The Curtain Boy

I remember the day I first saw the Curtain Boy. It was a sweltering August afternoon, and I was watching my neighbor’s two kids, 4-year-old Milo and 6-month-old Daphne, in their old Victorian house on Maple Street. The place had a musty smell, like dust and old books, and every floorboard seemed to groan underfoot. I was in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, when I heard the TV in the living room switch from the cheerful theme of ‘Captain Paws’ to a strange, static-filled silence. I dried my hands and walked in.

Milo was gone. Daphne was still asleep in her swing, her tiny chest rising and falling. But Milo had vanished. My heart lurched. I called his name, scanning the room. Then I noticed the heavy velvet curtains by the bay window, swaying slightly though no window was open. The curtains were a deep crimson, almost black in the dim light. I crept over, my own breathing loud in my ears.

I reached the curtain and grasped the fabric. It was cold, like the chill that had crept up my spine. I pulled it aside, expecting to find Milo hiding, giggling. Instead, I saw him standing perfectly still, his back to me. He was staring at the wall, his head tilted at an angle that made my stomach drop. I reached out to touch his shoulder. He turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine. But it wasn’t Milo’s gaze. It was like looking into a void. He pressed a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Quiet. He’s here.’

I stepped back, my hand flying to my mouth. ‘Who?’ I managed. Milo smiled – a smile too wide for his face – and pointed to the corner of the room. There, in the shadows, stood a tall figure. It was completely black, like a cutout of a man, with long arms that almost touched the floor. It had no face, only a deep blackness where features should be. A hat sat on its head, a wide-brimmed black hat that seemed to drink the light.

The figure took a step forward. Its movement was fluid, wrong, like a marionette on invisible strings. I grabbed Milo, but he felt wrong in my arms – too light, as if he were made of paper. The figure tilted its head, and a voice, not from a mouth but from all around us, said, ‘You see him now. He’s been waiting.’

I ran. I didn’t stop until I was out the front door, Milo still in my arms. The sun was blinding after the gloom inside. But when I looked down, the child in my arms was not Milo. It was Daphne, awake and crying, her face red. I dropped her onto the porch, and she rolled onto the grass, unharmed. Milo came running from around the side of the house, holding a toy rabbit. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his voice normal, his eyes clear. The house behind us stood silent. The curtains were still.

That was three years ago. I never babysat again. But last week, I moved into a new apartment, and the first night I saw it again. The Curtain Boy, standing in my bedroom, pointing at the closet. And behind the closet door, the Hat Man was waiting. I haven’t slept since. I don’t think I ever will.