The Brick-Wall Window

My childhood was marked by an acute awareness of things that others couldn’t perceive—a sensitivity that faded with age, but that one afternoon in my aunt’s garage in the Peruvian highlands remains etched in my mind. We were staying at my aunt and uncle’s place while my parents visited family in the mountains. My cousins—Mateo, Lucia, and little Ana—and I were roller-skating on the cracked concrete floor of the garage, our laughter echoing against the bare brick walls. The air smelled of motor oil and dust, and slivers of sunlight cut through the half-open door, illuminating swirling particles of grit.

Suddenly, as if struck by a shared impulse, my cousins dropped their skates and scrambled to put on their shoes. ‘It’s time to go in,’ Mateo said, his voice oddly flat. Lucia nodded, her eyes darting toward the house. Even Ana, usually the last to leave a game, was already at the door. I was left behind, struggling with the stubborn straps of my roller skates, my fingers clumsy with haste. The garage felt colder, and the light seemed to dim, as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

As I finally freed my foot, I glanced up at the far wall, expecting only the familiar reddish-brown bricks. But instead, where the mortar lines should have been, I saw a shimmer—a trembling distortion in the air, like heat rising off pavement, but it was not hot. The distortion grew, forming a rectangle, a window set into the wall. Through it, I saw a room I had never seen: a modest bedroom with a bed frame of dark wood, a simple dresser, and a faded rug. On the bed sat a young couple, both in their pajamas—a man with a thin beard and a woman with braided hair. They were huddled together, their arms wrapped around each other, their faces turned toward something outside the window of that vision. Their eyes were wide, their mouths slightly open, as if they were holding back screams. They were staring straight at me.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. The woman’s lips moved, forming words I could not hear, but I could read them: ‘Can you see us?’ Her eyes pleaded. The man clung to her, his knuckles white as he gripped her shoulder. Behind them, I saw a shadow coalescing in the corner of that dim room—a shadow that did not come from the light, a black mass that seemed to pulse and breathe. The couple’s fear intensified; they pressed closer together, and the woman reached out a hand toward me, as if begging me to help. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision vanished. The wall was solid again, unblemished, except for a faint cold mist that dissipated quickly.

I ran inside, my heart pounding, and found my cousins in the kitchen, calmly sipping juice. ‘You saw something, didn’t you?’ Lucia whispered, not looking up. I nodded, too scared to speak. Mateo just shook his head. ‘It’s been happening to us too,’ he said. ‘That wall—sometimes, at certain hours, it shows things. We’ve seen it before. We don’t talk about it.’ My aunt came in then, offering me a snack, but I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t shake the image of that couple, their silent plea, and the shadow that loomed.

Years later, I learned that my aunt’s house had been built on land that was once an old colonial estate, and that during the conflict in the 1980s, many people had disappeared from the area. But I never found out who that couple was, or why they appeared to me that day. I only know that, sometimes, the walls between worlds are thin, and if you’re sensitive, you might catch a glimpse of those trapped in a loop of fear. To this day, I avoid garage walls made of brick, and I’ve never put on a pair of roller skates again. The image of that young couple, huddled in terror, still visits me in my dreams, and I can only hope that somewhere, somehow, they found peace.