The Pale Visitor from the Pines

My mother and I sat on the floor of her attic, surrounded by cardboard boxes that smelled of dust and mothballs. She handed me a worn crayon drawing, the paper yellowed and creased. It was a crude figure—a man in a black coat, his face a stark white oval, and two red slits for eyes. I recognized it immediately, even though I hadn’t seen it in thirty years.

‘You used to wake me up screaming,’ Mom said, her voice soft. ‘You’d be sitting up in bed, pointing at the window. You said he came through the glass even though it was locked. You called him the Pale Visitor.’

I laughed nervously. ‘I must have had a vivid imagination.’

But something cold settled in my chest. I remembered the nightmares, the feeling of being watched. And I remembered the way the curtains would stir on windless nights.

That evening, I drove back to my childhood home. My parents had sold it years ago, but I had kept the keys out of sentiment. The house was empty now, waiting for new owners. I let myself in, the floorboards groaning under my steps.

I went to my old room. The window was still there, the same one I had drawn in that picture. I ran my fingers along the frame, expecting dust. Instead, I found grooves—deep, parallel scratches on the outside sill, as if something had clawed its way up.

I shrugged it off, blaming tree branches. But as I turned to leave, the room grew cold. The air thickened, and a whisper curled at the edge of my hearing, like wind through pine needles.

I spun around. Nothing. But the faint scent of pine resin filled my nostrils, though the nearest pine tree was miles away.

Driving back, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I glanced at the rearview mirror. For a split second, I saw a pale face in the back seat, with red, slit-like eyes. I slammed the brakes, heart racing. The seat was empty.

That night, I barely slept. I lay in my own bed, the sheets tangled, listening to the wind outside. And then I heard it—a soft tapping on the bedroom window. My window was on the second floor.

I didn’t dare look. I pulled the blanket over my head like a child, my breath coming in short gasps. The tapping grew more insistent, then stopped. I counted to a hundred before I peeked out.

The glass was frosted over, despite the summer heat. On the inside, written in the condensation, were the words: ‘I remember you.’

I fled the house, checked into a motel, and spent the night with every light blazing. But when I woke, the room was dark. The lights were off. And on the mirror, written in the dust, was my childhood name.

I called my mother, my voice shaking. She confessed that she had seen him too, once, when she was a girl, in the cabin where she grew up. She thought it was a dream, but she had drawn the same figure, the same face. ‘He’s not a monster,’ she said, her voice hushed. ‘He’s a hungry thing. He feeds on the light in your life, your joy, your memories.’

I realized then why I had always felt a void in my heart, why the happiest moments of my life felt tainted, as if something was draining them.

Now I’m back in that motel, writing this. The lights flicker. The air grows cold. And on the window, a pale hand presses from the outside. The glass is locked.

But I don’t know if that matters anymore. He’s always been inside.