It is a quiet evening, into the second week at Thistledown, but every evening in my life has always been quiet, even before my brother left. My mother and I have not spoken at all since we have arrived, well, except for once when she told me I looked like a slut in the slip I was wearing.

And maybe it’s just the everlasting silence wearing on my nerves, but I feel like I am being watched. Earlier today, while I was painting in the gazebo, I suddenly felt eyes on me, and my skin prickled with goose flesh and I broke into a cold sweat. My skin felt also slimy to the touch. And in a moment of emotional weakness, I fled back inside and hid up in the tower, and even though I know that was just me being a silly goose, I cannot make myself venture back out to retrieve my painting.

And all day when even I have looked out into the rain, I have caught, in the corner of my eyes, a motion. Vaguely the shape of a figure with an umbrella is all I’ve seen, and mayhaps it is only a dark spot in the corner of my eyes, but all day, when ever I have looked outside, I’ve seen the phantom.

I head up to my bedroom early, and the moment I turn off the light I see him - in the mirror. His round amphibious head with sightless bulbous eyes, which are locked on mine. He is standing out side my bedroom window, next to the overgrown rose bush. And I’m not surprised to see him there, watching me, umbrella in hand. I think I always knew that whatever took my brother would come for me, all in due time.

I walk over to the window, and unlatching, my eyes on his, and let him in.