The Shelf Above the Door

My childhood bedroom was in the gable end of our old farmhouse, a low-ceilinged room with a single dormer window that looked out over the barley fields. The walls were papered with a faded pattern of windmills and tulips, and my bed was a narrow iron cot pushed against the far wall. I must have been four or five when I first met Corin. He appeared one rainy afternoon, standing in the corner where the wallpaper peeled away from the plaster. He wore a long coat the color of cold ashes, and his face was smooth, featureless, like a blurred photograph.

My mother, Elspeth, was deeply spiritual, a woman who read tea leaves and kept a sprig of rowan over the kitchen door. When I told her about Corin, she smiled and said, ‘That’s your guardian, love. He’ll watch over you.’ She never questioned his presence, and so Corin became part of our lives. He would sit with me during storms, his head tilted as if listening to something I couldn’t hear. He never spoke, but I understood him in a way that skipped words.

We lived in that farmhouse until I was seven. My room had a fitted cupboard beside the chimney breast, its door warped from damp. Inside were shelves that climbed to the ceiling, crammed with old blankets, moth-eaten sweaters, and boxes of my toys. Among them were my Tweenies—Milo, Bella, Fizz, and Jake—soft, round-faced dolls with bright eyes. I loved Milo most of all, with his bald head and red and yellow striped top.

One summer afternoon, I was playing with Milo and the others on the rag rug by the window. Corin was there too, though I couldn’t see him directly; he was a presence at the edge of my vision. Then my mother called me for lunch. When I returned, Milo was gone. I searched everywhere—under the bed, behind the curtain, in the toy box. Tears welled up, and I ran to the kitchen. ‘Mum, Milo’s gone!’ I wailed.

Elspeth knelt down and wiped my cheeks. ‘Where did you last have him?’ she asked. I sniffed. ‘I was playing with him, and then Corin came.’ Her eyes flickered. ‘Corin? Did he take Milo?’ I nodded, a vague memory surfacing of Corin’s long arm reaching toward the shelf. ‘Maybe he hid him,’ I said.

My mother walked to my room, her skirt swishing. She opened the cupboard door and peered up at the highest shelf. I saw her shoulders tense. ‘He’s not here, love,’ she said quietly. But she didn’t close the door. She stood there, staring, for a long moment. Then she turned, and her face was pale. ‘Let’s have some tea,’ she said, her voice tight.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind rattled the window, and the raindrops sounded like fingers tapping. I looked at the cupboard; the door was ajar. A sliver of moonlight cut across a box on the highest shelf. Something moved. It was Milo. He was sitting on top of that box, his button eyes reflecting the pale light. He was staring at me.

I called out, ‘Corin? Is that you?’ The air grew cold. A shape detached from the shadows beside the cupboard—taller than I remembered, thinner, the coat billowing without a breeze. Its head was tilted too far, like a bird’s. And then it spoke. For the first time, I heard its voice, a dry rustle like dead leaves. ‘Mine,’ it said.

I screamed. My mother burst in, lamp in hand. The room was empty, the cupboard door shut tight. Milo was on the floor, where I’d left him. But when my mother looked at me, her face was ashen. ‘Who was that?’ she demanded. ‘Not a guardian,’ I whispered.

We moved three weeks later. I never saw Corin again. But as I grew older, I began to forget his face, his coat, even his name. Except for one thing: the memory of Milo on that shelf, and the voice that claimed him. I buried it deep, thought of it as a child’s nightmare. I never told anyone the whole truth after that, because I convinced myself it was a dream.

Years later, after my mother passed, I found an old photograph in a box of her things. I was four, standing in front of the farmhouse, clutching a Tweenie. In the corner of the frame, by the door, there was a blur. A tall shape, like a smudge of ash. I turned the photo over. On the back, in my mother’s hand, were the words: ‘Our friend. He wouldn’t leave.’

I went back to the farmhouse last autumn. It was abandoned, the windows boarded, the garden overgrown. I pried open the back door and climbed the creaking stairs to my old room. The wallpaper was gone, replaced by peeling paint. The cupboard was still there, its door hanging crooked. I pulled it open. The shelves were bare, except for a single object on the highest shelf: a Tweenie doll, its face faded, its eyes missing. I reached up and touched it. The air grew cold. A whisper, like dry leaves, said, ‘You came back.’

I ran. I ran until my lungs burned. But when I finally stopped, I was standing in the middle of the barley field, and the sun had set. In my hand I still clutched the doll. Its button eyes were intact, black and shiny. And they were looking at me. I dropped it and fled.

Now, I never go near old houses. I never speak of Corin. But sometimes, in that moment between sleep and waking, I see the shelf above the door, and I hear that dry voice. And I know that my imaginary friend was never imaginary—and he’s still waiting, on the highest shelf, for me to come back.