The Unseen Grocer

The old house on Maple Street had a way of settling that felt like breathing. It creaked and groaned, but some sounds weren’t just settling. I grew up in that house, a narrow two-story with a wraparound porch that never felt welcoming, especially at night. My dad, Frank, had this leather armchair in the living room—a relic from the ’80s with a swivel base that squeaked no matter how gently you turned. Late at night, that squeak would cut through the silence, a slow, deliberate pivot, as if someone were turning the chair to face the dark kitchen doorway. I’d tiptoe downstairs, my heart thumping, expecting to see Dad dozing, but the room was always empty. The chair would be slightly turned, as if someone had just stood up and walked away, leaving a faint impression on the cushion that vanished before I could touch it.

My bedroom was across from the bathroom, and the plumbing was ancient. At all hours, I’d hear the pipes groan and the toilet flush, and sometimes the faucet would run for minutes on end. I tried to convince myself it was my mother, Sarah, who often drank water before bed, but the timing never matched. I’d crack my door open, peering down the hallway, and see nothing. The bathroom light would be off, the door ajar, and the faint sound of water dripping would continue, as if something invisible were washing its hands over and over.

Then there was the grocer. Every Saturday morning, I’d see him from my window—a thin man in a long coat, even in summer, carrying a woven basket. He’d walk the perimeter of our yard, stopping at the garden, the oak tree, the old well. He never entered the house, but he’d leave small offerings: a jar of honey, a bundle of herbs, a strangely shaped root. My parents never remarked on him, as if they couldn’t see him. When I asked, Mom would change the subject, and Dad would mutter about ‘neighbors’ from the old days. But the man’s eyes—hollow, like a doll’s—always found mine when I peeked through the blinds.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was still, but the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something sweet, like overripe fruit. I heard a gentle creak from the living room, and then the sound of the front door unlatching. I crept to the hallway, and there he was—the grocer, standing in the doorway, his basket now filled with what looked like bones and dark bottles. He didn’t see me, but he placed a small, clay figure on the floor, just inside the threshold. It was a crude human shape, with a hole in its chest. He turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

I picked up the figure. It was warm, humming faintly. I brought it to my room, and that night, I dreamt of the chair, the toilet, the groove in the floorboards. When I woke, the figure was gone, but in its place was a single strand of gray hair, thick as wire. And from then on, the noises grew louder, the smells more cloying. I never saw the grocer leave, only arrive. My parents began to age rapidly, as if something were draining them. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that he was not a man but a collector, and our house was his greenhouse, and we were the seeds he watered with attention.

Twenty years later, I’m back in that house, having inherited it. I see him still, at the edge of the woods, basket in hand. I’ve never told anyone, but last night, I heard the swivel chair turn, and the toilet flush, and the front door open. I walked to the hallway, and there he stood, holding out a clay figure—this one shaped like a grown woman. ‘Yours,’ he said, his voice like rustling leaves. ‘You left it here long ago.’ And he placed it in my palm. It was warm. This time, I didn’t put it down. I put it in my pocket, and I felt the house settle around me, as if it had been waiting for me to come home. And now, every night, I hear the chair turn, and I smile, because I finally understand: we don’t grow things in this house. We grow teeth.