The Kitchen Visitor

When I was twelve, we moved into a house that creaked like an old ship. It sat at the end of a gravel road, surrounded by pines that seemed to lean in, as if listening. My room was at the back, above the kitchen, and for the first few weeks I slept soundly. Then the night came when I woke to a soft, rhythmic sound – like a spoon tapping a glass. I crept downstairs, barefoot on the cold linoleum, and froze at the kitchen doorway.

There, on a worn wooden stool by the refrigerator, sat a man. He had sandy hair, clipped short, and wore a faded red shirt with the number 47 printed in white on the back. His trousers were olive green, the kind you’d wear for gardening. He didn’t look at me. He just stared at the fridge, his hands resting on his knees. I stood there, heart pounding, until he slowly turned his head. His eyes were pale, almost colorless, and he gave me a faint nod. Then he was gone, like a breath on a cold window.

At first, I thought it was a dream. But it happened again two nights later, and then again. He never spoke, never moved except to tilt his head, as if acknowledging my presence. I started to expect him, even looked forward to his silent company. But around the same time, other things began to happen. When I looked out the living room window, I’d see three figures standing at the edge of the woods, all in black coats. They stood shoulder to shoulder, perfectly still, their faces obscured. They never approached, but they were always there, like statues.

One evening, I was watching a movie on the old television in the den. The cable was out – it had been for weeks, so I used a dusty VHS tape of a forgotten western. Midway through, I paused to use the bathroom. When I returned, the screen was filled with static, hissing like rain on a tin roof. I reached for the remote, but before I touched it, a single image flickered into focus: a woman in a flowing gown, but her face was blank, smooth as a melon, and she had too many fingers on each hand – six, maybe seven. The image held for three agonizing seconds, then the picture snapped back to the movie, as if nothing had happened. There was no such woman in the film; I had watched it dozens of times.

I convinced myself it was a glitch, a trick of the old set. But that night, the man in the kitchen was more agitated. He paced, his footsteps making no sound on the tiles. He kept pointing to the window, his lips moving as if trying to form a word. I stood there, gripping the doorframe, and I could swear I felt a cold draft from the window, even though it was sealed shut. He stopped, looked at me with those pale eyes, and then mouthed two syllables: ‘She sees.’ I woke up on the kitchen floor, the ceiling light buzzing. The stool was empty.

Over the years, I learned to live with these visitors. I moved out at eighteen, but they followed me – the man in the red shirt, the three watchers, and sometimes the bell for the blank woman. I never told anyone; they’d think I was insane. But the night I turned twenty-two, I woke to find the man standing at the foot of my bed, his shirt now weathered and torn. He pointed to the window. Outside, the three watchers had come closer, their forms blocking the moonlight, and they were not just standing. They were swaying in unison, as if in prayer. And my radio, off and unplugged, crackled to life, emitting a low hum that climbed into a high-pitched shriek. Then a voice, distorted and thin, whispered from the speaker: ‘She sees what you see.’

The man in red looked at me, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. He shook his head slowly, and then he faded, leaving the room cold and silent. I haven’t seen him since. But last night, I looked out the window, and the three watchers were gone. In their place stood a single figure in a flowing gown, her face blank, her six fingers pressed against the glass. And she was smiling – or at least, she would have been, if she had a mouth.