The Vanishing Pencil

I’ve been crashing with Dee ever since I left my old place, and I should be grateful. She’s a good friend, the kind who doesn’t pry, and she’s let me have the spare room with its single window that overlooks the dead garden. The house itself is old, with creaking floorboards and a damp smell that never quite goes away, but it’s temporary. I just need to get on my feet.

This morning, a Tuesday, I decided to do my makeup. It’s a small ritual, a way to feel normal when everything else feels like it’s sliding. I opened the drawer in the guest bathroom and took out all my cosmetics, laying them on the counter. My eyebrow pencil was there, a cheap brown one, and I picked it up. The moment I touched it, something felt off. It was too light. I unscrewed the cap and peered inside. The lead was gone. Not just worn down, but completely absent. The entire inside of the pencil was empty, a hollow tube with a tiny residue of graphite dust at the bottom.

I remember using that pencil two days ago. I had to apply it carefully because the point had broken, and I’d sharpened it, leaving a good two inches of lead. I popped the cap on and dropped it back in my bag. There was no way it could have fallen out. The cap is a tight fit, you have to twist it off. But the lead was gone, and there was no graphite dust in my bag. I dug through every compartment, turned the bag inside out, even checked the floor. Nothing.

I brought the empty pencil to Dee, who was in the kitchen making toast. ‘Dee, look at this. My eyebrow pencil is empty.’ She glanced at it, her eyes narrowing. ‘Maybe you used it without realizing?’ I shook my head. ‘No, I checked it yesterday; it was fine. And look, there’s no shavings, no powder. It’s like it just disappeared.’ Dee shrugged and took a bite of toast. ‘Weird. But you know, ever since you moved in, weird things have been happening. My favorite earring disappeared last week, and I found it in the bathroom trash. And the other day, the kettle started boiling on its own.’ I stared at her. ‘Kettle? Really?’ She laughed, but it was a tight laugh. ‘I’m serious. It’s like there’s a ghost in this house. Or maybe you brought something with you.’ Her eyes flickered to the corner of the ceiling, and I felt a chill.

I tried to brush it off, but my mind started racing. I’ve always been skeptical, but there have been things. The lingering smell of curry that fills the hallway, even though neither of us has cooked Indian food in weeks. I hate curry. My parents used to cook it all the time, and the smell was a constant reminder of my childhood. The last place I lived, the landlord’s family was from India, and the whole building smelled of it. I was so sick of that smell. But here, there’s no source. I’ve checked the kitchen, the fridge, the trash. Nothing. And sometimes, when I’m alone in the house, I hear whispers, nasty comments, like ‘You’re worthless’ or ‘No one will miss you.’ I look around, but there’s no one. Dee says she’s never heard anything.

My parents were abusive. They made my life a living hell. I haven’t spoken to them in fifty years. My mother passed away last year, and I didn’t even go to the funeral. I thought I was finally free, but now I’m starting to feel like maybe I’m not. Maybe the things they said are still inside my head, or maybe there’s something more tangible at work. That pencil disappearing feels like a message, but from whom? I’m afraid to tell Dee how much this is freaking me out, because she might think I’m crazy. But I am starting to lose it. I keep checking the pencil, hoping the lead will reappear, but it stays empty. And every time I smell curry, my stomach knots up. I don’t know if it’s my past haunting me or if there’s something in this house. I just want my pencil back, and I want the silence.

This evening, I sat in the guest room, staring at the empty pencil on the nightstand. The curtains swayed slightly, though the window was closed. I heard a faint scratching sound, like a pencil on paper, coming from the corner of the room. I turned, but there was nothing there. A sudden urge to check under the bed washed over me. I dropped to my knees and lifted the dust ruffle. There, in the dim light, lay a small mound of graphite dust, as if someone had ground the pencil lead to powder. And next to it, a small piece of paper, folded. I unfolded it. In shaky, childlike handwriting, it said: ‘They won’t forget you. Neither will I.’