Our first winter on the farm, Ellie kept seeing him. We thought she had an overactive imagination spurred by too much television, but Ellie was insistent that Mr. Nervous was real. We would hear her talking to him, open the door. “He just left,” she’d say.
Odd things began to happen. Lights coming on in empty rooms, then shutting off as you opened the door. Fragments of conversation drifting down the stairs.
One night I looked toward the barn and saw a boy swinging from a rafter, the rope around his neck. I ran out to help him. No boy.