The Visitor
It all began when I was around four years old. At least, that’s as far back as I can remember. This could have been going on since the day of my birth for all I know. Maybe she was there even before that.
My nightly visitor.
But my first memory is one from when I was four, like I said. I think the reason it’s so vivid is because this first memory comes from the night that my mother passed away. She’d been sick for a long while, as I’m sure you remember, and on that particular night, she couldn’t cope any longer. At the time, it was the worst night of my life, and I thought that nothing was worse than lying in bed, listening to her rustling coughing.
Boy, was I wrong.
Because of what happened that night, I had trouble falling asleep. On one hoof I wanted to sleep and shut out those ghastly noises my mother made from the next room, but on the other, I couldn’t bear the thought of not being there. I was a conflicted child, I guess.
So I drifted back and forth between awake and asleep, and it was during one of these shifts that it first happened.
I saw my visitor.
At first, I thought it to be my mother, since by then, the house had gone silent. I thought she came to check on me. Then I thought that perhaps it was you who did the same thing, or perhaps... I was terrified of the thought that maybe you were there because something had happened to mom, but I just couldn’t manage to keep my eyes open for too long.
Of course, it wasn’t mom or you. It was something different. Whatever it was, it came to me and me alone.
This first time that I saw her, she was just standing at the other side of my room, partially hidden in the shadow behind my door. I could still see her, though, and despite my young self not being particularly scared of her white coat and empty face, I know better now. Now, I say it’s a her, even though I have no way of knowing if it is. I don’t know why, but it just feels like a female, somehow. If that makes any lick of sense.
From that day on, she would stand behind my door each and every night, time after time. Just standing there, watching me. I was too young to be afraid, and eventually I started seeing her as a sort of imaginary friend, a thing of comfort. I was a stupid child.
Exactly one year after mother’s death, something changed with my nightly visitor. I went to sleep as always, feeling safe with the knowledge that she would stand watch over me and keep me safe. But when I woke up in the night and looked at my door, something felt wrong the moment my eyes came upon her.
She’d moved.
Not much, maybe just a step, but still enough to notice. And with this one step, her face had finally emerged from the shadows.
You came rushing into my room when my screams awoke you. You got in bed with me and held me, tried to comfort me, but I was too distraught. Oh, her face terrifies me so.
I was awake all night, even when you had fallen asleep next to me with your hooves around me. All night I lay awake, staring at the visitor behind my door. Staring at her horrid face.
For the longest time I couldn’t sleep, I was too afraid to go to bed and I kept you awake all night with my crying and tantrums. I blankly refused to sleep, and nothing could change my mind. It took several months before I actually calmed down and again, learned to just live with my visitor.
I started sleeping with my back against her so that I wouldn’t have to see her. At first it was almost scarier than seeing her, thinking that he might be standing next to my bed instead, but as time went on I realized that she didn’t move any more, and quickly got used to it.
And then another year passed, and on the night of my mother’s death, the visitor moved again.
This went on for many years, that horrid face moving a few inches closer every year on that particular night. It wasn’t until the age of ten that I finally had the courage to tell you about her. I hoped you would understand me and help me, take me away from her and keep me safe. Instead, we spent every weekend of the following year in the office of some child psychologist. It drove me crazy, as you might expect.
Eventually, the doctors just gave up on me. Said there was nothing wrong with me and that my “ nightmares” was nothing but a faze and that I would grow out of it. I wanted to believe them so desperately, but by then I knew better.
At the age of fifteen, she’d moved past my door, and I’d given up all hope of ever being free of her. I never told you about her again, for fear of sounding like a lunatic, but I did try to tell my closest friends in school. At first they thought I was just joking. But the more I swore she was real, the less they believed me. I became the class psycho, the one with delusions and paranoia. Nopony wanted to be close to me.
And each and every year, she came closer. Inch by inch she stalked me.
She slowly moved right across the room. One night I found her standing at the end of my bed. Even though I was an adult at the time, I screamed like a baby, screamed for my dad without any thought of the fact that I had moved out of my childhood home a long time ago. Moved away from you.
I was alone in my own home, yet she still followed me.
The following year she came closer. Now she had her front hooves up on the bed itself. I keep calling it a her, but like I said, there’s no way of knowing. After all these years of her standing so close, it’s been hard not to look at her out of both curiosity and fright. And what I’ve seen is that it is nothing. No features, masculine or feminine, no genitalia. It’s just a blank, white body.
And her face. I still can’t stand her face. It’s even worse now that I can see it up close. I can’t be awake because of her, and I can’t sleep because of her.
So now I sit here, alone in me bed room, writing this down for you, father. Now, at the age of fifty, I can’t take it anymore. The light of my candle is slowly fading, and I can already feel her presence in the room, but I have to write this down no matter what.
I’m sure you know what day it is today, and what night it is. Tonight she will move again, and I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you, I should have forced you to listen if you didn’t believe me.
This entire year has been terrible. Three hundred and sixty four days ago, I woke up with her dreadful face mere inches away from mine. She was standing over me in bed, her four legs encasing me like pale bars. Oh, by Celestia, I can’t take her anymore. What does she want from me?! Why does she have to haunt me like this? I wish she could just leave me alone. Why won’t she leave me alone, dad? Fifty years!
I can’t go to sleep. If I do, she’ll move again, and who knows what’ll happen then. I can’t go to sleep. I can’t.
I really hope that you’ll never have to read this letter. I hope that the next time you come here, I can tell you in person. I’d make you that tea that you love so much, and we’d look at photos from when I was a little filly.
But if you somehow do have to read this, then know one thing. She was real dad, she always was, and still is. She wasn’t a nightmare or an imaginary friend or a way of coping with what happened to mom. She was always there. And she still is. I will pray that I’ the only one she’s visited, and hope that she won’t lash on to you.
I’m sorry dad. You know how much I love you. Even though you might not always have been the best father. And I’m sorry if I wasn’t the daughter you wanted. I’m sorry for making you think I was just delusional. She’s real, dad. She’s here. She’s my visitor.
I’m so tired, but I can’t go to sleep, can’t let her get me.
Oh goddess, what happens if I fall asleep? Please dad, I know you’re far away, but please, your daughter needs you. Right here, right now. I need you. Save me from her, please.
I’m
So
Tired-
