The Persimmon Tree Visitor

When I was a kid, my Aunt Ruth was my entire world. She wasn’t just the aunt who showed up at every school play and soccer game; she was the one who taught me how to whistle through a blade of grass, who let me help her bake bread even when I made a mess of the flour, and who always had a gentle word of encouragement when I doubted myself. She had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the world, even with a dozen cousins vying for her attention. When she passed away on the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, it felt like the sun had gone out for good.

I was in my final year of medical school, buried under textbooks and endless exams, and her loss hit me harder than I expected. I missed her pep talks, the way she’d say, ‘You’ve got this, honey. The world needs more healers.’ After she died, I’d sometimes wake up from a dream feeling oddly comforted, as if her voice was still whispering encouragement to me. At first, I dismissed it as my mind trying to cope, but then small things started happening around my apartment. Keys would be on the counter when I was sure I’d left them in the door, the radio would be tuned to a station she loved, and the scent of her favorite rosewater perfume would linger in the air. I’d find myself smiling and whispering, ‘Thanks, Aunt Ruth,’ as if she were still watching over me.

One evening, exhausted from a 14-hour shift at the hospital, I threw my scrubs into the washing machine, forgetting to check the pockets. The next morning, I reached for my favorite pair of turquoise earrings to wear to a rotation, and they were gone. I searched everywhere, retracing my steps with growing frustration, knowing I’d worn them just days before. Then I remembered the scrubs. I checked the washer and dryer, even the lint trap, but found nothing. Later that week, I was helping my cousin clean out Aunt Ruth’s old house, which was set to be sold. We were sorting through boxes in the attic, and I found an old sewing tin she’d kept. Inside, nestled on top of a pile of buttons, were my missing earrings. They were a little bent, as if they’d been squeezed, but otherwise intact. My cousin, who had no idea I’d lost them, looked at me with wide eyes. ‘How did those get here?’ she asked. ‘Aunt Ruth loved those earrings on you,’ she added, her voice trembling.

I laughed it off as a bizarre coincidence, chalking it up to a mix-up during a family gathering. But then stranger things began to occur. I’d find her old worn-out recipe cards, written in her spidery handwriting, tucked inside my medical textbooks, always open to a page that emphasized patience or compassion. Once, I came home to find the kitchen light flickering, and the oven timer went off even though I hadn’t set it. It was in that moment I felt a chill that wasn’t from the cold, and a sudden, irrational fear gripped me. I remembered a story Aunt Ruth used to tell me, about a malicious spirit known as the ‘Grinning Man’ who could mimic the voices of the dead. She’d warned me that sometimes, it pressed a coin into the palm of someone grieving, a token that let it enter their home. Instinctively, I checked my pockets, and in the right pocket of my coat, I found a single, unfamiliar copper coin with no markings. My heart pounded.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Shadows seemed to move in the corners of my vision, and I heard faint whispers that sounded like Aunt Ruth’s voice, but twisted, mocking. When I finally dozed off, I dreamed of her standing in my kitchen, but her face was hollow, and she was speaking in a voice that wasn’t hers. ‘You should have let me rest,’ she said, her voice echoing. I woke up drenched in sweat. The house felt wrong. I decided to visit my grandmother’s grave the next morning to find peace. I brought a small bouquet of her favorite flowers, and as I knelt to place them below the headstone, I noticed something glinting in the grass. It was the same unmarked coin, but now it was warm to the touch. I picked it up, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I realized then that my encounter with Aunt Ruth’s spirit was not a comfort but a trap. Something was wearing her face, feeding on my grief, and it had followed me home.

Frantically, I sought help from a spiritual healer who lived outside town. She listened to my story, her face growing pale. She told me that the coin was a ‘marker’ from a being called the ‘Faceless,’ a trickster spirit that feeds on lingering emotion. The only way to break its hold was to throw the coin into running water at midnight while reciting a specific verse, and to cleanse my apartment with sage and salt. I followed her instructions to the letter. At midnight, I stood by the river and tossed the coin into the dark water, chanting the words through chattering teeth. I felt a cold presence lift from my shoulders, and the oppressive fog that had been clouding my mind disappeared. I returned home, cleansed the space, and for the first time in weeks, I slept without dreams.

But in the morning, I found a single turquoise earring on my pillow, the same one I had lost. It was not a good sign. As I held it, I heard Aunt Ruth’s voice, but now it was clear and loving: ‘I’m always with you, but you must live your life, not dwell in the past.’ And I knew that the true Aunt Ruth had found a way to warn me, to guide me back from the edge. I kept the earring as a reminder of her love, but I also knew that the boundary between the living and the dead was thinner than I’d ever imagined, and that some visitors should not be welcomed.