Wraith

Short Story: A young man returns to his childhood home and finds something strange.

The door creaked as Henry stepped into the house.
A truck waited just outside, boxes stacked and piled in the cargo bed.
He had left something behind, though he wasn’t sure what.
The living room was barren, the kitchen clean and empty.
The setting sun lit the room in a fleeting orange flow.
Henry walked slowly, running a hand along the wall.
All was still.
Finally, he rounded the corridor, and stepped down the stairs.
The basement had never been well lit, a few humble bulbs casting their light onto a dark, concrete floor, outlining the twin pillars and beige walls that held up the house.
He opened his phone and clicked the flashlight, sweeping the room.
His heart stopped.
There was a closet door in the northwest corner.
A door without a key.
A door that had been sealed shut for all the years he had known it.
A door that now stood ajar.
A chill ran down his back, his breath quickened.
Something drew him forward.
With a shaking palm, Henry pushed gently on the faded door.
It swung inward silently.
The smell of dust clogged his nostrils, as Henry flashed his light inside.
A shattered portrait lay on the floor, alongside a doll, a pencil, and a tarnished rosserie.
A message had been scratched into the far wall.

Henry.
I’m real.
You’re not crazy, you’re not wrong.
You just see more than most ever will.
I was the monster under your bed.
I was your first imaginary friend.
I was the shadow that moved on its own.
I was the creaking that came in the night.
Before you came here, I was cold, and I was alone.
I watched you learn to walk and talk.
Your first smile was so bright.
I played with you when you were little.
You heard me better back then.
I remember when your mother died.
I laid with you, and held you close that night.
I remember how your father went quiet.
He loved you more than he ever said.
Sometimes I would fade in and out of the veil.
But when you were with me, I could remember.
I could feel.
You were my anchor, you were my light.
And I’m going to miss you for a long, long time.
Before you leave, I want you to see.
The one in the blue dress, that was me.
I hope you’ll come back one day.
Until then, live for both of us.
My name was Iris.

Henry felt his knees give way.
Memories flooded back, long suppressed.
His hand trembled as he picked up the pencil.
He put down one last message on the wall.

I love you too.

His eyes went to the portrait, where a family had been photographed behind the shattered glass.
A young woman stared back at him, with a solemn gaze that felt so familiar.

Finally, Henry stood, still clutching the worn pencil.
He turned and walked back the way he came.
At the top of the stairwell, the man looked back.
His eyes watered, but his smile was bright.

The door closed.