Letter to the Phantom
By Veronica Zhang | Grade 9 | Scholastic 2024 | Flash Fiction | Gold Key
To the masked man in my house:
The first time I noticed you was August 16th. I was sitting at my bedroom window, reading, when I looked outside and saw you standing in the street. It seemed odd that you wore a heavy black sweatsuit and baseball cap in the distorting, blinding heat of the summer. I knew you felt it too, from the sweat staining your back. You loitered outside like a phantom, pacing back and forth, back and forth. When I blinked for a moment, your shadow slithered off the sidewalk, leaving the cracked concrete glaring up at me.
A few weeks up until that point, minor oddities had been occurring. Faded flower beds appeared freshly fertilized, dirty dishes turned up spotless and dried. There were other things too, like the brand new BMW parked across the street. I always brushed it off. Just a memory slip, I told myself. I’m getting old.
But I found it harder and harder to ignore you, especially after the first break-in. That day, you stole my family photos. After biking home from the grocery store, I found all the walls stark and bare. Little rings of dust swirled where the priceless pictures once perched. I called the police, but they told me that no signs of forced entry were found.
“Install a camera.” they said. “Call us if anything else happens.”
I did purchase one, but I couldn’t figure out how to work it. I still wonder why you stole my memories… surely Walgreen prints don’t have a high resale value, so why did you take them?
Then on October 9th, you stole my bike.
The strange thing was, I never left it out and the garage was locked. In its place? A shiny BMW. I don’t drive, though.
I stopped leaving the house after that day. The sight of the car was enough to keep me inside, enough to know that you were close.
But was I wrong to fear you? Were you a benevolent phantom? Because soon, fully cooked meals began to appear on my dining table, the nice mahogany one that I never use. I have to admit, the chicken pot pies looked extremely appealing. But you can’t trick me– I could practically smell the cyanide! I subsisted off stale graham crackers instead.
You stole my telephone on September 20th. And cut the landline. I stopped calling the police after that– it’s not like they ever responded anyways.
On October 18th, you moved into my walls. I remember the hushed rustling and quiet thumps all night long, all day long. I pictured you squeezing through the insulation and wood chips and dust, and finding some hole in the plaster to spy on me from. So I hung blankets over every wall. And prayed.
It wasn’t until I heard the pipes squeaking on November 1st that I realized you were tampering with my water supply. Every drop I consumed was poisoned by you. My weakness, tiredness, mental fog could all be clearly attributed to your presence. So I stopped drinking water. Chapped lips are worth surviving. I still hear you at night, your heavy breaths in intervals between the sound of dripping faucets.
Which brings us to today. December 5th. You’re here now. I can feel your eyes. I can feel you closing in. Every second. Closer closer.
Why me? Why did you target me? Is it because I lived alone? Because I never installed a security system? Because I was 3000 miles away from my closest relative? Because my husband died and I miscarried my only child? Because you believed I had some semblance of wealth sequestered in my suburban Michigan home? Because you had nothing better to do? Because some part of you could sense that I couldn’t, wouldn’t be able to fight you, because you wanted to watch my mind deteriorate, because you pride yourself on preying on me, on convincing me that your actions are anything but pure evil?
Tonight I will get my answers.
***
Dear Martha and James,
Mother is still very unwell. Her mental condition has only deteriorated since I last wrote. Recently her behavior has escalated to worrying levels of delusion. To her, I no longer exist. She refuses to acknowledge my presence, brushing past me as if I were nothing but a shadow.
When I came home from work a few months ago, I found all the family photos torn and trashed in a garbage bag, and a police cruiser pulling away. The officer told me that Mother had reported a home invasion in which the photos were stolen by a “phantom.” They were under the impression that she lived alone, and were surprised to learn about me.
She has stopped leaving the house too, abandoning her beloved bicycle on the front lawn. The meals I cook for her every morning go untouched and she refuses to eat anything but Honey Maid graham crackers. A few weeks ago, she covered all the walls with sheets, so we now sleep on bare mattresses. The past few days she wouldn’t drink water or leave her bed– only muttered and rambled.
Just yesterday, she disappeared from the house altogether. I came home after work to an empty house with the front door wide open, and of course, I panicked. I drove around town, looking in all her usual spots, like the coffee shop, the library, and even the animal shelter that she used to volunteer at. Eventually, I found her. Outside the abandoned church on Croft Street. She was lying in the fetal position, mumbling disjointed fragments of prayers, and clawing at the padlocked door. She didn’t notice me at all, not even when I picked her up and drove her home. I can’t do this anymore, it’s too terrifying and heartbreaking to see her condition… I hate to admit it, but we really need to consider finding a nursing home for her.
Please fly to Michigan as soon as possible.
With urgency,
Jonathan
