The Fern Window

In the autumn of 2008, I moved into a cramped flat above a laundrette in the English seaside town of Whitby, drawn by the promise of cheap rent and a ten-minute walk to the train station that would carry me to my data-entry job in Leeds. My building squatted behind a derelict Victorian arcade, and directly opposite, separated by a weed-choked courtyard, stood the old Marrow House—a sagging, pebble-dashed villa with a monstrous yew tree sprawling across its front garden. The locals called it ‘the Fern House’ because every window on the ground floor was packed with dead ferns, their brittle fronds pressed against the glass like frozen hands. The house had been empty for decades, but last year, during the demolition of the arcade to make way for a shiny new shopping centre, strange things began happening.

My neighbour, an elderly fisherman named Stan, warned me over a cup of tea: ‘Don’t look into the Fern House windows after dark, lad. The tree’s older than the house, and it used to hold them—the lady in white, the crying child, the thing with no face. But when they started digging the foundation for the mall, they disturbed the roots. They called in a chap from London to ‘clear’ the site, but all he did was open a door that should’ve stayed shut. Now they’re loose, and they’re looking for a new home.’ I laughed it off, attributing it to old-age superstition. After all, the mall was due to open in two months, and I needed this job to pay off my student loans.

My first week was uneventful. I’d walk past the Fern House every day, noting the ferns’ slow decay and the way the yew’s branches seemed to reach toward my window like gnarled fingers. Then the night before the mall’s grand opening, I was working late and missed the last train. I trudged home in the fog, the streetlights casting sickly halos. As I passed the Fern House, I saw a flicker of light from the end window—a candle, maybe. I stopped, and that’s when I heard it: a faint tapping, rhythmic, like something knocking on the inside of the glass. The dead ferns shifted, and I swear I saw a pale face pressing against the pane, its mouth opening and closing as if it were trying to speak through the glass. I ran, telling myself it was a trick of the fog.

The next day, the mall opened with great fanfare. I took a detour through its gleaming atrium, half-hoping to see the Fern House from the upper floor, but the building’s design blocked the view. Instead, I noticed a strange emblem on the floor—a twisted knot of roots, inlaid in brass, right at the centre of the food court. I asked a security guard about it, and he said it was part of the architect’s ‘organic theme.’ He added, ‘Funny thing, the men who laid that brass all quit the same week. Said they felt like the floor was breathing.’ I dismissed it.

But that night, I dreamt of roots. They grew through my floorboards, wrapped around my bed, and lifted me toward a ceiling of dead ferns. In the dream, a woman with a hollow face whispered, ‘You have to open the window. We’re cramped in here.’ I woke with a start, my window slightly ajar, and the smell of damp earth filling the room. I closed it, but the smell lingered for days.

A week later, I was working late again and missed my train. As I approached the Fern House, the tapping returned, louder now, and I saw not one but three faces in the windows: the pale woman, a child with black eyes, and a tall, featureless silhouette. They were all pointing at the mall. I followed their gaze and saw, through the mall’s glass facade, the brass emblem glowing with a sickly green light. Then the mall’s lights flickered, and I heard a low hum, like a swarm of insects. I ran inside, thinking to alert security, but the place was empty—no shoppers, no staff, just the humming and the stench of rot.

The brass emblem had cracked, and from the fissure seeped a black, tar-like substance that began to spread, coating the floor and climbing the walls. I tried to leave, but every exit led me back to the food court. That’s when I understood: the shaman hadn’t banished the ghosts. He’d contained them—in the roots of the yew tree, beneath the mall’s foundation. And by building over the tree’s roots, they’d been feeding the ghosts a steady diet of the living, and now the containment was breaking.

I stumbled into a maintenance corridor, hoping to find a way out, but the walls were lined with ferns—living ones, despite the darkness. They rustled as I passed, and I heard a child’s laugh behind me. I turned, and there was the boy, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, his hand reaching out. ‘Play with us?’ he asked. I backed away, but the ferns curled around my ankles, and the woman appeared, her face now clear: she had no mouth, only a gaping hole that pulsed with a dark light. ‘We want to see the sun again,’ she said, her voice echoing in my head. ‘You’ll help us.’

Suddenly, the ground shook, and a crack split the ceiling. The mall began to collapse, and I saw a beam of moonlight stream down onto the brass emblem. The ghosts shrieked and dissolved into the light, and the ferns withered. I blacked out.

When I came to, I was lying on the street, outside the mall, which now stood dark and abandoned, its windows boarded up. The Fern House was gone too, replaced by a pile of rubble. But my flat was still there, and when I looked at my window, I saw that the dead ferns from the house had somehow transplanted themselves onto my windowsill. And behind them, pressed against my glass, was a pale hand, scratching. I never slept soundly again. And sometimes, when I pass the mall’s ruins, I hear a voice whisper, ‘We’re still here. Open the window.’