The Stillwater Guest

The air in Aunt Cora’s house was thick with the smell of cinnamon and old lace, but my mind was on the crackle of the TV, the glow of the screen painting the dark wood floor in shades of blue. It was her ‘Harvest Moon Social’ for the fall equinox, though really it was just an excuse for her to show off her heirloom china and for my cousins to run wild. I was stretched out on the Persian rug, the static of ‘The Night of the Living Duds’ humming in my ears, when I saw him.

He was a pale wisp of a boy, maybe six or seven, with hair so blond it was almost white, wearing a clean but old-fashioned sailor suit. He was kneeling by the toy chest, not really playing with it, but watching Tommy and little Lucy, who were building a fort out of blocks. There was a wrongness to him, a stillness that didn’t fit the chaos of the party. I watched for a minute, my attention snagged from the movie. He didn’t blink. It was the first thing I noticed. Then I blinked, and he was gone. Like a soap bubble popping. I sat up, feeling a cold trickle down my spine. But the laughing of the kids and the clinking of cups from the other room pulled me back, and I chided myself for letting my imagination run wild on a glass of too-sweet punch.

I found Aunt Cora by the sideboard, arranging a platter of cheese and grapes. I asked, ‘Did you invite one of Tommy’s school friends?’ I tried to keep my voice light, but my heart was thumping a clumsy rhythm.

She paused, a wedge of cheddar in her hand. ‘No, dear, it’s just immediate family and a few close neighbors. Why do you ask?’

I explained about the boy in the sailor suit, how he’d been playing with Tommy and Lucy near the huge bay window that overlooked the marsh. As I spoke, her face drained of color, her hand trembling, making the cheese wobble. She set it down with a heavy clunk. ‘There are only two kids here,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. A sudden, vivid image flashed in my mind: a candle flame, then a block of ice, then a child’s hand reaching out from a dark pool. I felt a nudge – a physical press against my shoulder – but when I turned, no one was there.

Aunt Cora was called away to help Uncle Earl, who had some trouble with his leg, leaving me alone with a question that echoed. The image grew stronger: there was a boy who drowned in the creek behind Aunt Cora’s house, a hundred years ago. He was a boy, I recalled now, because my mother had told me stories – a boy named Arthur, who was forever trying to find a playmate, even after his death. The creek was mostly dried up now, but there was a deep pool near the old stone bridge that never froze, even in winter. And the date on the old family bible, I knew, was October 31st.

I tried to shake off the chill, to return to the movie, but the plot no longer made sense. The TV crackled, and for a moment, I thought I saw his reflection in the screen, standing behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing. Then I heard a splash – a quiet, distinct splash from the direction of the creek, though it was a hundred yards away. I looked out the window, and there he was, standing by the old stone bridge, looking back at me. He raised his hand and gave a slow, deliberate wave. I didn’t wave back. I couldn’t. He turned and walked into the reeds, and when I blinked again, he was gone. But I could still feel something watching me, a presence that lingered like the smell of mud and rotten leaves, long after the party ended and I went home. And for nights afterward, I would dream of a boy in a sailor suit, tapping on my window, asking if I would come out to play.