The Visitor? or Live In?

The first thing he moved was a coffee cup.

At least, that was the first thing Martha noticed.

She came home from work, kicked off her shoes beside the door and walked into the kitchen. The blue cup sat beside the sink.

Martha stopped.

She always washed her breakfast cup before leaving for work. It was part of her morning routine. Coffee, toast, shower, dress, wash the cup, check the stove, lock the door.

She picked it up.

Clean.

Maybe she had washed it and left it there instead of putting it in the cupboard.

She put it away.

The next evening, one of the cupboard doors stood open.

Martha closed it.

Two days later, the bathmat faced the wrong direction.

She stared at it longer than she should have.

The white tag normally sat against the tub because she hated seeing it. Now the tag faced the bathroom door.

She turned the mat around.

“Getting old,” she said and laughed.

She wasn't old.

Not old enough to forget which way she put a bathmat, anyway.

The following Monday, her reading glasses moved.

Martha kept them on the bedside table closest to the door. She read every night, sometimes for ten minutes and sometimes until the book dropped against her chest and woke her.

That morning, she had folded the glasses, placed them on top of her book and left for work.

When she came home, they were on the other bedside table.

She stood in the doorway.

The book remained where she'd left it.

She walked around the bed and picked up the glasses.

Maybe she'd put them there.

She tried to remember.

She couldn't.

That bothered her more than the glasses themselves.

At dinner with her sister and brother-in-law that weekend, Martha mentioned it.

“I think somebody has been in my house.”

Her sister stopped cutting her chicken.

“What?”

“I keep finding things moved.”

“What things?”

“My glasses. A bathmat. Cupboard doors.”

Her brother-in-law smiled. “Did they steal the television?”

“No.”

“Jewellery?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“Nothing.”

Her sister gave him a look.

He went back to his dinner.

“Martha, you've been under a lot of stress lately.”

“I know where I leave my things.”

“I didn't say you don't.”

“You were going to.”

Her sister reached across the table.

“I'm saying there could be another explanation.”

“What explanation?”

“You moved them and forgot.”

Martha pulled her hand away.

“I don't forget where I put my glasses.”

Her brother-in-law cleared his throat.

“Change the locks.”

Her sister glared at him.

“What? If it makes her feel better, change them.”

Martha did.

A locksmith came Tuesday morning. He replaced the front and back locks and gave her the new keys.

Nobody else got one.

For three days, nothing moved.

Martha relaxed.

On Friday, she came home and found the sugar bowl on the opposite side of the counter.

She stood inside the kitchen with her purse still hanging from her shoulder.

She never kept it there.

She moved it back.

Nothing had been taken.

She checked.

Her jewellery remained in its box. The emergency cash remained inside an envelope in her dresser. Her laptop sat on the desk. The television remained on the wall.

She checked the windows.

Locked.

Back door.

Locked.

Front door.

Locked.

She called her sister.

“The sugar bowl moved.”

“Martha.”

“I know where I keep my sugar.”

“Maybe you moved it this morning.”

“I didn't.”

“You're checking everything too much now. You're going to notice things you never paid attention to before.”

That stayed with her.

Maybe her sister was right.

Martha had started studying her own house.

Every object had become evidence.

She needed to know.

The next morning, she pulled a strand of hair from her head and stretched it across the top drawer of her dresser. She closed the drawer carefully, trapping each end.

If somebody opened it, the hair would fall.

She took a spool of black thread from her sewing basket and caught a short piece between the basement door and the frame.

Then she sprinkled a thin line of flour beneath the kitchen window.

She stood back.

It looked ridiculous.

She almost cleaned it up.

Instead, she photographed each one with her phone.

Then she left for work.

She thought about the house all day.

At lunch, she nearly drove home.

She didn't.

At five, she parked in the driveway and remained in the car for a minute.

Nothing looked different.

She unlocked the front door.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Martha felt foolish immediately.

She checked the basement door.

The thread remained exactly where she'd left it.

Upstairs, the hair still crossed the dresser drawer.

The flour beneath the kitchen window remained smooth.

She checked the other windows.

Locked.

She did it again the next day.

Hair.

Thread.

Flour.

Nothing.

The day after, she added a tiny piece of clear tape to the back door.

Untouched.

She moved a chair beneath one window and positioned one leg exactly on a mark in the hardwood.

Unmoved.

Nothing in the house changed.

After a week, Martha stopped mentioning the intruder to her family.

After two weeks, she stopped believing in him herself.

Her sister had been right.

Stress.

Routine.

Memory.

She had probably moved the glasses without thinking. She had probably kicked the bathmat around while getting ready. The sugar bowl could have been moved while she wiped the counter.

There were explanations for it all.

She cleaned the flour from beneath the window.

She threw away the thread.

She stopped putting hairs across drawers.

She stopped checking the locks twice.

The house became her house again.

One Thursday morning, Martha showered and changed for work. She left her nightie spread across the bed.

She considered putting it away but glanced at the clock.

Late.

She left it there.

Work kept her busy enough that she barely thought about home.

She stopped for groceries on the way back and arrived after six.

She put the milk away, made tea and carried it upstairs.

Her bedroom door stood open.

She walked inside.

Something bothered her.

Martha looked at the bed.

Made.

The nightie wasn't there.

She turned.

It lay across the chair beside the window.

Martha didn't move.

She had left it on the bed.

She remembered because she'd considered putting it away.

She had looked at the clock.

She had decided she was late.

She had left it there.

Now it was on the chair.

Her eyes moved towards the bedroom window.

Locked.

The house had been locked all day.

She thought of the flour.

Undisturbed.

The thread.

Undisturbed.

The hair.

Undisturbed.

The tape.

Undisturbed.

Every test had told her the same thing.

Nobody came into the house.

Martha stared at the nightie.

Nobody came in.

She backed towards the bed and reached for her phone.

Then she locked the bedroom door.

The police arrived quickly.

Martha heard them downstairs but didn't unlock the bedroom door until an officer called her name through it.

She opened it.

“I want you to check the entire house.”

“We will.”

“Everywhere.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I mean everywhere.”

The officer studied her for a moment.

“Okay.”

She told them about the moved objects. The changed locks. The flour, the thread, the hair and the tape. She showed them the nightie.

“I left it on the bed.”

“Does anyone else have a key?”

“No.”

“Family?”

“No.”

“Cleaning service?”

“No.”

“Contractors?”

“No.”

The officers searched.

Martha stayed downstairs with one of them while the others moved through the house.

Cupboard doors opened and closed.

Closets.

Rooms.

The basement.

The officer beside her asked questions while she listened to every sound above them.

“How long has this been happening?”

“A few weeks.”

“And nothing was taken?”

“Nothing.”

“You ever see anybody outside?”

“No.”

“Any threats?”

“No.”

“Anyone angry with you?”

“Not that I know of.”

Footsteps crossed the floor overhead.

Then stopped.

Minutes passed.

An officer came downstairs.

“We're almost finished.”

Martha nodded.

Embarrassment began replacing fear.

Maybe they would leave and tell her nothing was there.

Maybe her sister had been right after all.

Then something crashed upstairs.

A dog barked.

Someone shouted.

The officer beside Martha turned towards the stairs.

Another crash shook the ceiling.

“Get your hands where I can see them!”

Martha stood.

The officer put out an arm.

“Stay here.”

Heavy footsteps moved overhead.

A man screamed.

“You're hurting me!”

Martha stopped breathing.

More shouting followed.

Then she heard the unmistakable sound of handcuffs closing.

The officer beside her guided her towards the front door.

“Come outside.”

“Who is it?”

“Stay behind me.”

Two officers appeared at the top of the stairs with a man between them. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

Martha tried to see his face.

Part of her didn't want to.

The officer opened the front door and stepped outside with her.

“Stay behind me and just look at him if you can.”

The other officers brought the man out.

Martha looked.

She knew him.

They had worked together at a former job.

Months earlier, he had asked for time off to take care of a sick aunt.

She hadn't seen him since.

Martha went to the trial.

That was where she learned he hadn't been entering her house while she was at work.

He hadn't simply been hiding there, either.

He lived there.