The Recurrent Visitor

When I was nine, my parents often left me with a babysitter named Mrs. Kravitz. She was an elderly woman with a fondness for tales of the macabre, stories that sent delightful chills down my spine. But one summer evening, the stories stopped being just stories.

I was in my room, playing with my toy soldiers, when I noticed a dark shape on the wall—a shape that wasn’t mine. It was tall and thin, with long arms that stretched like branches. I stared at it, and it seemed to stare back. But then it was gone, and I dismissed it as a trick of the light.

A few nights later, the shadow returned. This time, it was waving at me. I laughed, thinking my little sister, Lily, was playing a prank. But when I turned to check, she wasn’t there. I called out for her, and she came running from the hallway, confused. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked. When I pointed at the wall, the shadow was already gone.

I tried to forget it, but the shadow haunted my thoughts. One night, while Lily and I were watching TV, the shadow appeared again, this time on the wall beside the television. Lily was right next to me, her hand in mine. ‘Do you see that?’ I whispered. She frowned. ‘See what?’ I pointed, but the shadow dissolved into the darkness.

For a month, there was nothing. I began to think it was my imagination, a product of Mrs. Kravitz’s stories. But then, on a humid August night, I woke up at 3 a.m. with a dry throat. I padded to the kitchen for water, noticing the window in the living room was wide open. As I closed it, a cold breath tickled my ear, and a voice rasped, ‘Remember me?’

I spun around, my heart hammering. The shadow stood by the kitchen counter, its form wispy and dark, darker than the night itself. My hand trembling, I reached for a glass on the counter. That’s when the jar of cookies—my mom’s prized ceramic jar—shattered on the floor, as if the shadow had knocked it over without touching it. I didn’t wait to see more. I ran back to my room, locking the door behind me.

The next morning, I told my parents about the shadow. They exchanged worried glances and called a doctor. I was told I had an overactive imagination, a phase. But I knew better. The shadow was real, and it was waiting for me to acknowledge it.

Years passed, and I grew. The shadow became a recurring nightmare, a whisper at the edge of sleep. I never told anyone else, fearing they’d think I was crazy. But now, at fourteen, I’ve started to research local legends. There’s an old story about a man who was wrongfully hanged in these woods decades ago, his ghost said to haunt those who played alone. I’ve begun to think maybe—just maybe—that shadow was him, and he’s been trying to tell me something all along.

Tonight, as I write this, I see it again. It’s standing at the foot of my bed, its form solid for the first time. It reaches out a clawed hand, and I feel a pull, a call. I don’t know if I’m ready to listen, but I’m running out of time to ignore it.