Blair Bathory

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.

I didn't play in the backyard anymore, but I would pass by the staircase, sometimes glance up and feel a tension in my neck. like a string pulling me to look closer. There was always something about the way the light fell through the upstairs hallway, how it never reached the bottom step. One evening, out of nowhere, I remembered him. The boy, I said casually to my grandmother.

I didn't play in the backyard anymore, but I would pass by the staircase, sometimes glance up and feel a tension in my neck. like a string pulling me to look closer. There was always something about the way the light fell through the upstairs hallway, how it never reached the bottom step. One evening, out of nowhere, I remembered him. The boy, I said casually to my grandmother.

I didn't play in the backyard anymore, but I would pass by the staircase, sometimes glance up and feel a tension in my neck. like a string pulling me to look closer. There was always something about the way the light fell through the upstairs hallway, how it never reached the bottom step. One evening, out of nowhere, I remembered him. The boy, I said casually to my grandmother.

What happened to the boy who used to come play with me? She blinked at me, confused. What boy? The one in white. He came down the stairs every night when I was little. She shook her head. Miha, you always played alone. I laughed at first. I thought she was teasing me, but she didn't smile. Just turned back to her sewing with a faint look of worry, tightening her mouth.

What happened to the boy who used to come play with me? She blinked at me, confused. What boy? The one in white. He came down the stairs every night when I was little. She shook her head. Miha, you always played alone. I laughed at first. I thought she was teasing me, but she didn't smile. Just turned back to her sewing with a faint look of worry, tightening her mouth.

What happened to the boy who used to come play with me? She blinked at me, confused. What boy? The one in white. He came down the stairs every night when I was little. She shook her head. Miha, you always played alone. I laughed at first. I thought she was teasing me, but she didn't smile. Just turned back to her sewing with a faint look of worry, tightening her mouth.

I asked my cousin that night. She remembered him too. Said she saw us playing once and didn't want to interrupt. My little brother remembered his voice. Said it made his ears ring. I thought I was vindicated. until I realized something was wrong, deeply wrong. If we all saw him, why did no one ever ask who he was? That night, I couldn't sleep.

I asked my cousin that night. She remembered him too. Said she saw us playing once and didn't want to interrupt. My little brother remembered his voice. Said it made his ears ring. I thought I was vindicated. until I realized something was wrong, deeply wrong. If we all saw him, why did no one ever ask who he was? That night, I couldn't sleep.

I asked my cousin that night. She remembered him too. Said she saw us playing once and didn't want to interrupt. My little brother remembered his voice. Said it made his ears ring. I thought I was vindicated. until I realized something was wrong, deeply wrong. If we all saw him, why did no one ever ask who he was? That night, I couldn't sleep.

I kept staring out the small guest room window that faced the backyard. Around midnight, I saw movement, a figure on the stairs. Then slow. He stepped down just like before. Same clothes, same hair. But this time he didn't pause at the bottom. He kept walking. Past the edge of the house, into the grass, into the dark. I pressed my face against the glass.

I kept staring out the small guest room window that faced the backyard. Around midnight, I saw movement, a figure on the stairs. Then slow. He stepped down just like before. Same clothes, same hair. But this time he didn't pause at the bottom. He kept walking. Past the edge of the house, into the grass, into the dark. I pressed my face against the glass.

I kept staring out the small guest room window that faced the backyard. Around midnight, I saw movement, a figure on the stairs. Then slow. He stepped down just like before. Same clothes, same hair. But this time he didn't pause at the bottom. He kept walking. Past the edge of the house, into the grass, into the dark. I pressed my face against the glass.

He stopped in the middle of the yard and turned his head toward me. I saw his face for the first time. It wasn't a child's face. It was wrong. Swollen. Pale. Like soaked paper. His eyes were black, not dark, not shadowed, just black, wide and full of something I didn't understand and still can't name. He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He lifted a hand and pointed at the stairs. Then he was gone.

He stopped in the middle of the yard and turned his head toward me. I saw his face for the first time. It wasn't a child's face. It was wrong. Swollen. Pale. Like soaked paper. His eyes were black, not dark, not shadowed, just black, wide and full of something I didn't understand and still can't name. He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He lifted a hand and pointed at the stairs. Then he was gone.

He stopped in the middle of the yard and turned his head toward me. I saw his face for the first time. It wasn't a child's face. It was wrong. Swollen. Pale. Like soaked paper. His eyes were black, not dark, not shadowed, just black, wide and full of something I didn't understand and still can't name. He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He lifted a hand and pointed at the stairs. Then he was gone.

Not like he walked away. He blinked out, like a glitch in an old video game. I left the next morning and didn't say anything. I didn't want to know. I didn't want my grandmother to tell me again that I'd been alone. But the nightmares followed, of empty staircases and little hands that turned cold when they touched you.

Not like he walked away. He blinked out, like a glitch in an old video game. I left the next morning and didn't say anything. I didn't want to know. I didn't want my grandmother to tell me again that I'd been alone. But the nightmares followed, of empty staircases and little hands that turned cold when they touched you.

Not like he walked away. He blinked out, like a glitch in an old video game. I left the next morning and didn't say anything. I didn't want to know. I didn't want my grandmother to tell me again that I'd been alone. But the nightmares followed, of empty staircases and little hands that turned cold when they touched you.

I saw myself in the dream playing alone, and then the camera of my mind pulled back, and I wasn't alone at all. He was behind me, not playing, watching, always watching. The last time I went to the house, something felt different. The upstairs had been walled off. My grandmother said no one was allowed up there anymore. They closed it, I asked. No, she said. He did.