The Tucked-in Visitor

The old farmhouse sat at the end of a gravel road, its wooden bones creaking with each gust of wind. My father, a stoic man named Harold, worked the night shift at the canning factory, leaving our small family to the mercy of the dark hours. I was only four, with a stubborn cowlick and a habit of kicking off my blankets in my sleep. My mother, Eleanor, a quiet woman with a nervous habit of humming, would often check on me before retiring, a ritual she found comforting.

One particularly bitter night in late autumn, Eleanor climbed the stairs, her feet padding softly on the worn treads. The hallway light cast long shadows, and as she pushed open my door, she froze. There, in the dim glow of the nightlight, I lay perfectly still, my covers drawn up to my chin, neatly tucked in with military precision. This was a feat she could never manage, for I would thrash and turn until the sheets were a tangled mess. She smiled, thinking Harold must have come home early and shown unusual care. She kissed my forehead and went to bed, a sense of warmth spreading through her.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the frost-covered windows. Eleanor woke to the smell of burnt toast and the sound of Harold clattering in the kitchen. She shuffled in, rubbing her eyes, and mentioned how sweet it was of him to tuck me in. Harold looked up, his face pale, his mug of coffee trembling in his hand. ‘I didn’t get home until six,’ he said. ‘I was on the line all night.’ Eleanor’s blood ran cold. She dropped her mug, and it shattered on the linoleum, the shards glinting like tiny accusations.

We moved shortly after. The house was sold to a young couple who didn’t last a year. They complained of a cold spot in the upstairs bedroom, of a feeling of being watched. But I, now grown, still feel that chill whenever I pass by that old place. The gravel road is overgrown, the windows boarded. And sometimes, when the wind is just right, I swear I can hear a faint humming, a tune Eleanor used to sing, coming from that window, as if someone is still waiting to tuck in another restless child.