The Curtain at Noon

It had been eleven years since I’d moved into the top-floor unit of the Meridian Residences, a sprawling complex that promised modern comfort and, more importantly, a fresh start. The apartment was brand new, never lived in, and that was exactly what I needed after the mess of my previous place. My best friend, Dana, had moved in with me to split the rent, and we were both eager to fill the sterile white walls with life.

For the first few weeks, everything was perfect. The morning light poured through the large windows, and the hum of the city below was a constant lullaby. But then work demanded I switch to the night shift, and my world flipped upside down. Sleep came in fragments, torn from the bright, noisy hours of the day. I’d learned to use blackout curtains and earplugs, but some sounds could not be blocked out.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling shift, I collapsed onto my mattress, which lay directly on the floor beside the window, the only spot that got a draft. I must have drifted off within seconds, my mind sinking into a dark, dreamless void. Then, something pulled me back, a sensation like being watched. I fought against the weight of exhaustion, forcing my eyes open.

There, standing at the foot of my bed, was Dana. She was facing the window, her hand resting on the edge of the blinds, tilting them just enough to peer through. A sliver of sunlight cut across her profile, but her face was in shadow. I blinked, trying to focus, and croaked, ‘Dana? What are you looking at?’

She didn’t turn. Her voice, when it came, was flat and distant. ‘Nothing.’

I pushed myself up on my elbows, irritation rising. ‘Seriously, what is it?’ I asked, my voice sharper than intended.

Still without moving, she repeated, ‘Nothing.’

Annoyed and exhausted, I flopped back down and pulled the blanket over my head, deciding to ignore her. I heard the soft rustle of the blinds, and then the faint sound of her footsteps retreating. I was too tired to think more about it, and sleep claimed me again.

When I woke hours later, the room was bathed in the orange glow of evening. I got up, still groggy, and found Dana in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta. I said, ‘Hey, what was that about earlier? You were staring out the window like you saw a ghost.’

Dana looked at me, confused. ‘What are you talking about? I wasn’t in your room. I’ve been in the living room all afternoon, unpacking boxes.’

A cold chill ran down my spine. ‘But I saw you. You were right there, holding the blinds.’

Dana shook her head, a nervous laugh escaping her. ‘Nope, not me. Maybe you were dreaming.’

I let it go, chalking it up to sleep paralysis or a vivid dream. But the image stayed with me, nagging at the back of my mind.

Weeks passed, and the incident faded. Then, one afternoon, I woke up from a nap to find Dana again at the foot of my bed, again holding the blinds, again whispering ‘nothing’ when I asked. But this time, something was wrong. Her reflection in the window, where the light hit just right, was not her own. It was a woman with long, dark hair, her face blurred and her expression unreadable. My blood ran cold, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The figure slowly turned, and for a split second, I saw her eyes—pitch black, devoid of anything human. Then she blinked, and it was just Dana again, dropping the blinds and walking out.

I lay there, heart pounding, my mind racing. That night, I confronted Dana. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but I saw something in the window. It wasn’t you.’

Dana’s face paled. ‘I’ve been feeling it too. Like someone’s watching me when I’m alone. And yesterday, I swear I saw someone standing in the kitchen, just out of the corner of my eye. By the time I turned, there was no one.’

We decided to research the building’s history, hoping to find a logical explanation. We combed through old records and talked to neighbors. A elderly woman in the building, Mrs. Chen, told us that the land where the apartments now stood used to be an old hospital, one that had been abandoned for years before being demolished. Some said that the patients who died there were never properly moved, and their spirits lingered. But we dismissed it as old wives’ tales.

Tenant after tenant, we heard whispers of strange occurrences—cold spots in hallways, doors that opened on their own, and most disturbingly, the recurring image of a woman who would appear near windows, always at noon. Our apartment, being on the top floor, might have been closer to her territory.

One day, I decided to test the theory. I set up my phone to record the window area while I slept. The next morning, I reviewed the footage. There, exactly at noon, the blinds moved on their own, as if an invisible hand was tugging them aside. Then, a faint, translucent figure materialized, her outline shimmering. My breath caught as she pressed her face to the glass, peering inside with that same black-eyed gaze. Just as suddenly, she vanished, and the blinds snapped back into place.

I showed the video to Dana, who went white. ‘What does she want?’ she whispered.

I didn’t have an answer. But that night, as I tried to sleep, I felt a cold presence at the foot of my bed again. I opened my eyes, and there she was, not disguised as Dana. She was solid, her skin pale, her hair dripping water, her eyes void. She pointed a long, bony finger at me, and a voice echoed in my mind: ‘You took my room.’

Realization struck me. I had chosen the top floor because it was new and ‘clean,’ but perhaps it was once the attic of the hospital, where they stored the dead. She had been there all along, waiting.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The woman slowly reached for my face, and as her icy fingers touched my forehead, I felt everything go cold. The next morning, Dana found me lying on the floor, my eyes open but unseeing. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The doctor said it was a severe stroke, but I knew the truth.

Now, I sit in a wheelchair by the window, unable to communicate, my mind trapped. Every day at noon, the woman appears, and she stands beside me, watching the world outside. I am her new keeper, a silent sentinel for the ghost of the Meridian, and I wait for the day someone else moves into my room—and she moves on.