The Curbstone Visitor

In the autumn of my fifteenth year, my family moved into the old Marrow apartments on the edge of a town called Hollow Creek. The complex was a maze of brick buildings, and on three sides it was buttressed by a forest so thick and dark that even the noon sun seemed to surrender to it. I had no real friends there, except for a girl named Elara, who lived in the last building, her parents as strict as prison wardens. My only other companion was my boyfriend, Dax, and his older sister, Verma, and a few of their friends who tolerated my presence.

One evening, we were all gathered on Dax’s porch, the air cool and smelling of damp leaves. The porch light cast a sickly yellow glow, and the forest beyond was a wall of black. I don’t remember what started it—some trivial teenage spat—but suddenly words were flying, sharp and cruel. I felt the heat of anger, then the sting of tears I refused to shed. Without a word, I pushed off the railing and stalked away, heading toward the back where Elara’s building stood. I knew she was asleep, and her parents would sooner call the police than let me in, but I needed to be away from them, away from the mockery in their eyes.

I sat on the curb in the parking lot, the asphalt cold through my jeans. I buried my face in my knees, letting the silence of the night press in around me. The apartment lights flickered, but I didn’t look up. I was waiting for Dax to come after me, to apologize, to make it right. But minutes passed, and the only sound was the rustle of leaves in the forest, a sound that seemed to have a cadence, a whisper without words.

Then, I heard footsteps. Slow, deliberate, coming from the direction of the woods. I lifted my head, expecting to see Dax’s silhouette, but the figure that emerged was wrong. It was taller, thinner, and it moved with a stiff, mechanical gait, as if its joints were not quite right. It stopped about ten feet away, just at the edge of the pool of light from a distant lamppost. I couldn’t make out its face, but I could feel its gaze on me, a cold pressure against my skin.

I tried to speak, to ask who it was, but my throat clicked shut. The figure tilted its head, as if studying me, and then it raised one hand and pointed at the curb beside me. I looked down, and there, on the asphalt, was a small, smooth stone. I hadn’t noticed it before. The figure then lowered its hand and stood still, waiting.

My heart hammered. I wanted to run, but my legs were lead. I forced myself to whisper, ‘What do you want?’ The figure did not answer, but it took a step closer. I could see now that it was wearing a long coat, and its face was a pale oval, but with no features that I could discern. It was like a blank slate, and yet I felt it was smiling.

Panic seized me. I scrambled to my feet, and as I did, the stone on the curb glinted. I grabbed it. It was cool and smooth, and it fit perfectly in my palm. The figure took another step, and I threw the stone at it. It passed through the air and struck something solid, but the figure did not flinch. Instead, it slowly turned and walked back into the woods, disappearing between the trees as if it had never been.

I stood there, shaking, the stone still in my hand. I ran back to Dax’s porch, but they were all gone, the lights off. I pounded on the door, but no one answered. I eventually made my way to Elara’s building, and her parents let me in, seeing my terror. I never told them what I saw. I kept the stone, though. It’s on my nightstand now, smooth and black, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a faint rustling, like leaves skittering across a curb, and I know it’s not the wind.

I never returned to that parking lot, and I never saw that figure again. But sometimes, when I sit alone in the dark, I feel a cold pressure on my back, as if something is standing just behind me, watching, waiting. And I wonder if the stone was not a gift, but a promise.