I trovita la first photograph en shoebox under mia mother’s bed three weeks after her funeral. It was standard Polaroid, la edges yellowed kaj brittle, showing me sur mia fifth birthday. I estis sitting ĉe picnic table, chocolate cake smeared across mia cheeks, grinning ĉe la camera. En la background, partially obscured by la drooping branches de la malnova willow tree, was figure. It wasn't mia father, kiu estis taking la picture, nor estis ĝi any de la aunts aŭ uncles kiu had attended. It was tall, thin man en charcoal suit, his hands folded neatly en front de him. He wasn't looking ĉe la camera. He estis looking ĉe me.
I dismissed ĝi as neighbor aŭ perhaps distant relative I’d simply forgotten. Sed then Mi trovita la second photo. Ĉi tiu unu estis de two years later, ĉe la beach. I estis buried up al mia neck en sand, laughing. La charcoal-suited man estis there again, standing sur la pier en la distance, his silhouette sharp, dark needle against la setting sun. Then la third, de mia high school graduation. La fourth, de mia wedding day. Always en la background. Always en la charcoal suit. Always watching me kun face tiu seemed al dissolve into gray blur whenever Mi tried al focus sur his features.
I showed la photos al mia wife, Sarah. She looked ĉe them por long time, her brow furrowed. "Elias," she whispered, "I don't see anyone. It’s just vi kaj la family." She pointed al la spot under la willow tree, then al la pier. "There’s nothing there sed shadows."
Tiu estis la night la dreams started. I estis back en la garden de mia childhood Hejmpaĝo. La willow tree estis weeping, its leaves dry kaj rattling like bone. La charcoal man estis standing ĉe la edge de la property, kie la grass gave way al la deep, tangled woods. He didn't move, sed Mi could hear sound— wet, rhythmic thumping, like heart beating inside bucket de water. Every time Mi blinked, he was foot closer. I woke up screaming just as his long, thin fingers reached por la latch de la garden gate.
Driven by desperate, cold dread, I drove back al mia childhood Hejmpaĝo. It had been empty por months, la windows clouded kun grime, la garden overgrown kun waist-high weeds. La air inside smelled de dust kaj stale lavender. I went straight al la attic, tearing through boxes de mia mother's malnova things. I needed al know if ŝi had seen him too.
I trovita her journals hidden behind loose floorboard near la chimney. They estis filled kun hundreds de pages de frantic, cramped handwriting. La early entries estis normal—recipes, complaints pri la weather, notes pri mia schoolwork. Sed by la time Mi turned ten, la tone shifted. "He estas en la garden again," unu entry read. "He says li estas waiting por la fruit al ripen. I told him li cannot have Elias. He just smiled. I think ĝi was smile. He has ne mouth, sed li smiled anyway."
La entries grew pli disturbed. She wrote pri hearing him pacing la hallway ĉe night, his footsteps silent sed la air turning cold wherever li passed. She wrote pri finding charcoal stains sur mia bedsheets, pri la way Mi would talk al "la tall man" en mia sleep. "I have traded mia memories por his safety," she wrote en an entry dated two days before ŝi died. "I have given him ĉion Mi remember de mia own mother, my own childhood. He eats la past so li doesn't have al eat la estonteco. Sed Mi am running out de memories. There estas nothing left por me al give."
I felt chill tiu had nothing al do kun la drafty attic. I realized kial mia mother had developed dementia so rapidly en her final years. It wasn't disease. Ion had been harvesting her life, piece by piece, memory by memory, al keep itself satiated. Kaj now tiu ŝi estis gone, it estis hungry again.
I heard la garden gate creak open. It was slow, deliberate sound tiu echoed through la silent dometo. I moved al la attic window kaj looked down. La charcoal man estis standing en la center de la garden. La sun estis high, sed li cast ne shadow. He looked up, kaj por la first time, his face wasn't blur. It was smooth, featureless expanse de gray skin, like face tiu had been sanded down until ĉion—eyes, nose, mouth—had been erased. En la center de tiu blankness, single, vertical slit opened, leaking thick, nigra fluid tiu smelled de wet earth kaj rot.
I ran. I didn't grab la journals, didn't ŝloso la door. I scrambled down la attic stairs, my heart hammer-pounding against mia ribs. I reached la front door kaj threw ĝi open, sed instead de la street, I trovita myself back en la garden. I turned kaj ran back into la dometo, through la kitchen, kaj out la back door. La garden again. La dometo had become loop, trap woven de la tre fabric de mia childhood.
He estis closer now. Ten feet away. La wet thumping sound estis deafening, vibrating through la soles de mia shoes. I fell al mia knees, clutching mia head. "Kio do vi want?" I screamed. "Kio do vi want de me?"
La slit en his face widened. voice—if vi could call ĝi tiu—echoed inside mia skull. It wasn't words, sed series de images. I saw mia first kiss. I saw la day Mi learned al ride bike. I saw la look sur Sarah’s face la day ni bought our first apartment. La images estis vibrant, warm, full de life. Kaj then, unu by unu, they began al fade. La colors bled out into gray. La faces became blurs. La warmth turned al ice.
He estis eating mia past. I felt section de mia brain go cold kaj empty. I couldn't remember mia grandmother's name. I couldn't remember la name de mia first dog. I tried al hold onto la memory de Sarah, sed ĝi estis like trying al hold water en sieve. Her voice, her smell, la curve de her smile—it estis ĉio being pulled toward tiu nigra slit en la charcoal man’s face.
"Please," I sobbed, "leave me something. Don't take her."
La charcoal man stopped. He reached out long, skeletal hand kaj touched mia forehead. His skin estis colder than anything Mi had ever felt. Another image appeared en mia mind—ne memory de mine, sed unu de his. I saw thousand gardens, thousand houses, thousand mothers trading their lives al save their children de hunger tiu never ended. I saw tiu li wasn't monster. He was parasite, living vakuo tiu could only exist by consuming la substance de others. He estis la silence ĉe la end de every story.
He pulled his hand away. La garden vanished. I estis standing sur la sidewalk en front de mia mother’s dometo. La sun estis setting, casting long, orange shadows across la pavement. I felt light, untethered, as if half de mia weight had been stripped away. I reached por mia phone al call Sarah, sed mia hand hesitated. I looked ĉe la screen, ĉe la contact name 'Sarah'.
I knew la name. I knew ŝi estis important. Sed Mi couldn't remember kial. I couldn't remember la sound de her laughter. I couldn't remember la color de her eyes. I looked back ĉe la dometo, ĉe la malnova willow tree swaying en la breeze. tall, thin figure en charcoal suit stood under its branches, his hands folded neatly. He gave malgranda, stiff nod. La debt had been paid. La guest had been fed.
I walked al mia car, my mind quiet, gray room. I drove away, leaving la garden kaj la charcoal man behind. I had life al go back al, I suppose. I had wife waiting por me. I just hoped ŝi wouldn't mind tiu Mi estis bringing stranger Hejmpaĝo.
Because as Mi looked en la rearview mirror, I didn't see mia own face. I saw smooth, featureless expanse de gray skin, waiting por la next memory al ripen.