The Periwinkle Man

The summer I turned eight, my father and I were staying at Uncle Theo’s farmhouse, a place that smelled of mothballs and old wood. It was a sweltering afternoon, and the porch swing creaked a lonesome rhythm as I pumped my legs, watching dust motes dance in the golden light. A figure emerged from the heat shimmer down the gravel drive, a man in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, his hair a slick black pompadour that seemed almost painted on. He walked with an unhurried grace, and when he reached the porch steps, he smiled, revealing teeth too white, too even. ‘Hello, Amelia,’ he said, his voice smooth like syrup. My heart stuttered. I had never seen this man before, yet he knew my name. He sat beside me on the swing, the wood groaning under his weight, and the air around him grew cold, a chill that made my skin prickle. His eyes were the palest green I’d ever seen, like sea glass, and his skin had a faint, sickly undertone, like a bruise just beneath the surface. He leaned closer, his breath oddly scentless, and said, ‘I’ve been watching you, Amelia. You’re such a good girl, always helping your mother.’ I felt a flush of pride, but also a knot of fear. How could he know about my mother? I nodded, trying to smile, but my lips trembled. He placed a hand on my knee, his fingers long and cool. ‘You’ve been very good,’ he repeated, and I felt a strange urge to please him, to tell him everything. Just then, the screen door slammed, and Uncle Theo stood there, his face ashen, his eyes wide with terror. He looked at the man, then at me, and his voice cracked as he shouted, ‘Amelia! Get inside. NOW!’ The man’s smile never faltered, but his eyes flickered with something dark. As Uncle Theo yanked me up, I looked back over my shoulder. The man was standing, tipping an imaginary hat. ‘We’ll meet again, little one,’ he said, and then he was gone, as if he had never been, leaving only the faint, lingering cold. Uncle Theo slammed the door and locked it, his hands shaking. He wouldn’t tell me who the man was; he just kept muttering, ‘Not here. Not again.’ That night, I heard him on the phone, his voice low and urgent, asking about someone called ‘the Periwinkle Man.’ The name made no sense, but I dreamed of a field of periwinkle flowers, and in the center, that man was waiting, gesturing for me to come closer. I woke with a start, the cold hand still phantom on my leg. The next morning, Uncle Theo was gone, leaving only a note that said, ‘Don’t trust the green.’ But it was too late. I saw the man again, standing at the edge of the property, his hand raised in a wave. And I knew, with a child’s certainty, that he was not done with me. He was waiting for the day I would step into that field of flowers, and I would follow, because he knew how to make me feel special, even as the cold crept into my bones. That was the summer I learned that some strangers wear the skin of comfort, but underneath, they are the ghosts of our own making, and they are always watching, waiting for the moment we let them in.