The Seventh Field

My family moved to the outskirts of a small town called Millbrook when I was nine. Every school day, my mother drove me along County Road 9, past a series of soybean fields and an old, rusted grain silo. But about a mile before the school zone, there was a house that didn’t belong. It was a two-story Victorian, long since swallowed by ivy and rot. The porch sagged like a tired jaw, and every window was either boarded or black. But there was one window—the downstairs left bay—that was always clean, as if someone wiped it daily. And in that window, every morning and every afternoon, stood a man. He wore a yellow raincoat, even when the sun blazed, and a wide-brimmed straw hat that shadowed his face. He never moved, never waved. He just stood there, arms at his sides, facing the road. At first, I thought he was a statue, but sometimes he would tilt his head, just a few degrees, following our car as we passed. I told my mom, but she just said, ‘Old man Jenkins, probably. He’s been there since I was a girl.’ But his eyes—I could never see them, but I felt them. It was like he was waiting for something, and I was part of it.

For two years, this was our ritual. Every day, same time, same window. The man in yellow never changed his outfit, never changed his spot. I tried to convince myself he was a mannequin, a scarecrow with a face. But one Tuesday, as we drove by, I saw him differently. He wasn’t in the downstairs window. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, thinking he was finally gone. But my mother gripped the wheel tighter. ‘Where is he?’ she whispered. I looked back, and there he was—in the upstairs window, directly above the old bay. He was leaning forward, hands pressed against the glass, and for the first time, I saw his face. It was pale, lined like old leather, but his eyes were closed. He seemed to be breathing, his chest rising and falling. And then, just as we passed the last tree, he opened his eyes. They were not human. They were the color of old pennies, and they locked onto mine. I felt a cold that had nothing to do with the car’s AC. My mother sped up, her knuckles white. That night, I dreamt of the house, but in the dream, I was inside, walking up creaking stairs toward a door at the end of a hallway. I woke up screaming.

After that day, the man was always in the upstairs window. He never went back down. As months passed, I noticed other changes. The house seemed to be growing more decrepit, but the window he stood in remained pristine. Sometimes, on foggy mornings, I’d see him pressing his face to the glass, his mouth moving as if he were speaking, but no sound reached us. I began to feel his gaze even when I wasn’t looking. It was like a weight on my chest, a constant pressure. My mother tried to take a different route, but every road led to the same stretch of County Road 9. She tried driving faster, slower, but he was always there. I started having nosebleeds at school, and my teacher said I looked pale. My father, who was rarely home, laughed it off. ‘Just a kid’s imagination,’ he said. But I knew it was real. I started writing in my journal about the man, and one night, I drew a sketch of him. The next day, the sketch had disappeared from my notebook. I found it under my pillow, but the eyes in the drawing had been scratched out.

Three years into this, I switched to a school in the adjacent town, hoping to escape the daily drive. But I couldn’t escape the dreams. Every night, I’d dream of the house, and I’d walk up those stairs, and I’d open the door at the end of the hall. Behind it, there was a room full of mirrors, and in each mirror, my own reflection, but with those penny-colored eyes. The man would be in the room, but he’d be wearing my face, my clothes, and he’d hold out a hand, saying, ‘Come, you’re late.’ I’d always wake up before I touched him, gasping for air. And then, one afternoon, while I was home alone, I heard a knock at the front door. I looked through the peephole: no one. But as I turned to go back to my room, I saw a yellow raincoat draped over the banister at the end of the hall, and a straw hat resting on the newel post. My heart stopped. I ran to my room, locked the door, and hid under my bed until my parents came home. They found me shaking, but they saw nothing. I never wore yellow again.

I’m now twenty-three, living in a city far from Millbrook. I’ve tried to forget, but I can’t. Because a week ago, I got a package with no return address. Inside was a torn piece of paper, and on it, a single line written in spidery handwriting: ‘The seventh field is ready. Come home.’ And attached to the paper was a photograph of me, taken from outside my window, standing in my own living room, with a yellow raincoat draped over my shoulders. I don’t own a raincoat. Last night, I looked out my window and saw a figure across the street, in the shadows of an abandoned storefront. He was wearing a yellow raincoat and a straw hat, and he was pointing at my building. But what terrifies me most is that when I blinked, he was gone—and I felt his penny-colored eyes on the back of my neck, even though I was facing the window. I closed the blinds, but I hear a faint tapping on the glass, gentle, like knuckles. I’m afraid to turn around, because I know what I’ll see: me, standing outside, looking in.