The Mimic of the Cottonwood

When my husband and I moved back to my childhood home in the dusty town of Red Hollow, I thought I knew every creak and groan the old farmhouse had to offer. I’d grown up with its peculiar drafts and the way the floorboards sang underfoot. But moving back with someone new, someone who didn’t carry the same memories, seemed to wake something else entirely.

The summer heat was oppressive, and the house felt even more still than I remembered. My parents had gone into town for the day, leaving us alone with the cicadas’ drone. I was in the kitchen, scrubbing a stubborn pot, when I heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps behind me, the exact sound of Vern’s approach. I turned, a grin already forming, expecting to see his lopsided smile. But the doorway was empty, the air thick with dust motes drifting in the afternoon light. I called out his name, but the only answer was the ticking of the old clock on the wall.

Ten minutes later, the front screen door slapped shut, and Vern ambled in, wiping sweat from his brow. He’d walked the mile to the general store for cold sodas. I recounted the phantom footsteps, and he laughed it off, saying the heat was getting to me. But it happened again a few days later while I was reading on the porch. I heard his heavy boots on the wooden planks, felt the subtle shift of weight as if he were settling into the chair beside me. I looked up, and there was no one. My heart hammered against my ribs.

The disturbances grew bolder. I would hear my name whispered in his voice from other rooms, a low, teasing tone that made my skin prickle. Once, I caught a glimpse of a shadow at the end of the hall that had his build, but when I blinked, it was gone. Vern remained amused, but a cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach. This wasn’t like the benign quirks of the house I knew. This was something else, something with a purpose.

Last night, my brother came to stay for a few days. My parents had retired early, and we were all in the living room, the TV casting flickering blue shapes across the walls. Vern and I said goodnight to him and headed to our bedroom, where we settled in to watch a late movie. An hour or so later, a soft knock came at the door. My brother’s voice, muffled through the wood, asked, ‘Hey, did Vern just walk past me? I thought I saw him heading to the back porch, but you guys are in here.’

A chill shot down my spine. Vern was lying beside me, half-asleep, his breathing steady. I looked at him, then at the door, and in that moment, I understood. The house wasn’t just playing tricks. Something had been learning our patterns, our voices, our very essence. And now, it was starting to imitate us to each other, to fray the bonds of trust. I didn’t open the door. Instead, I pulled the sheet tighter and listened to the silence outside, wondering if whatever waited there had finally learned to knock.