The Stuffed Visitor

The first time I felt that wrongness, that icy finger tracing my spine, I was four years old, living in a subdivision called Mapleshade. It was a safe place, a grid of identical houses with tidy lawns, where neighbors knew each other by name. My aunt, Yaya, and I were visiting Mrs. Delacroix, whose house was eight lots down. Mrs. Delacroix was a sweet old woman with a penchant for collecting oddities, and her living room was dim, lit only by a single yellow lamp that cast long, warped shadows.

I remember the moment I stepped inside. There, on her floral-patterned sofa, sat the most terrifying thing I had ever seen: a stuffed gorilla. It was massive, at least two and a half times my height, its fur matted and dull, its glass eyes reflecting the lamplight in a way that seemed almost sentient. It was posed in a sitting position, arms resting on its knees, as if it had just sat down for a cup of tea. The air in the room felt thick, and I was certain it was watching me.

I didn’t cry. I just felt this primal urge to flee. I turned on my heels and sprinted out the door, down the porch steps, and onto the rain-slicked pavement. Yaya didn’t chase me; the neighborhood was safe, and our house was just a few minutes’ walk. But as I ran, the image of that gorilla burned into my mind, a jarring contrast to the cheerful daylight outside.

That night, the storm came. Rain hammered the roof like a thousand tiny fists, and thunder cracked so close it rattled the windows. My cousin, Leila, who was two years older and terrified of storms, called out to me from her bedroom across the hall. ‘Rina, please, I can’t sleep! Can I stay with you?’ I was scared too, but I put on a brave face and let her crawl into my bed. We lay there, listening to the storm, and Leila fell asleep quickly.

I, however, stayed awake, staring at the shadows that danced on the ceiling. The wind howled, and the house creaked and groaned as if it were a living thing. Then, I heard it. A slow, rhythmic thumping from downstairs. Thump… thump… thump. It was too heavy for the house settling. My heart started to race. I sat up, straining to hear. Thump… thump… thump. It was coming from the front door area.

I slipped out of bed, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor. I crept down the hallway, past the bathroom, and into the living room, which was bathed in the pale glow of a streetlight through the rain-streaked windows. The thumping had stopped. I stood there, shivering, my eyes scanning the room. And then I saw it.

In the corner, by the bookshelf, stood a figure. It was tall, impossibly tall, its silhouette distorted against the wall. It didn’t move, but I felt its gaze. I couldn’t breathe. The figure took a step forward, and the streetlight caught it. It was the gorilla from Mrs. Delacroix’s house. Its fur was dripping wet, and its glass eyes seemed to gleam with a malevolent intelligence.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. The gorilla raised a massive hand, its fingers extended as if to grab me. I stumbled backward, tripping over the edge of the rug, and landed hard on the floor. The gorilla took another step, its foot landing with a wet, heavy thud. Then, the front door burst open, and Yaya rushed in, drenched, holding a flashlight. ‘Rina! What are you doing down here?’ she shouted. I pointed to the corner, but there was nothing there. Just the empty wall.

Yaya scooped me up, her face pale. ‘You must have had a nightmare,’ she said, but her voice was shaky. She carried me back to bed and stayed with me until I fell asleep. The next morning, I told her what I saw, but she dismissed it, saying that I had a vivid imagination and that the storm had frightened me.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the gorilla had followed me. That night, in my dreams, I saw it again, standing at the foot of my bed, its glass eyes staring into mine. And when I woke up, the bed was wet. I had peed myself.

Years passed, and we moved away from Mapleshade. I grew up, forgot about the gorilla, or so I thought. But sometimes, when the rain falls at night and the thunder rolls, I still hear that thumping sound from downstairs. And I wonder if that stuffed visitor ever found its way back to me.

Last week, I was cleaning out my parents’ attic and found an old photo album. There, tucked behind a picture of my fifth birthday party, was a photo of Mrs. Delacroix’s living room. The gorilla was there, sitting on the sofa, as if in mourning. And in the corner of the photo, barely visible in the yellow light, was a small shadowy figure that looked like a child. My blood ran cold when I realized that the figure was in the exact spot where I had stood that first time.

I closed the album and sat down on the dusty floor, my heart pounding. I knew then that the gorilla wasn’t just a stuffed animal. It was a vessel, a doorway. And that night, I had opened the door. Now, I wonder if it’s still waiting for me, wherever it went. Maybe someday, the rain will come, and I’ll hear that thumping again. And this time, I’ll be the one at the door.