In the first week of moving into my new home on Oak Street, I noticed that old man.
He stood under the withered old locust tree on the street corner, wearing a faded gray coat, with his hands in his pockets and his head slightly lowered. No matter the wind or rain, day or night, as long as I look out of the window, he is there.
At first, I thought he was just a lonely old man, perhaps waiting for someone who would never come back. I even developed a hint of sympathy for him, occasionally placing a cookie on the windowsill, which would disappear the next day.
Until that rainstorm night.
I worked overtime until 2am and went home. The car lights swept across the street corner, and the old man was still standing there. The rainwater flowed down his windbreaker, but he didn’t even blink his eyes. I stopped the car and rolled down the window, calling out to him, ‘Sir! It’s raining so hard, you should go home!’
He didn’t move.
I got off the car and approached, reaching out to pat his shoulder.
At the moment my fingertips touched it, my blood froze all over my body.
That’s not human body temperature. Under that windbreaker, it’s hard, like a vertical wooden board. I walked around to the front of him and saw his face through the car lights – it was a painted face with rough oil paint painted on the wood, with a stiff smile at the corners of his mouth.
I suddenly stepped back and knocked over the trash can.
At this moment, I realized that there were no footprints in the soil beneath his feet. It wasn’t washed away by the rain, but he never stepped on the ground. His shoe sole hung an inch above the muddy ground, as if supported by something invisible.
I stumbled back home, locked all the doors and windows, and pulled up the curtains.
The next morning, I gathered the courage to look out the window again.
The old man is still there.
But this time, his head lifted slightly, and the painted eye was facing my bedroom window.
I called the police. The police arrived and circled around the old locust tree. When they came back, they told me, “That tree was cut down last week, where is the old man
I stood still in place.
After the police left, I looked at the street corner again.
The old man is missing.
But there is an extra cookie on the doorknob of my house.
It’s the piece I put on the windowsill last night.
Now it appears outside the door, stained with fresh soil and a faint, otherworldly putrid sweetness.
I finally understand that he is not standing on the street corner.
He has been standing outside my door all along.
Just before, I didn’t dare to open the door.
