Creepypastas

Mr. Leaves

"Mr Leaves was here" – those were the first words out of my daughter's mouth that morning. I dismissed the chatter as normal for a seven year old girl. It didn't seem strange to me that she would develop a new imaginary friend, especially under the circumstances; change can do that to a kid, forcing them to create something to hold on to, making the world seem more secure.

We had decided to move away from the city, to find somewhere a little less hectic, somewhere we could call home. As a doctor, I had to wait until an opportunity arose and was delighted when an opening appeared in the sleepy town of Windarm. It was a quiet place filled with pristine cottages, sun-baked streets, and lush hedge rows; not too big, not too small – perfect for the three of us.

My wife, Erin, and I had named our daughter Karen, after an Aunt, but we always called her "Kip" instead. It was an old English word my Grandfather used when he was going to sleep – Karen loved to sleep more than most, and so "Kip" seemed to suit her just fine.

Our new home on the outskirts of Windarm town was older than we were used to; a converted farmhouse dating back 150 years or so. With a little bit of land thrown into the deal for good measure, we fell in love with the place immediately. When we first pulled up outside, Kip rushed up the rickety white stairs, through the wide double doors and disappeared into the embrace of her new home. She was ecstatic, roaming around the confines of the spaces inside. It was an adventure for her. Even at such a fragile age, she understood the importance of the stories old places could tell. She didn't mind the dust, the shaky banisters, or the creaking floorboards – within ten minutes, each of the three floors had been explored by her little seven year old feet. Of course, there were sure to be nooks and crannies not yet seen in the attic and cellar, but Kip was not interested in those places for now, she was only interested in where she could sleep and play. I had naively told her she could choose any of the bedrooms as her own, and of course she did – the best one in the house.

Erin and I smiled at each other, watching happily as Kip darted around her new room excitedly. She loved the high ceiling because it felt grand and imposing like being a princess in a castle. She found the groans and squeaks that the floorboards made under her feet hilarious, pressing up and down on the loudest ones while giggling. Most of all she loved the window. It was wide and sprawling, looking out to the farmland which bobbed and weaved over flats and small hills below. An old oak tree towered alongside a vacant barn nearby, and the summer sky bleached the world in blues, whites and yellows; and yet, it was something much closer which fascinated my daughter. A thick web of ivy roots had thrust out of the soil decades earlier, climbing a carefully constructed wooden frame attached to the house, which rose as high as the roof. The ivy had clawed and fingered its way across the wooden slats of the farmhouse, almost entirely covering that side of the building.

The surrounding land was in full bloom, everything vibrant and green. The fields were swathed in tall crops which poked out of the soil like a million city dwellers standing still in the sun. Everything was alive and vivid, that was, except for the climbing ivy. Its vines were spindly, yet clung to the wooden frame of the house with deceptive strength. A vast sea of leaves brown and withered reached up across the wooden wall, encircling Kip's window. There was something troubling about those vines, clashing against, almost strangling the possibilities of summer. Kip didn't mind, in fact she was enamoured by them, having me open the window so she could caress the "golden" leaves which touched the sill.

The first night in the house was like any spent in a new place – unfamiliar creaks and sounds echoing out through the darkness. I am often a deep sleeper, but the uncertainty of the old building left me checking every bump and movement I heard throughout the night. I switched the lights on, checked the doors, and then looked in on Kip. She slept soundly, but I noticed that the window was still open, letting in the night's cool breeze. I tried to shut it, but it felt jammed or stuck, the old flaking paint and grime freezing it into position after years of little use. I told myself I'd fix it in the morning, after all Kip was two floors up and we were a quarter of an hour by car from any other house. I felt she'd be quite safe with the window open.