It borrowed my phone while I slept and took a selfie.
“It” started visiting my farmhouse five years ago, not long after I retired from teaching college and relocated to Kent, Vermont. My cats would become more skittish than usual right before the appearance of bright lights, and I’d smell an odd metallic odor in the night air when I dared to peek outside my front door. As with previous visitations, I would lose about six hours of time between the metallic smell and waking up on my living room couch as the sun came up.
This was the first time “It” left evidence of a visitation, however. The selfie itself was oddly familiar:
”It” had my facial features, save for the huge black eyes that seemed to be reflecting stars and the absence of a nose bridge. Studying the face and grayish brown skin, I realized that “It” was more than just familar, and the visits had not been just a part of my new life in Vermont. Indeed, “It” was a manifestation of an earlier series of visits from nearly 30 years ago when I last lived in New England in yet another rural small town.
As tears began to run down my cheeks, I clasped my phone and whispered “I love you,” to my daughter’s image.