The Visitant

I am going to sit down and write this story to tell you of a strange and unexplained event that happened to me not too long ago.

I live in a big manor, surrounded by a never-ending forest. The only way to and from the house is an old dirt road. The road connects to a bridge over a large river. The other sides of the house are blocked by gigantic trees - the beginning breezes of the impenetrable tempest behind. The nearest town is, of course, quite a while away, but the folks know me well as I travel down there quite often. I wasn’t expecting a life of joy and fun when I moved here, simply an ambient surrounding to inspire me to write a few books in my streak of writer’s block. Anyway, I had begun to settle in and learn about the surroundings pretty quickly, and soon became quite used to the solitude.

My story begins on a cold December evening, about two months after I moved in. That evening the house was lank and cold - the power was out because of the strong snowstorm outside. I had lit candles around the usable areas of the house and they cast a soft ominous glow on the walls and furniture. I thought this to be the perfect setting to get started on a novel, and sat down at my desk and began to write. At what I think was ten o’clock, I heard a soft knocking on my front door. I was scarce sure I had heard anything because I was so engrossed in writing, but I still jumped. I got up and scolded myself for getting so spooked, even though I was probably the only living person for kilometers. I walked down the large stairs and opened the door. Immediately I was hit by piercing cold and felt the snow blowing inside. In the doorway was a young man in a grey suit. He looked very tired and pale, and was shivering because of the cold. I admit, at first, I was pretty shocked. Who would be out in this weather, not to say in so secluded a place as this? He immediately told me that he was a lone traveller, who had unfortunately lost his way and in vain wandered through the freezing cold in search of shelter. Mine was the first house he saw and he had run to it in great anticipation to find out if it was inhabited. I asked him in, not giving a second thought as to where his luggage was, which puzzles me now as I am usually quite inquisitive. He requested me to spare him some food and kindly asked if he could stay the night. I, being a kind man, readily agreed and showed him to the dining room. I put on some tea and took out some chicken I had roasted earlier and put in on the fire to heat. Then, asking him to wait, I went to my room and brought him a towel and a set of clothes he could change into. I gave them to him and while he changed I laid the table and brewed some tea. Up to this we didn’t speak, but when we finally sat to eat, I asked him what had brought him out in such horrid weather. He told me that he was on his way to his aunt’s house - probably in the town - and his car had broken down. He got out and tried to search for civilization, but found none until now. He thanked me for letting him in, and said he would be on his way in the morning. I offered to drive him down to the town and he agreed and thanked me again. After dinner, I showed him to the guest room where he could spend the night. He thanked me profusely, and went inside. At that time it was probably midnight, so, drowsy with sleep, I too retired to my room promising to clean up tomorrow. The night went well and I awoke early the next day. I dressed and made my way to the kitchen to clean yesterday’s dinner and make some breakfast. When I got there, however, I was surprised to see only one plate and glass on the table. I was confused at first, but then figured that the man probably cleaned after himself. With high regards for him, I put the kettle on and went up to the room to call him for breakfast. I knocked, but got no answer. So, I slowly opened the door.
Inside, there was nothing.

The bed had been made and it looked like no soul had been inside all morning. I called out for the man and searched around the house, but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he had left? But hadn’t I offered to take him myself? I went outside and called for him there, but there was no one. Putting on my coat and boots, I walked down the path and onto the dirt road. After walking for some time I came upon the bridge, but to my horror, it had collapsed! I ran back to the house, in fear that the stranger had taken a morning walk and had been hurt, and called the police. The town’s sergeant replied and greeted me. In fervency I told him what had happened to the bridge and about my evening visitor. The sergeant at first was confused, and then with a tone of remembrance recalled to me that he had tried to call me the day before, but my phone wasn’t reachable. He had called me to tell me that my bridge had collapsed at around five in the afternoon, and that a repairman would be sent the following day. I slammed the phone down. How could it be? If the bridge had collapsed, that man couldn’t have entered or left. Why had there been no trace of him the following day? Was he indeed a lost traveller, who long ago walked in the biting cold through the woods in desperate search of refuge?

Maybe he finally found it?