The Man in the Dusty Duster

My nephew, Tommy, was barely two when he first pointed at the empty corner of his nursery in our dusty Arizona ranch house and muttered, ‘Shoes.’ My sister-in-law, Carla, thought he was asking for his little red sneakers, so she fetched them from the toy box. But he pushed them away, his chubby finger still aimed at that corner. ‘Shoes,’ he repeated, his voice flat and certain. Carla felt a chill in the warm room, but she shrugged it off. Kids imagine things.

Two years later, they moved to Phoenix, to a bright, modern condo with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Tommy, now three and a half, was eating spaghetti one evening when he stopped twirling his fork and stared at the sliding glass door. ‘Mom, why is that man watching me?’ Carla turned, saw only the reflection of their living room, and felt a knot in her stomach. She asked him to describe the man. Tommy said, ‘He’s old, like Grandpa, but taller. He wears a long black coat, like a duster, and big black boots. And a wide hat, like the one in that old movie.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, as if describing a neighbor. Carla asked where the man was now. Tommy shrugged and said, ‘He went away.’

A few weeks later, on Halloween, they attended the fall festival at their church. Tommy was bouncing in the inflatable castle, giggling with other kids. Carla watched from a bench, sipping lukewarm cider. Suddenly, Tommy stopped. He climbed out of the bounce house, his face pale, and walked to the edge of the grass, staring at the shadow of the old oak tree. Carla followed his gaze, but saw only darkness. She knelt beside him. ‘What is it, honey?’ Tommy whispered, ‘He came out of the bounce house and stood there. He’s just looking at me.’ Carla’s blood ran cold. She grabbed Tommy’s hand and hurried him to the car, her heart pounding. She didn’t look back.

Now Tommy is five. He doesn’t remember the man. Carla has never spoken of it, not even to me. But I do. I’ve seen the man too—waiting at the end of my hallway, his long coat brushing the floor, his hat shadowing his face. He wears the same dusty boots. I wanted to warn Tommy, but every time I try, the words die in my throat. Because I realized something: he doesn’t follow the children. He follows the mothers. And now that Tommy has forgotten him, he’s turned his gaze on me. I’ve started leaving salt lines across doorways, but I know they won’t stop him. He’s not a spirit; he’s a memory that never fades. And he’s patient. He’ll wait until I’m alone, until my eyes are tired, until I glance into a dark corner and see him standing there, smiling a slow, knowing smile. ‘Shoes,’ I hear him whisper in my mind. ‘You’ll need your shoes for the walk.’ I don’t know where he wants to take me, but I know I can’t refuse. Not for long.