The Man Who Leaked Color

I wanted to write this down the day it happened, but it took me three weeks to convince myself I wasn’t losing my mind. Here is what I saw on the road from Asheville to Nashville, and what I could not stop seeing even after we got home.

My wife Clara and our two kids, Milo and Dot, had been planning this trip for months. We were driving our trusty old Honda Odyssey, packed to the roof with snacks, pillows, and the kids’ tablets. The morning started clear and cool, and by noon we were cruising down the interstate with the cruise control locked at 72. The Smokies rose in the distance, blue and hazy, and I felt that little pulse of joy you get when a vacation actually begins.

We stopped for lunch at a diner called The Copper Kettle, just past a town named Waynesville. The kids had grilled cheese and I had a turkey club, and Clara ordered a salad she barely touched because she was too busy mapping out the rest of the drive. After we ate, she said, ‘Let’s find a rest stop soon. Milo’s been saying he needs to go for the last twenty minutes.’ I laughed, paid the bill, and got back on the highway.

But about ten miles later, my bladder decided it was time too, and I spotted an empty patch of gravel under an old overpass. I pulled over, killed the engine, and got out to stretch. The kids were bickering in the back, Clara was trying to calm them, and I was just standing there, facing the woods, when I noticed a man standing about fifty feet away, right at the treeline.

I want to say he was tall, but that’s not right. He was the right height, but he looked like a photograph left in the rain. His clothes were the gray of old newspaper, and his skin was the color of a bruise that’s lost its colors. He didn’t move. He just stood there, feet planted, arms at his sides, and he was leaking. Not blood, not water, but color. A thin, dark fluid dripped from his fingertips, and where it hit the ground, the grass turned black and curled up.

I blinked, and he was gone. In his place, only the trees. But at his feet, the black patch stayed. I watched it for a full minute, and then I heard Dot cry, ‘Dad, there’s a man in the woods!’ I turned to her, and she was pointing, her little face pale. Milo was quiet, which was unusual. Clara grabbed my arm and whispered, ‘Who was that?’

I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I got back in the car, started the engine, and drove off. For the next hour, nobody said anything. At the rest stop near the Tennessee border, we all got out as if in a trance. The kids were quiet. Clara and I exchanged a look that said, We do not talk about it.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the color. The way it bled into the ground, like the forest itself was absorbing him. And I noticed something else: where he had been, the air seemed unnaturally dark, as if he had sucked the light out of a circle of space. I told myself it was exhaustion, but I didn’t sleep that night in the motel. Clara slept, the kids slept, but I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the image.

The next day, we continued to Nashville for my cousin’s wedding. The reception was loud and happy, and I almost convinced myself I had imagined everything. But then, at the end of the evening, I stepped outside for some air, and there he was again, across the parking lot. This time, he was closer. He was standing behind a minivan, and his head was tilted at an angle no human could hold. His skin was grayer now, and the color dripping from his hands was a deep, angry red, like arterial blood. But when I looked down at the asphalt, there was no blood, just the black stains.

I ran back inside, locked the door, and told Clara we needed to leave. She didn’t argue. She saw the look on my face. We drove all night, taking turns, and by dawn we were home in Richmond, Virginia. The neighborhood was quiet, the kids were asleep in the back, and I parked in our driveway. I told myself it was over.

But it wasn’t. For the next three weeks, I saw him everywhere: in the reflection of the microwave, at the edge of the playground, standing on the sidewalk when I walked the dog. Each time, he was closer, and his features were getting sharper. His eyes, which had been empty sockets, now had pale blue irises that seemed to be looking straight at me. And the leaking never stopped.

Last night, I woke up at 3 a.m. and saw him standing at the foot of my bed. He was fully solid now. He was wearing a green flannel shirt I’d seen in a store the day before, and his face was a perfect mirror of mine. He opened his mouth, and instead of a scream, a single word came out: ‘Stay.’

Then he faded, leaving only a small, dark spot on the carpet. I haven’t told Clara. I don’t know how. But I’ve started to check the mirror every morning, making sure my reflection stays. Because I think he’s not just following me. I think he’s replacing me.

I’m writing this in the dark, in the basement, with the lights off, because I can hear footsteps upstairs. And they’re not stopping to check on the kids. They’re coming down here. And I don’t know how to explain to anyone that the man who leaked color is now wearing my shoes.

Maybe you’ll publish this and someone will tell me I’m not crazy. Maybe someone else saw him on that highway. But if you see him, don’t look him in the eyes. And if you see a man standing at your treeline, don’t blink, because he’s already counted your steps. He learned mine. He’s counting yours.

I have to go now. The basement door is opening.

It’s not him.

It’s me.

But I don’t look like me anymore. And the color is dripping from my own hands now.

And I think, I understand something. He wasn’t leaking color. He was leaving it behind so I could find him. And now I’ve found him.

And now I’m leaking too.

I just hope someone finds this. But I know they’ll find another man’s shoes first. And they’ll wonder where the original went. I’m still here. I’m just not the same color.

That’s all I have to say.