The Night Visitor of May 6th, 1978
My name is Helena Hodges, and I’m a carpenter/landlord.
I had recently moved into a little fixer-upper in the northwest with the intent of, well, fixing it up. My plan was to rent it out once I had finished my work and then eventually sell it.
While I was tearing out the walls of what was once a child’s bedroom, I came across a diary hidden inside the walls. I read through it and was rather charmed by how the little girl, years ago, fancied herself quite the writer. I hope wherever she is now, she’s living that dream.
One entry in particular caught my eye, considering recent events, and I have recreated it here with corrected spelling and editor’s notes.
I write to you on May 7th, 1978 to recount the incident we shall henceforth (editor: ‘henfirst’ in the text) refer to as The Night Visitor.
Future readers, please know that I, Maggie Blumenthal, age 10, REALLY SAW THIS. I’m NOT making this up. The Night Visitor really was here! I don’t CARE what certain persons who shall remain unnamed (editor: this addition apparently was added after the name ‘Sadie’ was scribbled out) at school say.
And now begins our story, Dear Diary!
I lay in my bed, the night of May 6th, when the closet door slowly creaked (editor: kreeted in the original text. I confess I may not have guessed this one correctly) open. The room, already cold from spring, dropped a dozen temperatures! And out from the closet came my flower emblazoned bedsheet!
And then the bedsheet turned! And looked at me with dark eyes! Someone had cut holes in my bedsheet!
“Boooo,” it said.
“That’s not funny, Nathan!” I said to my little brother. “I’m going to tell mom what you did to my sheets.”
Nathan came closer to me, arms lifting the bedsheet to stick straight out, to try and be like Frankenstein.
And then, diary, Nathan tripped.
And the bedsheet was empty.
That was not Nathan.
I swear (but not really, I am a Lady) to you diary, that I heard demonic laughter as I ran to my parents’ room.
This account sheds much light on the happenings in this residence. Of course, he, or rather ‘it’, no longer requires the sheet. And thus begins my own account and descent into uneasiness since I have begun my work…