The Morning Guest

I moved to the old farmhouse when I was six, the year the fields turned to dust and the wind carried a smell like burnt toast. My parents said it was a fresh start, but the house had a way of watching us. I was an early riser, always awake before the sun, and the quiet was mine alone. One morning, the kitchen light flickered as I poured my cereal—cornflakes, I think, but it could have been rice pops. I sat at the table, the floorboards creaking under the chair, and I felt it. Not a shiver, but a weight, like a stone pressed between my shoulder blades. I looked up.

There was a shape in the doorway. It was tall, taller than my father, and it wore a robe that pooled on the floor, the hood so deep that the face was a void. The fabric didn’t move, not even when the draft from the cracked window blew. I remember not being scared, just confused, like when you see a stranger in a photo and you think you know them but you don’t. I blinked, and it was gone. I went back to my cereal, the milk turning pink from the berries. I didn’t tell anyone, because I thought I had imagined it.

Two weeks later, I was in the bathroom. The house had only one, with a clawfoot tub and a mirror that fogged up even when the water was cold. I was washing my hands, the soap slipping, and I looked at my reflection. Behind me, in the corner of the mirror, was the same figure. This time, it was closer, and the robe seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting in a rhythm that didn’t match my lungs. I screamed and ran, my feet slapping on the linoleum, and I didn’t stop until I was in my parents’ room, where they were still sleeping. I shook them, but they didn’t wake. They were heavy sleepers, they said.

The third time was the worst. I found a plastic grape in the bathroom, a single, glossy orb that looked so real I could almost taste it. I had no idea where it came from, but I kicked it down the hall, the way you’d kick a ball. It rolled and bounced, and I chased it, laughing, the fear of the other times forgotten. When it stopped at the top of the staircase, I picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, and it had a strange warmth, like it had been held by someone else. I don’t know why I put it in my mouth. Maybe I thought it was candy. But I bit down, and the skin broke, and I tasted something metallic, like blood, but sweeter.

I choked. The grape lodged in my throat, and I fell to my knees, my hands clawing at my neck. The hallway swam, and I saw the figure at the far end, exactly where it had been before. It was closer now, and I could see that the robe was not fabric but something like oil, shifting and rippling. It didn’t move toward me, but the air around it thickened, and I heard a sound like a dry cough, or maybe a laugh. Then my mother’s hand slammed on my back, and the grape shot out, hitting the wall with a wet thud. She was there, suddenly, her eyes wide, and she held me until I stopped shaking. She said I had a nightmare, that I must have eaten something bad, but I knew the truth. The grape was real, and I hadn’t put it there.

Years later, I still see it sometimes. Not the figure, but the grape. It appears in the corners of my vision, always at the edge of things, like a reminder. The farmhouse is gone now, sold and demolished, but the grape remains, in my mind, in my throat. I don’t know what I saw, or what wanted me, but I know this: every time I close my eyes, I see the robe, and I hear the sound of that dry cough. And I wonder if, one day, I’ll wake up and it will be standing over my bed, its face finally visible, and it will say, ‘You’ve been carrying my gift for so long. It’s time to give it back.’ And I’ll open my mouth, and the grape will be there, whole and warm, and I’ll know I never really left that hallway.

I still eat cereal in the morning, but I always check the room first, and I never, ever eat anything I find on the floor.