The Slate in the Nursery

In the autumn of 2004, we moved into a prefabricated house in a quiet residential development on the outskirts of a small town in the Midwest. The house was new, but the land had a history—a former farm that had been subdivided. My wife, our six-year-old daughter, and our newborn son were settling in well. The development was clean and orderly, with neat lawns and friendly neighbors.

The trouble began at our son’s christening, an intimate gathering of about thirty friends and family. My brother-in-law, a lay pastor, was officiating. As he said the blessing, a loud thud echoed from the nursery—like a heavy dictionary falling from a high shelf. The room fell silent. Several guests exchanged uneasy glances, but others seemed oblivious. I checked the nursery; nothing was out of place.

A week later, my daughter ran into our bedroom, her face pale. ‘Daddy, there’s a man in my room. He came through the wall and went out the window.’ I held her, assuming it was a nightmare from the move. I told her she was safe and we’d check the room. I saw nothing, but she was trembling. Over the next few nights, she refused to sleep alone.

Strange events escalated. One afternoon, I noticed a dusty boot print on the carpet near the nursery door—the kind from a workman’s boot. But no one had been in the house that day. My wife found her jewelry scattered on the bathroom floor, though she kept it in a drawer. Odd, but I blamed stress.

Then I saw him. I woke up at 3 AM, thirsty, and went to the kitchen. At the end of the hallway, a dark figure stood, as if made of smoke, with a long coat and wide-brimmed hat. It didn’t move, just watched. I blinked, and it was gone. My heart pounded. I searched the house; all doors were locked.

The next day, our daughter pointed to a corner of the living room and said, ‘He’s there.’ I saw nothing. But I noticed a faint, earthy odor, like damp soil.

Our son, who was usually calm, would cry uncontrollably in the nursery. The crying stopped only when I took him into our bedroom. I thought it was colic.

Things came to a head when my wife’s sister stayed over. In the middle of the night, we heard a crash from the guest room. We found her huddled in the corner, pointing at the closet door: ‘There’s a man in there. He tried to grab me.’ The closet was empty, but we all felt a chill.

We started researching the history of the land. The farm had been owned by a man named Harlow, a reclusive figure who disappeared in the 1960s. Locals said he was a ‘slate man,’ a term for a traveling peddler who carried a slate to write on because he was mute. He was last seen walking toward the field where our house now sat. His body was never found.

That night, determined to confront the presence, I armed myself with a flashlight and a kitchen knife and went into the nursery. The room was cold. I sat in the rocker, waiting. Hours passed. Then I heard a faint scratching, like chalk on slate. I turned, and there it was—a tall figure, its face obscured by the hat’s shadow. It raised a hand and pointed at the corner. I looked and saw, written on the wall in chalk dust, the words: ‘MINE.’

I lunged, but my knife passed through empty air. The figure dissipated, and the word vanished. But the cold remained.

We couldn’t stay. Within a week, we moved out, breaking our lease. The house remains, though I’ve heard later renters experienced similar disturbances. To this day, my daughter refuses to enter any room with a closet. And sometimes, at night, I still smell damp earth and hear a faint scraping, as if someone is writing a message I’m not meant to read.