Rumors of people beyond the gate were long unconfirmed. Those purveying the rumors, at any rate, had reason to be skeptical. Persisting, like most things in the country, they passed away like most things and never concerned me much.

Where I live, the residents are widely scattered. Several miles separate most neighbors, and few know each other more than vaguely. But the gate I refer to lies near the outskirts of the premises, at the point where the land dips down, in a funnel-like pattern, to an outcropping of rocks fringed by weeds and crabgrass. Beyond the gate is a wisp of road, mostly dirt, but here, too, scattered rocks present a patchwork, like something stitched together by a half-crazed dotard.

Because the wind is a commoner visitor than people, I thought, at first, it was responsible for the footprints. Those capricious imps called "dust devils" might stir in a vortex of air, scampering over the land like dancers. But these were not wind prints; their outlines were human. They had, as well, the consistent dimensions of human prints, not the random
scoops nature might have deposited.

That first dawn, on waking, I had an intuition something was askew, and on going down to the gate, I found the prints wandering through sand and weeds, and further, presumably, beyond the mist still clinging to the ground. Winding uphill, they had an uneasy quality, snaking past objects in their path, rocks and vine-like plants that crawled like interlopers. Moreover, they had a familiar look.

Had I checked my own path before leaving? Possibly - I don't remember. When I returned to the house, I noticed my feet were bare, and there were sand-prints on the floor of my cabin. Apparently I'd wakened half-consciously and wandered downstairs, not putting on my shoes. Jacket and pants were where I'd laid them, draped across a stool like the hides of exhausted lizards.

These prints, indeed, seemed to match the ones outside, except for one thing --- they were aiming toward the bed, whereas those outside straggled from the gate outward, toward some destination of their own. I pulled on my clothes and returned to the gate, taking my rifle as well, thinking someone might have trespassed in the night.

When I got outside, the fog had lifted, though the clouds were thickened and dark. Here were the prints again, still fresh, though somewhat effaced by the meddlesome winds. I felt lightheaded, and as I opened the gate and began following the prints, came close to losing my balance. But I dismissed the notion --- this path, I thought, was enough to make anyone stumble, and a brief rain sprang from nowhere, scattering my thoughts with it.

Gradually I made my way through rocks and weeds that seemed to wander in all directions, as if tempting me to follow them, though my only real interest was seeing where the dishevelled path led. I passed stunted trees whose branches dipped close to the ground; once I was forced to climb over a limb that clutched the path like a python. But ultimately, after what seemed about three-quarters of a mile, I noticed a shape in the distance.

As I moved closer, the shape took on the contorted outlines of a ruin, though it was not a farmhouse --- more like that of a castle. Only a couple of structures still stood, and even they were in disrepair, having lost their roofs in some indeterminate past. It was silent, except for a wind, and motionless save for some weeds carpeting the ground and a few scavenging birds. In one of the  structures, however, I seemed to see a kind of mist that shifted slowly from side to side. An illusion, I thought, and when I moved toward the structure the mist, if that's what it was, seemed to fragment and disperse.

I wandered about for some time, trying to fathom who might have built it, but finally became bored and hungry. Having brought no food along, I took to the path again and returned to the cabin.

Nothing more happened that day; the clouds remained oppressive and the rain, which began about noon, kicked into a heavy storm. I ate my meals as usual, doing mundane chores inside, though really wishing to go somewhere, a sort of suspicion building within me that something was not right.

I woke before dawn the next morning when a thunderclap shook me from sleep. Instinctively I reached for the bed lamp and, after rubbing my eyes a few seconds, looked around. There were my clothes, draped on the stool, and at first I merely glanced at them, seeing nothing strange. But then I heard a dripping sound, and when I looked again at the clothes, I saw they were drenched. Since I had not been outside since the rain began, I couldn't account for it. More disturbing still, when I looked from the clothes to the floor, I saw the footprints again, only this time muddy and glistening. Like the ones of the previous morning, they led inward, trailing from the half-opened door to the bed.

There was not much doubt of it now. However, still unconvinced, I flung the sheets aside, and was about to measure my feet against the prints when I saw the dried mud caked on my footsoles. Merely as an exercise, I placed my right foot against the nearest corresponding print on the floor - it matched exactly.

It was still dark outside, and the fleeting sense of faintness I had felt the previous morning had returned. Annoyed, but apprehensive, I felt a compulsion to return to the path again. There was no point taking the gun this time, but the lamp seemed advisable, given the lingering gloom.

The gate lay open - the decrepit, split-rail affair stood with its lowermost cross-bar staked in the mud, having been torn from its mooring on one side. Beyond it were footprints in the muddy path, and I expected to see them aiming toward the cabin. But they led only outward, despite the fact that they were identical to the ones in my bedroom. It made no sense, I thought, and hoisting the lamp before me, I made my way up the hill in the wake of the storm.

A half hour passed as I stumbled my way up the jagged path, dodging the vagrant branches. At last I reached the ruins, and though the rain still lingered, it had quieted to a drizzle. It was hard to see in the fitful weather, but gradually the languid appendages of the ancient dwelling became visible, and, lifting the lamp, I could make out the standing structures of the previous day. But what was it? --- something seemed to float beyond the window of the right-hand structure. Was it the mist I had so readily dismissed as a fleeting illusion, or just a remnant of the storm --- some patch of fog that had not yet vanished? I moved toward it, and as I did so,
my head felt increasingly dizzy. With every step I took the mist took form, gathering into what looked like a human façade. But as I wriggled and crawled through the huge fissure in the structure and stepped inside, the faintness overwhelmed me, and I passed out.

II

I must have wandered unconscious, like a sleepwalker, that second night, because by the time I came to, I was already in bed. My clothes were soaking, and a double-row of inward-leading footprints muddied the floor. The sun was up, but instead of feeling relieved, a deep depression had come over me, and a sense of great fatigue. I could hardly raise myself, and when I reached for the lamp, I miscalculated the distance, sending it crashing to the floor.

At last I groped from the bed, lighting the lamp to supplement the feeble illumination from outside. I almost wish I hadn't. As I pulled my hand from the switch and held it before me, there was no question --- the hand was translucent. Not that I saw bones or vessels. But I could make out the walls, and the objects in the room, behind the hand, as if looking at a
double exposure. I went to the washroom and checked the mirror. Here, too, the translucency was apparent, and the phenomenon was exaggerated by the reflections, which seemed to ripple backward into the distant room. A lake whose offspring echoed eerily, even in total silence.

Many days passed, and I visited the ruins often - it was, in a way, a sort of compulsion, like a ritual that must be followed but without rationale. Knowing what I would find, as the mist that wandered the ruin grew thicker with each visit, while my body lost substance. I discovered, however, that I did not shrink in stature. It was a siphoning, that's all, a sort of displacement, as if nature could not tolerate two beings at the same time with the same corporeal essence. And it did not seem to affect my entire body equally. The draining occurred, first, at the outer extremities, apart from the head, which obstinately retained solidity, until it, too, as the weeks went by, grew vague and the light passed through. For days I seemed little more than a torso floating on air, like an oversized ball that would not return to earth.

III

I do not know when the physical transfer ended and the mental shift began. The fainting spells grew stronger, increasing in duration, till the day came when I had too little strength to return to the cabin. By then, consciousness had waned to a different level altogether.

I have little recollection now of the life I led, though the present surroundings are pleasant enough. The days pass rapidly, and the animals and birds seem to regard me as a fixture.

Not that anything happens here. I wander the place, shifting from side to side when a vagrant wind blows, or slump when the rain begins. I never go down that path. There is nothing to see anyway, and I can hardly fathom the footprints that straggle uphill, or the light I occasionally see glancing through the trees. Someone keeps visiting the place --- I hear the labored effort, the sporadic breathing as it clambers toward the ruins, placing feet carefully in the rock-strewn path. It seems rather futile, since this dwelling died a long time ago, and the occupant with it.

There is such a thing as persistence.