Page 234 of Marked By His Hunger

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Not a shadow.

Not imagination.

He was a man in a brown suit with a split lip and hollow cheeks. He stood at the foot of my bed and stared at me like he had been waiting.

I remember thinking he looked tired.

I remember thinking he was sad.

I remember screaming anyway.

My aunt came first.

Then my uncle.

They turned on the light.

There was nothing there.

But I could still see him.

Even in the light.

He didn’t vanish when brightness filled the room. He just grew thinner, like smoke being stretched.

“He’s right there,” I sobbed, pointing.

They followed my finger into empty space.

That was the beginning.

After that, there were always more.

At school.

At the grocery store.

In the back seat of the car.

Sometimes they whispered.

Sometimes they wept.

Sometimes they just watched.

I learned quickly that saying what I saw made things worse.

Doctors.

Specialists.

Therapists.

A priest who sprinkled holy water on my forehead while muttering about oppression and influence.

I learned silence.

I learned to smile and say I was fine.

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