The Fourth Visitor

I was nine the summer we moved to the old farmhouse in the Catskills, a place my parents called ‘a fixer-upper with character.’ The house creaked and groaned like an old sailor, and the walls were covered in floral wallpaper that peeled at the corners, revealing layers of other patterns—like the house had shed its skin many times. My room was at the end of the upstairs hallway, and I shared it with my grandfather, who had come to stay with us after his hip surgery. He slept by the window, and I slept on the far side, closest to the door. If the door was open even a crack, I could see the top of the staircase and the landing where the hallway turned toward my parents’ room and the guest room, which we called ‘Aunt Rose’s room,’ though no Aunt Rose ever visited.

That night, I woke up to a sound like a floorboard sighing. I lay still, listening to my grandfather’s steady breathing. The moon was bright, casting silver stripes across the floor. I turned my head toward the door, which was open a few inches—it never closed all the way because the latch was broken. I saw a shape on the landing, small and hunched, like a child. I thought it was my cousin Tommy, who was staying for the week. He was six, and he often wandered at night, looking for the bathroom or a glass of water. I watched as the figure moved past the door, heading toward Aunt Rose’s room at the end of the hall. The door to that room was ajar, and a faint blue light flickered from inside, like a television left on. I thought, ‘What is Tommy doing in there? He knows he’s not supposed to go in there.’ I decided to check.

I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Grandpa. I tiptoed to the door and peered through the crack into Aunt Rose’s room. The room was full of old furniture draped in white sheets, but there was a television on a stand against the far wall, its screen glowing with static. And sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the TV, was what I thought was my grandmother—but she was in Arizona, visiting her sister. The figure was wearing her flowered housecoat, and its gray hair was in a bun. Beside it, on a small wooden chair, sat the small figure I’d seen earlier. In the blue light, I could see its face, and my blood went cold. It was not Tommy. It was a child I had never seen before, with pale skin and eyes that were too large. And when the figure on the bed turned its head, it wasn’t my grandmother either. Its face was a blank, featureless mask, smooth and white like a peeled egg.

I should have run, but my legs were frozen. The small figure on the chair raised its hand and pointed at me, slowly, its arm moving like it was underwater. Then the blank-faced figure on the bed stood up, and the sheets began to slide off the furniture, revealing mannequins underneath, all with the same featureless faces. The television static grew louder, and I could hear a low humming, like a swarm of bees. I finally backed away and ran to my grandfather’s bed, shaking him awake. ‘There’s someone in Aunt Rose’s room,’ I whispered. He frowned and said I’d had a nightmare. He limped to the door and looked down the hall. The door to Aunt Rose’s room was now shut tight. He opened it and flicked the light switch, but the bulb was dead. In the dimness, I could see the room was exactly as it had been: covered furniture, no television, no chair. He told me to go back to sleep, and he stayed up for a while with his reading light on.

The next morning, I told my parents. They said the house was old and played tricks on you. But later that day, when I passed Aunt Rose’s room, I noticed the door was open just a crack. I couldn’t resist peeking. Inside, on the windowsill, there was a small, dusty piece of paper that hadn’t been there before. I picked it up. It was a child’s drawing, crudely made with crayon: four figures standing in a row. The first three were labeled ‘Mom,’ ‘Dad,’ ‘Me.’ The fourth figure, drawn with a blank white circle for a head, had a label underneath that read ‘What Follows Us.’ I crumpled the paper and shoved it into my pocket. That night, I barricaded my door with a chair.

But I still heard the floorboards creak, and I swear I saw, through the keyhole, two figures—one small, one tall—standing outside my door, waiting. And in the morning, the chair was moved, the door was open a few inches, and there was a new drawing on the floor, the same as before, but with five figures. The fifth was behind me, its head a scribble of gray. I didn’t show it to anyone. I took it to the yard and burned it. But that night, I didn’t sleep. I just lay awake, listening to the house settle, and I knew that whatever it was had followed us, and it was teaching itself to be me.