Blair Bathory

I never remember the exact age, only the feeling of the warm light fading behind the mountains and Nuevo Leon, my dolls scattered in the dirt, and how the backyard always seemed to get so oddly quiet at my grandmother's house. Her house was strange. It was still.

I never remember the exact age, only the feeling of the warm light fading behind the mountains and Nuevo Leon, my dolls scattered in the dirt, and how the backyard always seemed to get so oddly quiet at my grandmother's house. Her house was strange. It was still.

I never remember the exact age, only the feeling of the warm light fading behind the mountains and Nuevo Leon, my dolls scattered in the dirt, and how the backyard always seemed to get so oddly quiet at my grandmother's house. Her house was strange. It was still.

Two stories, but the second was more like a wraparound balcony, open to the air like a motel, with the staircase climbing up into the shadows. The upstairs had rooms that people would rent out here and there, but I remember them mostly being empty. I was playing alone when he first came down the stairs. He didn't say my name, and I didn't ask.

Two stories, but the second was more like a wraparound balcony, open to the air like a motel, with the staircase climbing up into the shadows. The upstairs had rooms that people would rent out here and there, but I remember them mostly being empty. I was playing alone when he first came down the stairs. He didn't say my name, and I didn't ask.

Two stories, but the second was more like a wraparound balcony, open to the air like a motel, with the staircase climbing up into the shadows. The upstairs had rooms that people would rent out here and there, but I remember them mostly being empty. I was playing alone when he first came down the stairs. He didn't say my name, and I didn't ask.

Children don't question things that feel ordinary in the moment. And somehow, he felt ordinary, like he'd always been there. A boy about my age, dressed in all white. a long-sleeved shirt and loose pants.

Children don't question things that feel ordinary in the moment. And somehow, he felt ordinary, like he'd always been there. A boy about my age, dressed in all white. a long-sleeved shirt and loose pants.

Children don't question things that feel ordinary in the moment. And somehow, he felt ordinary, like he'd always been there. A boy about my age, dressed in all white. a long-sleeved shirt and loose pants.

His hair was black and neatly trimmed, and his face was always in shadow, the backlight from the staircase outlining his figure and hiding any detail, like he stood just behind a curtain of light, not quite, of this world. He asked if he would play with me, and I said yes. We played in the dirt, made up stories for my dolls, whispered secrets to each other in the warm air.

His hair was black and neatly trimmed, and his face was always in shadow, the backlight from the staircase outlining his figure and hiding any detail, like he stood just behind a curtain of light, not quite, of this world. He asked if he would play with me, and I said yes. We played in the dirt, made up stories for my dolls, whispered secrets to each other in the warm air.

His hair was black and neatly trimmed, and his face was always in shadow, the backlight from the staircase outlining his figure and hiding any detail, like he stood just behind a curtain of light, not quite, of this world. He asked if he would play with me, and I said yes. We played in the dirt, made up stories for my dolls, whispered secrets to each other in the warm air.

He laughed sometimes, but the sound felt hollow, like it bounced back from upstairs and didn't quite reach me. He never touched the toys, only watched as I moved around them. Still, I felt less alone. Every evening, just before the house turned to silhouette, I waited. And every time he came down the stairs, same clothes, same unreadable face.

He laughed sometimes, but the sound felt hollow, like it bounced back from upstairs and didn't quite reach me. He never touched the toys, only watched as I moved around them. Still, I felt less alone. Every evening, just before the house turned to silhouette, I waited. And every time he came down the stairs, same clothes, same unreadable face.

He laughed sometimes, but the sound felt hollow, like it bounced back from upstairs and didn't quite reach me. He never touched the toys, only watched as I moved around them. Still, I felt less alone. Every evening, just before the house turned to silhouette, I waited. And every time he came down the stairs, same clothes, same unreadable face.

I never saw him anywhere else, never heard him in the kitchen. He never left footprints, but I was a child. I thought he was magic, maybe. or just a quiet friend. My mother met someone, an American. She packed us up in silence and tears. I left my dolls behind. My grandmother kissed my forehead and said we'd be back. I remember looking at the staircase one last time before we pulled away.

I never saw him anywhere else, never heard him in the kitchen. He never left footprints, but I was a child. I thought he was magic, maybe. or just a quiet friend. My mother met someone, an American. She packed us up in silence and tears. I left my dolls behind. My grandmother kissed my forehead and said we'd be back. I remember looking at the staircase one last time before we pulled away.

I never saw him anywhere else, never heard him in the kitchen. He never left footprints, but I was a child. I thought he was magic, maybe. or just a quiet friend. My mother met someone, an American. She packed us up in silence and tears. I left my dolls behind. My grandmother kissed my forehead and said we'd be back. I remember looking at the staircase one last time before we pulled away.

There was nothing there, but I swear the upstairs felt expectant. Years passed. I forgot, or thought I did. Life in America was bright and loud and busy. I watched cartoons. I buried myself in technology. I stopped going outside to wait for things. But something changed when I started visiting my grandmother again, when I was old enough to travel by myself. I was maybe 11 or 12.

There was nothing there, but I swear the upstairs felt expectant. Years passed. I forgot, or thought I did. Life in America was bright and loud and busy. I watched cartoons. I buried myself in technology. I stopped going outside to wait for things. But something changed when I started visiting my grandmother again, when I was old enough to travel by myself. I was maybe 11 or 12.