Looking for a good ghost story to tell at your Halloween party tonight? If so, count yourself lucky, because the Wandering Men have served up a spine-tingling tale that is sure to give you the willies! In the spirit of the holiday, we Wandering Men decided to post a little bit of "special spookyness" for today - we hope that you enjoy Davis' chilling tale, The Visitor!
I cannot for the life of me recall how I found myself, standing alone in my garden at night wearing only my robe and slippers, but there I was. I was not prone to nocturnal wanderings, being a stout and steady man who had seen most there was to see in the small, rural world in which I lived. Yet I had no memory of rising from bed, throwing my robe on and then stepping outside. I might as well have appeared by magic among my ornamentals.
At that moment, a bitter wind snaked through my collar, chilling me, so I drew the robe tightly around me. The garment afforded scant protection against the elements, that fact punctuated by a shiver which seemed to rattle my very bones. It was autumn, of course, and one would expect to be cold at night with naught but a bit of cloth to ward off the weather.
I turned to return to the house and to my warm bed alongside my loving wife when my attention was caught by a certain roughness to the garden. The plants seemed more wild and lush than I had ever recalled. Perhaps a trick of the moon and nothing more, but my garden looked unkempt and weedy, as if neglected for too long. True, I had been hard at work on the harvest, which took so much of my time, but seldom had I allowed the rear of my home to become so unkempt. Autumn had arrived and the harvests were finished, giving me more time to address the luxuries of ornamental shrubs and the like. I resolved to return in the morning to survey under better light the task obviously before me. My work was never complete.
Nothing could be done in cold twilight, so my attention returned to the bed and my wife when I noticed the garden shed. More specifically, I noticed the door, which had a faded plank of wood covering the two left-side panes of glass in the center window. I opened the door, pulling with more force than should have been. As the door swung open, I heard it creak and groan on rusting hinges. I did not use this shed on the farm, keeping only those tools for the garden inside, but I had never noticed it being so stiff to enter. I would have to oil them as soon as I finished my survey.
I looked at the door's back side and discovered the two covered panes were missing. Had my attention been so lax that I had not noticed this damage? Surely my wife or perhaps Nicolas, my son, had broken the glass and had cleaned up the mess, covering the hole until I could repair it. Strange that they had not told me of this. I was busy during the harvest, but not so busy as to have no time to repair a window. Even so, Nicolas was certainly old enough to have repaired it himself. He was a responsible lad and I would have expected him to have taken care of things immediately.
But then again, the window could have broken only yesterday. Though I could not remember precisely what time I went to bed, it must have been after my son and wife had retired. They had not the time to tell me of broken windows. Of course, they might have told me, and with so many things on my mind, I could have forgotten. But that was not like me at all. I would have remembered such a thing had I been told of it.
I left the shed, closing the door, and decided to let Nicolas attend to the shed while I worked on the garden. When I reached the back door, I turned and surveyed my property. The moon glowed brightly in the sky, casting a fey light onto the grey land. As I looked about my own plot of earth, I considered the great joys of my life.
I was a reasonably successful man with a good size farm on fertile ground. I was blessed with good hands and fine weather. My farm had never known a bad drought or flood, produced a large crop twice a year, and supplied my own table, as well as many more in the valley without trouble. I exported some of my grains and even had a small dairy which produced enough to keep and sell. My life was a hard one, but not unpleasant. I toiled in the tradition of Adam, yet felt blessed by God's kindness more than I could ever deserve. My house knew no strife nor did my farm.
My wonderful wife had produced but one child who lived, but Nicolas was a strong and stout lad. He was smart and worked hard, often harder than I. I loved him dearly, and looked to a day when all I surveyed would become his and his family's. Though I had no trouble working hard, had enjoyed the labor, I none-the-less looked fondly towards watching and teaching grandchildren while my son and his wife managed the farm. A smile crept across my face, as it invariably did when I pondered the future. Life was, and would continue to be, good.
A chill suddenly ran up my spine, shaking it seemingly to the bone, and I was forcefully brought back into the reality of the cold night. Enough pondering. With my day fully planned, I would need to capture what sleep I could before the morning brought renewed toil. I pushed open the back door and stepped inside.
As I walked, I began to become aware of a strange, muffled rattle. I stopped to discern its source but to no avail. Mildly frustrated, I resumed my journey through the house. The noise returned only to flee when I stopped. Fine, whatever it was it was of no consequence to me. I made my way up stairs, plagued by the noise but no longer interested in its cause. I was very tired and longed for the warm softness of the bed and my wife's gentle touch.
I paused at Nicolas' door, tempted to open it to gaze at my son, but decided against it. Though I had peeked into his room to watch his guiltless sleep his entire life, a sense of warning told me not to. I did not know why, and so with no overriding force compelling me to push through the door, I passed it by. Perhaps my soul was admonishing me against further thought, driving me towards the realm of slumber. I did not resist the call.
As I entered my own room, I paused for but a moment to gaze at my wife. A beautiful woman, she reminded me every day in so many ways of how blessed a man I was. Kind and gentle, she took such good care of the house and those who lived within. Oft I considered her contribution to our life, knowing that in so many ways, she surpassed my own labors. Yet though I received credit in the community for my work, her rewards amounted to nothing more than grateful smiles and comforting gestures.
And there, lying asleep, her beauty and grace seemed all the more powerful. Many times I had lain beside her, watching the slow rising of her chest, the peaceful expression on her face. As sleepy as I was, I could not resist the opportunity to behold my dear wife. A wisp of her hair lay within a beam of moonlight. Silvery in the glow, she seemed years older, as a woman on the threshold of the golden years. Strange how things transformed in the twilight realm, only to return to normal with the rising sun.
She stirred. Perhaps from the rattling, perhaps from my presence, she began to turn over, a troubled sigh escaping her lips. I leaned over to comfort her, caressing her shoulder when her eyes opened. Instead of the welcomed sparkle I so often received, they held abject terror. Startled, I stepped back, watching as she cringed. I looked up, towards the dresser and my reflection in the mirror. To my horror, I saw staring back to me white bone instead of skin, and empty sockets where once eyes had been...
* * * * *
Mary Burkhart left her house when the sun first appeared over the shallow valley. She had not slept the rest of the night, though the terror had subsided. Not quite accustomed to it, she none-the-less had seen it enough to know she had not been in danger. Yet something must be done else she would be condemned to live in increasing solitude for the rest of her life. Already alone, she might be driven to utter isolation if word spread of her troubles. Unless something changed, it would eventually leak out.
Reverend Henry McDonald opened the door to Mrs. Burkhart, his face showing resignation. In his parlor, over a cup of tea, he listened to a tale he had heard many times before. It seemed his greatest efforts were to be ultimately in vain. He finally admitted to himself his failure.
"So you had a visit again last night," he said partly in sympathy but more because he knew of nothing else to say.
"Yes," replied Mary over her cup.
McDonald leaned back, his lips turned down, "Was the boy with him this time?"
Mary shook her head, "No, he was alone."
His frown growing deeper, the Reverend took a deep breath, "I'm afraid you will have to move, probably leave Heidleberg altogether," he said, allowing the breath to escape his lungs, "There's nothing else we can do. He just won't settle."
Mary slowly shook her head. Focusing on her tea, she replied in a trembling voice, "If only the boy had lived."
