The Constant Visitor

Growing up, I always thought the old farmhouse we moved into when I was twelve was just drafty. But my little brother, Danny, saw things differently. Danny was only three, with big blue eyes and a mop of sandy hair, and he would often sit in his room, babbling to someone only he could see. We all chalked it up to an imaginary friend, the way kids do.

One afternoon, I heard him crying through the thin walls. I found him curled up on his bed, hugging his worn teddy bear. ‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ I asked, sitting beside him. He sniffled and looked at me with such a serious expression that it sent a chill down my spine. ‘The man in the brown coat visits me at night,’ he said. ‘He stands in the corner and watches. But he looks sad, not scary. And he always smells like smoke and wintergreen.’

I asked my mom about it, but she just sighed and said, ‘Your grandpa used to smoke a pipe and chew wintergreen gum. But he passed away before you were born, and Danny never knew him.’ I tried to brush it off, but Danny kept talking. ‘He’s not alone,’ he said. ‘Sometimes there’s a younger man with him. They sit at the foot of my bed and whisper, but I can’t understand them.’ That was when my mom’s face went pale. She clutched her chest and whispered, ‘That’s my father and brother. They died in a car accident when I was a teenager. I never talk about them because it’s too painful. But Danny couldn’t know about them. He was born years later.’

A few nights later, I had a nightmare that I couldn’t shake. In the dream, I was walking down a long hallway in a house I’d never seen. The walls were covered in faded floral wallpaper, and the air was thick with dust. At the end of the hall, a door was ajar, and I could hear a faint, rhythmic creaking. I pushed it open and saw a man in a brown coat, his back to me. He was rocking in a wooden chair, and the floorboards creaked in time. He turned his head, but his face was a blur. ‘Tell her we’re sorry,’ he said. ‘We never meant to leave.’ I woke up gasping, my heart pounding.

Danny’s visits became more frequent. He’d tell me, ‘Last night, they spoke to me. They said they’re waiting for something. They said soon they won’t be able to visit anymore.’ I asked Mom about the house where she grew up, and she described a yellow house with a wraparound porch, a large oak tree, and a picket fence. ‘It was a happy home,’ she said, tears in her eyes. ‘Until the accident. Then we had to sell it. I never went back.’

One afternoon, Danny grabbed my hand and pulled me to his room. He pointed at the corner. ‘Look! They’re here now.’ The air in the room turned cold, and I saw a shimmer in the corner, like heat rising from pavement. A faint outline of a man began to form, and I could smell pipe smoke and wintergreen. Another figure materialized beside him, younger, with a similar build. They looked at Danny with such longing, and then they both started to fade. Danny started crying, ‘Don’t go! I want you to stay!’ But they were already gone.

The next morning, Mom received a letter from a lawyer. It said that her childhood home had been sold, and inside the walls, workers had found an old metal box. In it were letters and a photograph of a young woman, my mom, who had been the spitting image of me. The letters were from her father, written after the accident, expressing his deep regret that he never got to see his daughter grow up, that he never said goodbye. The lawyer also found a bank account in her name with a substantial sum of money, untouched for decades.

Mom cried for hours that day. She finally told us the truth: her father and brother had been killed in a drunk driving accident, and she’d always blamed herself because she’d asked them to pick her up from a party that night. She never forgave herself for their deaths. And now, she realized, they had been trying to apologize all along, to let her know that they didn’t blame her.

After that, Danny stopped having visitors. The house felt lighter, and the strange drafts disappeared. But sometimes, when I pass by his room at night, I catch a whisper of pipe smoke and wintergreen in the air. I never told Mom, because I know they’re finally at peace, and so is she. But a part of me still wonders if they might come back one day, to check on us, and to make sure we’re okay.