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Just as I finished reading to my daughter before bedtime, the doorbell rang. No one typically visited after eight on a school night. I kissed my angel’s forehead.

 

“Can we blow bubbles again tomorrow?” she asked, innocence in her voice.

 

“Of course, sweetie. Now go to sleep.”

 

I creaked downstairs and shuffled to the door. Through the thin windows flanking it, stars filled the night sky. A faint shadow shifted outside. Perhaps someone was looking for help. I flicked the light switch to the porch. Nothing happened. When was the last time I’d changed that bulb? I jiggled the switch up and down. Still no light.

 

The doorbell rang again.

 

My chest tightened. Refusing to let my vivid imagination get the best of me, I unlocked the door and jerked it open. The tightness moved into my neck and shoulders as my brain attempted to process what I saw: a dark overcoat and grey fedora sporting a blue and red feather hovered above it, resting on no one’s head.

 

There was no head.

 

There was no someone.

 

For a moment, I just stood there staring at these articles of clothing floating in the air. A dry, bitter taste flooded my mouth. Something deep inside told me to run upstairs, grab my wife and daughter, and lock us all in the bathroom.

 

“Hullo?” A deep, hollow voice emanated from the void beneath the hat.

 

Cold evening air pooled around my bare feet. My hands were numb. I tried to answer, but I’d acquired a severe case of cottonmouth. Besides, I didn’t know what to say. I’d never spoken to a garment before.

 

“Mey I coom in?” The voice asked as I failed to respond.

 

I managed to nod and raise my free hand, offering it the entryway. A curious odor, like burnt pancakes with a hint of maple syrup, washed over me as it drifted by. It paused at a coat rack I’d never noticed. Did my wife buy that? The hat levitated over and landed on top of the rack. Then the coat slid sideways, hanging itself on a hook just below the hat.

 

“Honey, who was at the door?” my wife asked from upstairs. Her voice snapped me back into reality, and I realized I stood at the front door. I still held it open to the chill of night. No one was around. I stared at the hat rack.

 

Was that coat and hat there before?

 

Have I been working too many late nights at the lab?

 

“Nobody, dear. Go back to bed. I’ll be right up.” I closed the door and shook my head. I scanned the downstairs. No sound. No movement. The overdone flapjack smell lingered, but I was alone. I walked toward the stairs, still in a bit of a daze. Something inside me reached for the coat as I passed it, but I took a big step away before my wayward hand could make contact.

 

“Excuse may?” The forgotten voice said from the darkness of the living room.

 

I froze. My heart stopped for a few seconds and then began to beat quickly, trying desperately to catch up. I inhaled after realizing I’d been holding my breath and said, “Hello? Is someone there?”

 

“Yus.”

 

“Who is it, might I ask?” There was a long silence, so I tip-toed over to the edge of the living room and peeked into the darkness. Even with the limited illumination from the entryway, it was clear the room was empty.

 

Then the voice spoke again. “Please have a seat, Doctor.”

 

Yep, I was losing it, but I decided to roll with it. If I played along with this hallucination, it would go away. Then I could retreat to bed for some much-needed rest.

 

In the living room, I saw no one, but the chair my wife had inherited from her grandmother had a distinct depression in it. No one ever sat there, and I couldn’t remember if that antique usually looked so saggy. To be safe, I sat across from it in my favorite recliner. I might be losing it, but I was going to be comfortable.

 

“Erik,” I said to Grandma’s chair. “You can call me Erik.”

 

“Erik,” the voice said after I’d settled. “You have some interesting ideas.”

 

“Thanks,” I answered with a dumb smile. Then I frowned. “About what?”

 

“Most of your colleagues cling to old ideas from dead men.” The voice had evened out.

 

I happened to agree. But didn’t know why he cared.

 

“Heavier-than-air flight, quantum mechanics, special relativity.” The voice sounded like a crisp university professor now. Just what I needed. A lecture. “All discovered by people that saw past generally held beliefs. All are integral to the advancement of the human race.”

 

I still agreed. But why did it matter? Why did the voice care?

 

“Before today, did you think another living thing could make themselves invisible to the naked eye?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Yet, here I am.”


The depression in Grandma’s chair resolved, and triangular shapes appeared on the oriental rug, making a path back to the entryway. The overcoat slid off the rack and retook form. The hat bobbed over into place above the coat again — the cherry on top. The door opened. My body relaxed, and I could breathe regularly again.


“Keep up your work. Just because others proclaim that science has limits, don’t let that constrain you. Someday, perhaps, you will be rewarded.”


The door closed. The overcoat and hat glided down my sidewalk and out of view.

 

Later that night, I pondered the evening sky from my office (I couldn’t go back to bed; there was too much work to do). A luminous sphere rose from our neighborhood park. It paused well above the rooftops of homes where other men’s wives and children slept, glowing brighter and brighter. Then, with a flash, it streaked up into the sky and out of sight.

 

Something occurred to me...

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC

Research Interests

An unexpected visitor

T. W. Crone

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