The Gilded Visitor

The first time I saw the Gilded Visitor, I was five years old and sitting cross-legged on the floor of my aunt’s farmhouse. He was tall, impossibly tall, with skin that shimmered like the inside of a seashell, and his eyes were twin suns that never blinked. He told me his name was Imber, and that he had come to watch over me. My mother saw him too, standing in the doorway of my room one night, his silhouette haloed in a light that didn’t cast shadows. She never asked who he was; she just nodded, as if she had been expecting him all along.

My brothers saw him as well. The oldest, Marcus, was only three when he pointed at the corner of the kitchen and said, ‘The tall man is smiling at me.’ The youngest, Toby, just laughed and waved at empty air. We never thought it strange. He was as real to us as the oak tree outside, as the creek that ran behind the barn. And when I was angry, I would shout, ‘Imber is going to get you!’ and my brothers would shrink back, because they knew it was true.

He spoke to me in a voice that wasn’t sound but feeling, a warmth that spread through my chest like honey. He gave me advice—sometimes cruel, sometimes simply odd. ‘Twist Toby’s arm until he cries,’ he would say, and I would do it, not out of malice but because his instructions felt like the only clear thing in a blurry world. When I refused, he would whisper, ‘Then I will do it myself.’ And I believed him.

Then came the night Marcus fell from his bed. He was seven, and he swore that a hand had pushed him. My mother found him on the floor, his face pale, his lips trembling. ‘Imber did it,’ he sobbed. My mother’s face hardened. She called my aunt Clara, the family witch, though she rarely practiced. Aunt Clara came with bundles of dried herbs and a silver bell, and she walked the house in a slow, deliberate circle, chanting words that I didn’t understand. She burned sage in every room, and when she reached my room, she stopped and stared at the corner where Imber always stood. ‘Leave,’ she whispered. ‘You are not welcome here.’ The air grew cold, and for the first time, I saw something flicker in Imber’s eyes—not suns, but darkness. He vanished, and I felt a hollow space where he had been.

For ten years, I forgot him. I grew up, we moved to a small town in the mountains, and I convinced myself he was a figment of a lonely child’s imagination. But now, in this new house, my little brother, Gregory, who is ten, has started talking to someone I can’t see. He says his name is Imber, and that he is furious we cast him out. Gregory speaks to the empty air in a voice that is not his own, deep and echoing. He says that Imber wants to come back, but only if I invite him. Last week, I found a broken picture frame on the floor, and the glass had shattered into a pattern that looked like a face. My mother says it’s just the wind, but the windows were shut.

Last night, I was alone in the kitchen, pouring milk for my tea, when I heard a voice behind me—a whisper that felt like warm breath on my neck. ‘You should have let me stay,’ it said. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a shimmer in the corner, a tall shape that was gone before I could blink. My tea turned cold instantly, and the milk in the glass congealed into a gray clot. I tried to pray, but the words felt wrong, as if something was drinking them.

Today, Gregory told me that Imber is outside, waiting by the pine trees. He said Imber wants me to come out and talk, just once, to apologize for throwing him away. He said if I don’t, something bad will happen to Gregory. My heart is racing as I write this. I don’t know if I believe, but the fear is real, and it’s in my bones. I’ve tried salt, iron, even reading the old Wiccan texts my aunt left me, but nothing feels safe. I’m afraid for Gregory, and I’m afraid for myself, because part of me still remembers the comfort of having Imber around—the feeling of being watched over, of never being alone. But now I know that protection came at a price, and I’m not sure I’m willing to pay it.

I’ve decided to go to the pine trees tonight, to face whatever is waiting. If it’s just my imagination, then I’ll prove it to myself. But if it’s real, then I need to learn how to banish it for good, not just for Gregory, but for all of us. I’ve brought a lantern, and a silver knife from the kitchen, and a prayer to a God I barely believe in. As I step out into the cold, I see a glow between the trees, growing brighter, and the shape of a tall man with suns for eyes. He is smiling, and his smile is wide and hungry. And I realize that the words I spoke as a child were never just a threat—they were an invitation, and now I have to decide if I can truly say goodbye.