The Gable Window Visitor

After my wife and I inherited the old Gable house from my great aunt, we moved our family from the crowded city to the quiet outskirts of Bellingham, Washington. The house was a sprawling Victorian with a wraparound porch, dusty rooms, and a history we knew little about. Our daughter, Lily, was six at the time, full of imagination and boundless energy.

On a cool autumn evening, while I was reading by the fireplace and my wife was preparing dinner, I heard giggling from the backyard. I peered out the window and saw Lily on the patio, twirling and laughing, her arms outstretched as if dancing with an invisible partner. When I called her in, she was breathless with joy.

‘Who were you dancing with, sweetheart?’ I asked.

‘My new friend,’ she said, beaming.

‘A new friend? What’s their name?’

‘Simon,’ she said.

I smiled and thought nothing of it, assuming it was an imaginary friend, a common phase. But over the next few weeks, Lily spoke more about Simon. She said he was an old man with a kind face, who wore overalls and smelled like pipe tobacco. He told her stories about the orchard that used to be behind the house, and he knew the names of all the birds in the trees.

One evening, I was cleaning out the attic and found a box of old photographs. Among them was a faded picture of a man in overalls standing in front of the same house, with a young woman beside him. The man had the same weathered features Lily described. I felt a chill run down my spine. I asked my wife, ‘Did you ever meet my great uncle? The one who built this house?’

‘No, he died before we moved in,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Just curious,’ I said, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Lily’s friend might be more than imaginary.

A few weeks later, we were at the dinner table when Lily announced, ‘Simon says he’s sorry for the fire.’

My fork clattered to the plate. ‘What fire, sweetheart?’

‘In the orchard,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘But he’s not sad anymore because he gets to play with the other kids.’

My wife and I exchanged uncomfortable glances. We had never mentioned any fire to Lily, and the orchard had been gone before we moved in. That night, I searched online and found an old news article from 1946: ‘Local Farmer Perishes in Orchard Blaze.’ The farmer’s name was Simon Whitfield. He had lived in this very house with his wife. He died trying to save his children, but they perished too. My blood ran cold.

I couldn’t sleep that night, staring at the ceiling. The next morning, I told my wife, ‘I think Lily is talking to a ghost.’

My wife dismissed it as coincidence, but I couldn’t ignore it. I decided to talk to Lily alone, gently. ‘Lily, what does Simon look like?’

‘He’s tall and has a big bushy beard,’ she said. ‘And he always wears his hat.’

‘Does he ever say anything about dying?’

‘He says he’s waiting for his family to be found. He said they’re lost in the woods.’

My heart raced. I remembered a local legend about a family that disappeared in the nearby forest in the 1950s. I drove to the library and found old maps, and after weeks of searching, I discovered an unmarked grave site not far from the old orchard. With the help of a local historian, we excavated the area and found remains of two small children and a woman. They were identified as the Whitfield family. We arranged a proper burial.

After the funeral, Lily told us, ‘Simon says thank you. He’s going home now.’

We never saw or spoke of Simon again. But sometimes, when I pass the gable window, I catch a glimpse of a reflection that isn’t quite mine, and I hear a faint whisper that sounds like, ‘Remember me.’ And I do. I always will.