The Man in the Fuchsia Coat

In the autumn of 2004, my little brother, Liam, was four years old. We lived in a creaky Victorian house on the edge of a sprawling, fog-laden moor. The house had a dark, oppressive feel, with long corridors and rooms that never seemed to warm up, no matter how high we turned the radiators. That particular evening, our mother, Sarah, and our father, Paul, were in the living room, watching a grainy film on the old television. I, a teenager named Emma, was curled up on the sofa, half-watching and half-dozing, while Liam sat on the top step of the main staircase, his small legs dangling over the edge.

Liam was a quiet child, but he often chattered to himself, so we didn’t pay much attention at first. But then he began to speak more clearly, as if in conversation. I looked up and saw him pointing down the hallway toward my bedroom door. Dad turned and called up, ‘Liam, who are you talking to?’ Liam turned, his face lit by the faint glow from the landing, and said, ‘The man in Emma’s room.’ A chill ran down my spine because my room was at the end of the hall, and I knew no one was up there. Dad frowned and went up to check, but the room was empty, as expected.

Dad came back down and asked Liam to describe the man. Liam said, ‘He’s tall and very friendly. He wears a bright pink coat that looks like a lady’s, and big, heavy boots. He has a kind smile.’ Dad, trying to be patient, asked Liam to show him where the man was. Liam led Dad upstairs to my room, which was painted a soft lavender, and pointed at the far wall, where an old, faded water stain formed an odd shape. ‘He’s right there, look!’ Dad squinted, but saw nothing, and dismissed it as a child’s fantasy. He told Liam to come down and sit with us, but Liam stubbornly said, ‘No, he wants me to stay. He says he’ll play with me.’

That night, after we put Liam to bed, I couldn’t shake the image of the pink coat and big boots. It was too specific for a four-year-old to invent. The next morning, Liam was unusually cheerful, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. When I asked where he learned it, he said, ‘The man taught me.’ I asked what else the man said, and Liam replied, ‘He says he likes our house because it’s old and has lots of secrets. He says he’s been here a long time, but he only comes out when the fog is thick.’

The fog that clung to the moor grew thicker with each passing day. Liam started spending more time alone in his room, speaking in hushed tones to someone we couldn’t see. One afternoon, I found him drawing on the wall with crayons, something he’d never done before. He had drawn a figure in a bright pink coat with large black boots, standing next to a small stick figure that looked like him. The man’s face was a simple smiley, but there was something wrong about it—the eyes were too large, almost black. I asked him what he was doing, and he said, ‘The man says I should draw him so we don’t forget him.’ I took the crayons away and tried to scrub the drawing, but it wouldn’t fully come off. A faint outline remained, as if stained into the plaster.

Our parents began to worry. Liam was becoming withdrawn, and he’d often wake up crying in the middle of the night, saying the man was angry because we didn’t believe in him. Dad decided to do some research on the house and discovered it had once belonged to a traveling actor who had died in the 1950s. The actor was known for his flamboyant stage costumes, including a pink coat and tall boots. He had been found dead in the house, the cause of death never determined. Dad showed this to us, and I felt a cold dread. The description matched what Liam had described: tall, friendly, pink coat, big boots.

One evening, the fog was so thick that we couldn’t see the garden from the kitchen window. Liam was sitting at the top of the stairs again, his legs swinging, and he was laughing. He turned to us and said, ‘The man is here. He says he wants to thank you all for letting him stay.’ We all froze. Then, from upstairs, we heard a heavy clunk, like a pair of boots hitting the floor. I ran up to see what it was, and in Liam’s room, I saw him standing by the wall, facing the stained outline. He pointed to a spot near the baseboard and said, ‘He’s right there, Emma. He’s saying goodbye.’

The next morning, the fog lifted, and the house felt lighter, as if a presence had left. But when I went into Liam’s room, the drawing of the pink-coated man had changed. The smiley face was now a blank oval, and the figure’s hand was raised in a wave. Beneath it, in shaky crayon letters, were the words, ‘I’ll be back when the fog returns.’

For years, nothing else happened. I moved out, and we sold the house. But recently, I received a letter from the new owners. They have a young son who has started talking to an imaginary friend in his bedroom. The friend, they say, is a tall man in a pink coat with big boots. I haven’t told them what I know. I’m not sure I ever will.