The Paper Kite

When I was nine, I had a friend no one else could see. His name was Toby, and he lived in the crawl space under our stairs. We’d play hide-and-seek among the cardboard boxes and old coats, and he’d always find me, giggling in that dusty dark. He was my secret, my comfort, until the day he started to change. He’d mutter curses under his breath and then retreat into the bathroom, where I’d hear the faucet run and the sound of muffled sobs. My mother thought I was just being dramatic, but I knew something was wrong.

One afternoon, we were playing hide-and-seek again. I had wedged myself behind the water heater, holding my breath. The minutes stretched. I heard Toby’s footsteps patter, then stop. ‘I give up!’ he yelled, his voice cracking. I was about to jump out when a shadow fell across the floorboards. A woman appeared, tall and thin, her face in shadow. Toby’s voice quivered, ‘No, Mom, please don’t.’ She raised a hand, and I saw him flinch, curling into a ball. She began to strike him, her movements jerky like a puppet’s, while he sobbed on the floor. I screamed, and she vanished. I ran to my mother, trembling, and told her everything.

My mother’s face went pale. She knelt down, gripping my shoulders. ‘Honey, that’s not funny. You need to stop making up stories.’ But I wasn’t lying. I spent the next week obsessing over Toby, trying to understand. I found an old newspaper clipping in the library, brittle and yellowed, about a boy named Tobias Marrow who died in 1974—fifty years ago to the day. Cause of death: ‘complications from a fall.’ The article mentioned his mother, a woman accused of cruelty but never charged. My blood ran cold. I realized Toby was a ghost, reliving his abuse.

That night, I crept to the crawl space. The door creaked open, and I saw Toby huddled in the corner, his small body shaking. ‘Toby, what’s wrong?’ I whispered. He looked up, his eyes hollow, and said, ‘She’s still here. She’s always here.’ Before I could respond, the air grew cold, and I heard footsteps behind me. The same woman materialized, her face contorted with rage. She lunged at Toby, but this time, she saw me. Her head snapped in my direction, and she smiled—a terrible, wide smile. ‘You see me too?’ she hissed. I stumbled back, and she began to advance. Toby screamed, ‘Run!’ and I fled.

I never saw Toby again after that night, but sometimes I hear him crying in the walls. My mother thinks I’ve outgrown my imaginary friend, but I know the truth. That woman is still out there, waiting for another child to play with. And I can’t help but wonder—when winter comes and the wind whispers through the house, is she searching for me? I’m not a child anymore, but the paper kite Toby gave me still hangs in my closet. I can’t throw it away. It’s the only proof that he was real, and that his mother’s cruelty outlived him. Every night, I check the closet, and every night, it’s still there. But last night, I found it on my pillow, torn and crumpled. And on my mirror, written in dust, a single word: ‘Hi.’