The Unfinished Visit

The first time the television clicked on by itself, I blamed the wiring. The second time, I blamed the cat. By the third, I had to admit it was him—my father-in-law, Ronald, though I never called him that in life. He had a way of making his displeasure known, a spectral prankster with a grudge. It started with small things: the thermostat jumping to 80 in the middle of July, the coffee maker beeping at 3 AM, and my tablet, always my tablet. It would power down just as I was mid-sentence, or flip to a blank screen, or, in one eerie instance, open a story from a writer I’d never heard of, dated May of last year—the month I’d failed to let his beloved dog, Jethro, go. I knew it was him. My grandfather, a softer spirit, had come later, taking Jethro’s soul to Heaven, and he’d given me a sense of peace. But Ronald? Ronald had stayed, and he was angry.

I tried to reach out to him, to ask what he wanted. I’d sit in my study, the air thick with the smell of his old pipe tobacco, and I’d speak aloud, ‘Ronald, if you need something, just tell me. Give me a sign.’ But signs were all he gave—never answers. He’d turn my tablet on and type gibberish that looked like code, or he’d make the lamps flicker in a pattern that seemed almost like Morse code but decoded to nothing. The house, once a quiet farmhouse in the rolling hills of Vermont, now felt like a cage. I started sleeping with the lights on, my tablet clutched under my pillow like a talisman.

My wife, Claire, noticed my unease. She’d always been sensitive to her father’s presence, more so since his passing. ‘He’s still here, isn’t he?’ she asked one evening, her eyes scanning the corners of the room. I nodded. She sighed. ‘He was always stubborn. He never let go of anything easily. But he loved Jethro more than anything. Have you tried apologizing?’ I had, but apologies meant nothing if I didn’t know the reason for his visit. And there was another worry gnawing at me: my mother-in-law, Diane. Claire’s mother, who now lived alone in a small bungalow in the next town, had a pacemaker and a stent, and lately she’d been denying persistent chest pains, refusing to see a doctor. I suspected that’s why Ronald was here, hovering over me like a vulture, waiting for me to intervene.

I tried to broach the subject with Claire, but she was as stubborn as her father. ‘Mom’s fine. She knows her body,’ she’d say, even as I described the shortness of breath I’d witnessed when she climbed the stairs to our porch. My frustration mounted. I reached out to a medium friend, Ellen, to see if she could connect with Ronald. She came over one rainy afternoon, her voice a low chant as she sat in the armchair Ronald used to occupy. She paused, her face going pale. ‘There’s a spirit here, but it’s not your father-in-law,’ she said cautiously. ‘It’s a woman, older, but she’s not connected to you. She’s lost. And there’s… something else. Something darker. I can’t make it out.’ But no Ronald. He wasn’t there, or he refused to be channeled. That night, I felt a cold wind sweep through the house, and my tablet’s screen flashed on, displaying a single word: ‘DIANE.’

The next day, I drove to Diane’s house. It was a modest brick home with overgrown rose bushes, the same ones she’d planted when Claire was a child. I found her on the porch, breathing heavily, a hand pressed to her chest. When she saw me, she forced a smile. ‘Just a little tightness,’ she said, waving me off. But I saw the fear in her eyes. I knew then that Ronald’s persistence was about her. He must have known she was hiding something. ‘You need to see a doctor,’ I said, my voice firmer than I intended. She shook her head. ‘I have an appointment next month. It’s fine.’ I wanted to scream, to grab her shoulders and shake her, but I pulled back. Instead, I went to her kitchen, found her pill organizer, and noticed it was full—she hadn’t taken her meds in days.

That evening, I confronted Claire with every shred of evidence: the missed appointments she’d lied about, the symptoms that mirrored her pre-stent days, the full pill organizer. Claire broke down. ‘I know,’ she sobbed. ‘But she’s so proud. She doesn’t want to be a burden. She thinks if she ignores it, it will go away.’ I held her, feeling the weight of the situation. Then I felt a cold hand on my shoulder—literally. I turned, and in the dim light of our hallway, I saw a faint shimmer, the shape of a man, his face barely visible but his eyes stern. It was Ronald. He nodded once, then faded.

The next morning, we called Diane’s cardiologist and scheduled an emergency consultation. It turned out she had a blockage, one that required immediate surgery. The procedure went well, and as she recovered, I felt the oppressive presence in our house begin to lift. The lights stopped flickering. The thermostat held steady. And my tablet—it finally stayed on whatever app I opened. I knew, without a doubt, that Ronald’s visit was over. He had come to ensure his wife’s safety, and once that was done, he could rest.

A week later, I was sitting in the living room, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, when my tablet dinged. A notification from a news app: a story about a local man who had died unexpectedly, leaving behind a notebook with a cryptic message. The title was ‘His Last Word.’ I opened it, and the screen went dark for a moment. Then it flickered back to life, showing a photo of a garden, and beneath it, the words ‘Thank you.’ I smiled, feeling a warmth I hadn’t felt in months. Ronald was gone, but he hadn’t left forever. He was, I knew, still keeping an eye on us—from a place of peace now.