I slept fitfully that night. Several times during the small hours of the morning, I went out to the landing overlooking the front hall. Your phantasm was there, always there, sitting on the bench, looking up at me, speaking silently except when it spoke my name.

Just before dawn, the futility of remaining abed had become obvious. The intonation of my name contributed to the disquiet that had overcome the house since that thing had appeared. I doubted that I should ever have a peaceful night’s sleep again.

With a cup of coffee, I settled into my accustomed location beside the grandfather clock. Your phantasm’s speech was clearer than during the previous evening. My name, still spoken quietly, was nevertheless distinct and carried throughout the house, as absent of inflection as the phantasm’s face was absent of expression. A sibilant whispering filled the once-silent gaps, indistinct, like aspen leaves in the autumn wind, like the dead branches of winter brushing against the broken glass of an old window.