The Man in the Green Coat

I was eleven when I saw him, not ten, and I wasn’t in Ontario. I was in a small town in the Pacific Northwest, in a house that has since been torn down. The room I slept in was at the end of a long hallway, and it had a peculiar feature: a closet door that was always slightly ajar, no matter how many times I pushed it shut. My bed was positioned so that I could see that closet door from where I lay, and every night, I would stare at that thin strip of darkness, daring it to do something.

It wasn’t the closet that frightened me, though. It was the man in the green coat. I first saw him on a rainy Tuesday in November, two weeks after my family moved in. I had woken up at 2:17 AM to use the bathroom, and on my way back, I glanced into my room from the hallway. The closet door was wide open, and standing in the doorway was a tall figure wearing a long, dark green coat that reached down to his knees. His face was in shadows, but I could see his hands, pale and long, hanging at his sides. He was just standing there, staring at my bed.

I froze, my heart hammering. I thought about running to my parents’ room, but my legs wouldn’t move. The figure didn’t move either. We stood there for what felt like minutes, but it was probably only a few seconds. Then, he slowly tilted his head to the side, as if he were curious about me, and I felt a cold dread wash over me. I turned and ran to my parents’ room, screaming. My dad checked the room and found nothing. The closet door was closed. He chalked it up to a nightmare.

But I knew what I saw. The next night, I forced myself to stay awake, my eyes fixed on the closet door. At exactly 2:17 AM, the door creaked open, and he appeared again. This time, he stepped fully out of the closet and walked toward my bed. He moved with a strange, gliding motion, his feet not quite lifting off the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying, and when I opened them, he was gone. The closet door was closed.

This continued for a week. Every night at the same time, he would appear, and each time he would come closer. On the seventh night, he stood at the foot of my bed, looming over me. I could see his face now, or what passed for a face. It was smooth and featureless, like a blank canvas, with no eyes, nose, or mouth. But I knew he was looking at me, because his head followed my movements. And then, he spoke. His voice was like the scraping of dry leaves, and he said, ‘I see you.’

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He reached out a hand, and I felt a cold, clammy touch on my cheek. Then he was gone. The closet door was closed. After that night, he never appeared again. I told my parents, but they thought I was having nightmares. I tried to convince myself of that too, but deep down, I knew it was real.

What convinces me it wasn’t a dream is the physical evidence. The morning after the seventh night, I woke up with a red, itchy mark on my cheek, exactly where he had touched me. It was shaped like a handprint, and it stayed for three days. Also, the rain that had been falling all week had stopped, and the sun came out, but the hallway outside my door was damp, as if someone had walked through it with wet clothing. And there was a subtle smell of damp wool and mothballs that lingered for hours.

Years later, I researched the history of the house. An old woman had lived there and had died in the closet, locked inside by her son. She was found wearing a green coat, the same shade as the man’s. But the son was described as tall and thin, and he had a skin condition that made his face appear smooth and expressionless. He had died in a mental institution.

I’ve moved across the country, far from that place, but sometimes I still wake up at 2:17 AM, feeling a cold draft and seeing the shadow of a man in a green coat at the foot of my bed. I’ve tried to convince myself it was all in my head, but the mark on my cheek said otherwise. If anyone has seen something similar, I’d like to know. I just hope he doesn’t come back.