The Constant Visitor

The last time I saw my brother Leo, he was waving at the window of our parents’ creaky old farmhouse, his face pressed against the glass like a kid on Christmas morning. We’d just returned from a week at the coast, and the whole drive back he’d been silent, his fingers tracing patterns on the window that I couldn’t follow. Mom said he was just tired, but I saw the way his eyes darted to the rearview mirror, as if expecting someone to be following us. Leo has Down syndrome, and he’s always been sensitive to things the rest of us miss, but this was different. It was like he was saying goodbye to something.

That was three years ago. Now, at twenty-two, I was back for the holidays, tasked with house-sitting while my parents took Leo to visit our aunt in the city. They’d asked me to look after the farm, the dogs, and the old house that had been in our family for generations. I’d moved out six months prior, but the house still felt like home, even though it had always had a strange energy. Leo had called his invisible friend ‘Max’ since we moved here when I was eight. Max was always around, but only at home. Never on holidays, never at the shops. I thought it was just a kid’s imagination, but after what happened that Christmas, I stopped believing in coincidences.

It was the last night of my parents’ trip, and I was alone in the house with the dogs, a cold December wind rattling the windows. The fire was crackling in the hearth, and I was wrapped in a quilt, watching a movie on my laptop. The dogs, two lazy Labs, were asleep at my feet. They suddenly lifted their heads, ears pricked, and let out low growls. I looked up, expecting a raccoon or a deer, but the yard was empty. The dogs wouldn’t settle, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft. I walked to the front window, and that’s when I saw him: a tall, gaunt figure standing at the edge of the woods, just staring at the house. He was too far away to see clearly, but something about the way he stood, perfectly still, made my blood run cold. I blinked, and he was gone.

I tried to shake it off, told myself it was a trick of the light, but the dogs wouldn’t stop whining. I made some tea, tried to focus on my book, but every creak and groan of the old house set my nerves on edge. Around midnight, I heard a soft tapping at the back door. I froze. My heart hammered as I crept to the kitchen, grabbing a heavy flashlight. The tapping continued, methodical, like a child knocking. I flicked on the porch light and opened the door, expecting to see a lost traveler, but there was no one there. The snow on the porch was undisturbed, except for a single set of footprints leading from the woods, stopping at the door, and then… nothing. No prints leading away.

The next day, I called my mom to check in, and I mentioned the figure. She was quiet for a long moment, then said, ‘Honey, that’s probably just the old hermit, Mr. Abernathy. He wanders the woods sometimes. He’s harmless.’ But I’d lived here my whole life, and I’d never seen anyone like that. I decided to explore the woods behind the house, following the path Leo used to take when he played with Max. I found a clearing with an old, gnarled oak tree, and under it, a small pile of stones, like a makeshift grave. I felt a chill as I realized Leo might have built it.

That evening, as I was making dinner, I heard Leo’s voice in my head, clear as day, saying, ‘Max is waiting.’ I dropped the pot I was holding, water splashing everywhere. The dogs started barking furiously, and I saw the figure again, this time right outside the kitchen window, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes wide and dark. He looked like a man, but his features were wrong—too long, too pale, and his smile stretched too wide. I screamed and stumbled back, and he was gone. The dogs were cowering under the table, and I was trembling so hard I had to sit down. I knew then that Max was real, and he was angry.

I called my parents, demanding they come back, but my mom said they were having a wonderful time and that I was probably just feeling lonely. She told me to remember how Leo used to talk about Max, and that maybe I should try talking to him too. That made my stomach turn. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the living room with all the lights on, a fire going, and a kitchen knife at my side. I heard footsteps in the attic above me, slow and heavy. Then a voice, low and raspy, drifted down: ‘He’s mine now.’ I grabbed my phone and called my dad, but he didn’t answer. I called my brother’s phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a message: ‘Leo, if you’re there, please tell me you’re okay. Please.’

I don’t know when I finally drifted off, but I woke to the sound of scratching at my bedroom door. I opened it to find the dogs, terrified, huddled together. The house was cold, and I could see my breath. I walked downstairs and found the front door wide open, snow blowing in. I slammed it shut and locked it, then noticed something on the floor: a small, hand-carved wooden figurine, crudely shaped like a man with a wide smile. It was Leo’s work; he used to carve things for Max. I picked it up, and for the first time, I saw writing scratched on the back: ‘LEO IS WITH ME.’

I lost it. I ran to the phone and called the police, but they said there was no report of a missing boy, that my parents had just checked in that morning. I called my parents again, and this time my mom answered, sounding confused. ‘We’re at the hotel, sweetie. Leo is right here, asleep. You’re scaring me.’ I told her about the figure, the footprints, the carving, and she fell silent. Then she said, ‘We never had a dog named Max, did we?’ No, we hadn’t. But Leo had drawn pictures of a dog, and he called it Max. I realized that Max wasn’t just a friend, he was something else, something that had been attached to Leo for years, and it was here, in the house, waiting for me.

The next morning, I packed my bags and left, driving to a motel on the other side of town. I called my parents and told them not to come home, not yet. I said I had a bad feeling about the house. They thought I was being dramatic, but they agreed to stay an extra few days. I didn’t tell them that Max was still there, that I could feel him watching me from the woods as I drove away. And I didn’t tell them about the last thing I saw before I lost sight of the house: a shadowy figure in the upstairs window, holding a small hand, and Leo’s face pressed against the glass, smiling a smile that was too wide, just like Max’s.