his usual route between my dresser and the door. He was about halfway through a turn when he vanished. Not a fade, not a flicker—one moment he was there, the next the space was empty.

A coldness swept over me, and I sat up. ‘Marcus?’ I whispered. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, fully awake. He looked at me with an expression I had never seen on his face before—a mixture of fear and awe. ‘There’s someone here,’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘His name is Elian. He’s been with you since you were six. He likes that you never gave him a name because he thinks you understand him.’ My blood ran cold. I had never told Marcus about the visitor, not once. I had kept that secret locked away. ‘How do you know that?’ I asked. Marcus didn’t answer. He just stared at the space where the visitor had been. Then he began to speak in a voice that was not his own—a deeper, older voice that seemed to come from the walls themselves. ‘I am not here to harm you. I am here to guard. But the time of guarding is ending. Something else is coming.’

That night, Marcus told me things that no one could have known. He told me about the farmhouse, about the mothball smell, about the rabbit I had cried over when it was lost in a move. He told me about the night I nearly drowned at the lake when I was nine, how he had pushed me to the surface, and how I had felt a cold hand on my back. I had never told anyone about that. Marcus—or the entity speaking through him—said that Elian had been bound to me by a promise made before I was born, a debt owed by my great-grandmother to a spirit of the land. But now the debt was paid, and Elian’s task was done. However, the spirits that had sent him were not satisfied. They wanted more. They wanted to take my place in the bargain.

Marcus collapsed after that, and when he woke, he had no memory of what he had said. He only remembered a feeling of dread. I, on the other hand, could not forget. The next night, Elian returned, but he was different. He looked solid, almost human, and his eyes were clear and blue instead of dark voids. He stood by my bed and spoke in a voice that was barely more than a breath. ‘I have protected you, but my time here is done. Tonight, they will try to take you. You must do as I say.’ He told me to take a pinch of salt from the kitchen and sprinkle it in a circle around my bed, then to light a black candle and place it at the head. He said to write my name on a piece of paper and burn it, letting the ashes fall into a glass of water, then to drink it. I did all this without questioning, because the look in his eyes was desperate.

At midnight, the air in my room grew thick and heavy. The candle flame bent as if blown by an invisible wind. Shadows gathered in the corners, deepening and pooling until they took the shape of a woman with outstretched arms. She moved toward me, reaching for my face. But as she touched the circle of salt, she recoiled as if burned. She hissed, and for a moment, I saw Elian standing between us, his form flickering. He looked at me and said, ‘Remember the mothball smell? That was me, overlaying my scent on this world. Remember the weight in the bed? That was me, keeping you grounded. You are not alone. You will never be alone.’ Then he turned to the shadow woman and let out a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard—a deep, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in my very bones. The shadow woman screamed, and then she was gone. The candle went out, and the room was plunged into darkness.

When I turned on the light, Elian was gone. He has not appeared since. It’s been two years now, and I still sleep with a pinch of salt under my pillow and a black candle on my nightstand. I don’t know if the shadow woman will come back, but I feel a strange emptiness where Elian used to be. Sometimes, in the gray light just before dawn, I think I see him standing in the corner of my room, watching me still. But when I blink, he’s gone. I’ve tried to tell people about him, but they either laugh or look at me with pity. I’ve stopped trying. I keep his memory alive in the only way I can: every night, before I sleep, I whisper, ‘Thank you, Elian,’ and I wait. I don’t know if he hears me, but I like to think he does, and that one day, he might find his way back to me. Until then, I live with the absence of a presence that was never mine to keep, yet somehow was. And I know, in the deepest part of me, that I will never truly be alone. There is always a visitor waiting in the corners of my vision, and I am okay with that.

I write this not to convince anyone, but to set the record straight in case something happens to me. If you find this journal, know that I was not insane. There are forces beyond our understanding, and some of them choose to watch over us for reasons we cannot fathom. Elian was one of them. And I am grateful.

– Lila Vance, March 12, 2024