21 Jan The Visitor

The Visitor

It was the winter of 1892, and the county was silent as snow lay thick across the fields.

William sat alone in the parlour, beside an oil lamp, flipping through a box of tintypes on the table. It had been a year since Margaret passed, mercury poisoning from the hat factory where she’d worked.

In her final months, she often spoke of “a visitor,” a tall, silent figure she claimed stood in the yard, sometimes near the barn or out in the orchard, always quiet and watchful.

“I hope you get to see it, Will,” she’d whispered once, “So you’ll believe me when I’m gone.”

These troubled words lingered like an echo in a dream. They were genuinely expressed, but haunting at the same time. William wanted to let them go.

In the kitchen, the kettle sizzled on the stove, working its way toward a boil. William continued sorting through the old plates, lost in memory.

Then he stopped. Something caught his eye.

It was a picture of Margaret, holding an apple in the orchard. He’d seen it countless times, but now noticed something else, far in the background, in front of the carriage shed: a shape hung in the field behind her.

A tall, rectangular pillar with a wood-like texture stood in the background.
It was slightly contoured, tapering downward like a strange obelisk.

It hovered two or three feet above the ground. Near its top was a slot, as if cut by a sawmill blade. William stared in shock.

He carried the plate to the window for the morning sun to catch it. He examined it closely.

“No trick of light, no flaw in the emulsion,” William muttered. “It’s there, I can’t believe it. Clear as any other detail I see.”

Over the next few days, he poured over his tintypes, searching for another example. Instead, he found only pictures of their wedding, family gatherings, the orchard, and the barn.

There weren’t many pictures left to see. Most of William’s tintypes were used as decoration inside the boxes of pies he sold. He wished he kept them all now.

It would be odd to ask everyone for the pictures back; besides, what would be his reasons? Ghost stories from a lone widower is the last bit of gossip he needed circulating.  

And so, he decided to remain silent. But even this became too much for him.

As winter melted into spring and the county began to thaw, William grew restless. He decided to visit Henry, who lived just up the road.

Henry Whitcomb had been a good neighbour and friend to William for more than twenty years. They had shared a bottle the night Margaret was buried, exactly a year ago to the day. Now, William wanted to share another.

After dinner, William walked to Henry’s place, carrying a bottle of whiskey and the photo of Margaret he had found. He wanted to show Henry the photo, but the feeling had to be right; he was nervous and needed a few drinks to find his courage.

William knew Henry kept all his tintypes from the pies he bought. He hoped to find another photograph showing the strange object. He promised himself that if he came across one, he’d point it out to Henry.

A few whiskey’s at Henry’s

William and Henry sat across the kitchen table with a bottle between them. Henry’s collection of tintypes emerged one by one: a sip of whiskey for each, and a good story to go with it.

As they laughed, they got more boisterous. Henry’s wife came into the kitchen and reminded them how late it was. They quieted down.

Henry pulled another photo from the box and slid it towards William. “Ha! You fell from that ladder right after the picture was taken, I remember that… split your pants right up the middle!” Henry chuckled.

“Ya, nearly broke my arm too.” William said taking the picture into his hand.

Then he noticed something – the obelisk, it was there, set back along the tree line. He decided to wait before mentioning it to Henry.

A few more drinks and photos later, William saw it again. Now that was three.

He leaned forward in his chair, this time with a serious expression on his face, “What do you suppose that is?” he asked, pressing his fingertip to the photo.

“Hmm, I am not sure,” Henry said, “A strange thing to be sure.”

“Yes, I agree,” William replied.

“It ain’t machinery. It seems to be floating… see, there’s a shadow on the grass,” Henry said.

“And here it is again,” William moved his finger to the other photo. “And I have picture of Margaret in my pocket with the same object in the background.”

“What’s going on, William?” Henry looked concerned.

“Pictures don’t lie, Henry. Marg used to tell me about this thing, it would watch her, then disappear. I think it’s still around the orchard.”

“Best we keep this between us,” Henry warned.

“Yes, exactly,” William nodded.

As the evening stretched into the early hours, they devised a plan: go about their daily business, but keep a loaded camera with them at all times. If they saw it, or even thought they saw it, they would take a picture.

William had two cameras: the Novelette Triplex Field Camera and the new No. 4 Kodak Folding Camera. Both were easy to transport, and Henry could use the No. 4 without any trouble.

The Stakeout:

On the eighth day, as evening settled over the farm, William sat on the porch with a cup of tea. His Field Camera was propped beside him, pointed toward the barn. The lamp was low, and the crickets were in full song.

He had nearly dozed off when he heard a faint creak, then a knock, like an old wooden ship bumping against a pier on a still night.

He rose slowly and saw something standing midway between the house and the barn. As his eyes adjusted, he recognized it: about eleven feet tall, slender, floating in the air, facing him directly. That eerie, blank slot stared at him like an eye. It didn’t move. It simply waited.

William reached for his camera, removed the cap, and slowly pointed it, his heart hammering against his ribs. As soon as he clicked the shutter, it moved, racing toward the barn in a flash. He took the camera inside to develop the plate, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it.

Once under the safelight, he submerged the plate in developer. Slowly, the image began to take shape: the barn… the yard… and there it was, blurred in the frame, the obelisk, unmistakable, hovering and streaking across the image.

He sat hard down on his stool, stunned. Looking up, he swallowed and said aloud, “Marg, if you can hear me, I’ve seen it. Your visitor is still here.”

~CJ~