The Curtain’s Wake

I was seven, my brother nine. We were staying with our grandmother in her isolated farmhouse, a place where the nearest neighbor was a half-hour’s walk down a gravel path that snaked through a thicket of pines. That night, the wind had died, and the silence felt heavy, like a blanket pressing on the house. We lay in our twin beds, whispering about nothing, when my brother suddenly stopped mid-sentence.

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked, his eyes wide in the dark. I hadn’t. ‘It said my name,’ he whispered. ‘Clear as day.’ He sat up, listening. I told him it was just the old house settling, but he shook his head. ‘It came from outside the window. Like a woman’s voice, but not quite.’ He swung his legs over the bed and padded to the door, his bare feet making soft thuds on the wooden floor. I followed, my heart starting to thump.

We crept down the hallway, past the stairs, to our grandmother’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and we could see her sleeping, a mound under the quilt, her soft snores regular. No one else. The house was locked, every window latched. I told him it was nothing, but he insisted he’d heard it. We decided to get a drink of water from the kitchen.

The kitchen was on the other side of the living room, and to get there, we had to pass the massive bay window that overlooked the front yard. The curtains were heavy, floral drapes, and they were drawn shut when we went through the living room. We filled our glasses in the dark, the water running cold from the tap. As we stood there sipping, we heard it: the low rumble of an engine, like a car pulling away from the house. The sound faded quickly, leaving silence.

We exchanged glances and crept back to the living room. To our shock, the curtains were now wide open, the moon casting a silver glow across the floor. Dust motes floated in the light, stirred up as if a car had just driven past, kicking up dirt from the driveway. The gravel outside was still, but the dust hung in the air like a ghost of movement. My brother moved to the window, pressing his face to the glass. ‘There’s no car,’ he whispered, but his voice was shaky. I wanted to believe it was the wind, but there was no wind, not a breath.

We hurried back to our room, the instinct to hide kicking in. We burrowed under the covers, our backs to the wall, facing the door. We listened, but the house was quiet. After a long while, we finally fell asleep.

The next morning, we told our grandmother. She listened, her face pale, then said, ‘I’ve heard that before. It’s the old groom. He used to live down the road, before I was born. He was a jalopy driver, and his car was his pride. He used to race up and down this track late at night, drunk. He died in a crash right at the bend, just past the mailbox. They say his car still makes that run, and if you’re awake when he passes, he’ll call out your name, trying to get you to come out. But don’t ever go to the window. That’s when he knows you’re listening.’ She looked at us, her eyes serious. ‘I’d hoped he’d stopped. Now, don’t you ever open those curtains at night again.’

We never did. But some nights, I’d still hear an engine in the distance, and I’d pull the covers over my head, praying that the curtains stayed still. They always did, but I’d lie awake, thinking about the dust in the air, and how it was still settling long after the sound had gone, like a promise that he was always there, just waiting for a hand to pull back the fabric and meet his gaze.