The Constant Visitor

I moved into the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Willow Creek in the autumn of 2012. The house had been vacant for years, and the realtor had been eager to unload it. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but the place had a peculiar stillness, as if the air itself was holding its breath. Within weeks, I began to feel a presence—a subtle pressure, like being watched from a distance. I chalked it up to the isolation and my overactive imagination. It was only when my friend Diana and our colleague Marcus came to visit in late November that things became undeniable.

We were sitting in the living room, the fireplace crackling, when I noticed the door to the study—which I had definitely closed—was now slightly ajar. Diana, who was facing it, went pale. ‘Did you just see that?’ she whispered. I turned, but the door was perfectly still. Marcus, who had his back to it, shrugged. ‘See what?’ he said. Diana and I exchanged a look. That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was shifting around me, settling into a rhythm that wasn’t mine.

Over the following months, I saw things from the corner of my eye—a shape darting behind the kitchen island, a silhouette in the hallway mirror. In February, Diana was staying over, and she screamed from the bathroom. She said a figure had walked past the open doorway, tall and gaunt, wearing an old-fashioned suit. I searched the house, but there was no one. I started to call the presence ‘Edgar,’ after the name embroidered on a dusty handkerchief I found in the attic. It was a way to make it feel less terrifying.

One morning in March, I was brushing my teeth, the bathroom door open to the hallway. I glanced up and saw a man standing there, just for a second—a waxy face, slicked-back hair, a faint smile. He looked like a faded game show host, all teeth and no warmth. He was gone before I could blink. I stood frozen, toothbrush dripping, until the image burned into my memory.

Then, in May, there came a knock at the front door. I opened it to an empty porch, but on the ground lay a single, fresh-cut rose. The next day, another knock. This time, a small, white envelope with something hard inside. My name was written in spidery script. I opened it to find an old brass key, cold to the touch. I had no idea what it unlocked. The knocks continued every few days, leaving small, unsettling gifts: a child’s marble, a tarnished locket, a strip of black velvet. The house, which had felt merely watchful, now seemed alive with anticipation, as if waiting for something to happen.

I tried to ignore it, but the compulsion to search for the lock grew. One evening, I was in the study, running my fingers along the wainscoting, when I felt a seam. I pressed, and a hidden panel slid open to reveal a narrow staircase descending into darkness. A draft of cold air washed over me, carrying the faint scent of rot. I knew I had to go down.

At the bottom, a cramped room with dirt walls. In the center, an old steamer trunk, its leather cracked. The brass key fit the lock perfectly. I knelt and lifted the lid. Inside, neatly arranged, were photographs—all of me, from a distance. In some, I was in the garden; in others, at the window. The latest was just moments ago, showing me from behind as I knelt at the trunk. A final photograph lay face-down. I turned it over. It was a picture of a man with that waxy, game-show smile, standing in this very room, holding a sign: ‘You’ve always been among friends.’

I slammed the lid shut and scrambled up the stairs, my heart pounding. I didn’t stop until I was in my car, driving away. But as I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw a reflection in the farmhouse window—a figure standing, watching. And when I looked at the passenger seat, there was a new item on the cushion: a single, black rose.

I never returned. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear a faint, rhythmic knock at my door. And I know he’s found me again.