The Frosted Glass

Marta and I were settling into our new apartment on the third floor of a converted factory. The loft was all exposed brick and cast-iron pillars, but the bedroom had a strange quirk: a large, frosted glass pane set into the wall, opaque and unopenable. It faced the corridor outside, but we never saw anyone through it, just a soft, milky glow when the hall light was on. On our third night there, we were lying in bed, the room pitch black except for the faint silhouette of that glass. Then, from behind it, came a thin, reedy waltz, as if from a music box. It lasted maybe two seconds, then silence. I grabbed David’s arm. ‘Did you hear that?’ He sat up, his voice tight. ‘Yeah. It came from the wall.’ We stared at the glass, but the glow remained steady. Then, slowly, a mist began to seep from the edges of the pane, like cold breath on a window, but it flowed into the room, a low-lying fog that crawled across the floor and swirled around our bed. It smelled of mothballs and dust. It lingered for ten minutes, and as it faded, we felt a profound chill, not of the air, but of the soul. We didn’t sleep much that night.

That morning, as I was brushing my teeth, I heard a man’s voice whisper from the doorway. It was so soft, the words indistinct, but it felt like a name—my name, but wrong, warped. I whipped around, but the room was empty. I told David, and he just shrugged, but I saw him glance at the bedroom door, which was ajar. Later, as we were about to leave for the store, the doorbell buzzed—a tinny, electric sound that didn’t suit the old building. David opened the door, and there stood an ancient woman. She was bent over a cane, her skin like crumpled parchment. She wore a long black coat despite the summer heat. She looked past David and said, ‘I’m here to see Elsbeth.’ That’s my name. I heard her from the hallway, and I froze. David called me hesitantly, and I came out. She smiled at me, her teeth too white, too even. ‘We’ve met before, dear, many years ago. You were just a child then. You’ve come back to me, just as I knew you would.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.’ She laughed, a dry, crackling sound. ‘Oh, no, it’s you. I watched that wall the day you were born. I know your face.’ She pointed her cane at my bedroom wall. ‘That glass is a window, child. And I’ve been waiting for you to look through it.’

I felt a cold prickling at the back of my neck. David stepped between us. ‘I think you need to leave.’ She tilted her head, studying him with an unsettling intensity. ‘Oh, he doesn’t see it. He’s not like us. But you, Elsbeth, you’ll understand soon enough. The fog is just the beginning.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Every night, they waltz in your room. They’re waiting for you to join.’ She turned and shuffled away, her cane tapping a rhythm that matched the melody from that night. David closed the door and looked at me, his face pale. ‘Who was that?’ I shook my head, but I couldn’t forget her eyes—they were the color of the fog, a pearlescent gray with no pupils, just swirls. I glanced at the bedroom, and for a moment, I thought I saw the frosted glass glow warmer, as if someone stood just behind it, breathing on the pane.

That night, David fell asleep early, tired from the day’s tension. I lay awake, listening to the hum of the old pipes. Around 3 AM, the waltz started again, but this time it didn’t stop. It played on and on, faint and sad, and the fog returned. It rolled in thicker than before, filling the room from the floorboards to the ceiling. I couldn’t see David, but I heard his breathing become shallow, as if he were dreaming deep. Then, between the notes, I heard a whisper, the man’s voice again, clearer now: ‘Elsbeth, come to the glass.’ I couldn’t help myself. I sat up and crawled through the fog toward the wall. The frosted glass was no longer opaque. It was a window onto a ballroom from another century, lit by gaslight. I saw dancers in old-fashioned gowns and tailcoats, swirling in a waltz, their faces blank and white. In the center of the room, a woman in a velvet dress turned and looked at me. It was the old woman, but young and beautiful. She beckoned with a gloved hand. ‘Every generation, one of us is chosen to hold the veil,’ she said, her voice echoing in my head. ‘You’ve been marked since birth. Do you want to see what’s really on the other side?’ I wanted to say no, but my reflection in the glass was smiling. It wasn’t me. My reflection raised a hand and pressed it against the pane, and I felt a cold pressure against my palm, on my side. ‘David,’ I tried to call, but my voice was a whisper of my own. The fog was thickening, becoming solid, and I felt myself being pulled forward. Just as the glass began to ripple, David’s hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. ‘Elsbeth! Elsbeth, wake up!’ I was on the floor, the fog receding, the music gone. David was kneeling over me, his face terrified. ‘You were murmuring, and you had your hand on the glass. You were about to open it.’ I looked at the pane. There, in the center, was a handprint, but it wasn’t mine. It was smaller, with slender fingers. And on the glass, written in a thin film of frost, were the words: ‘We are not done. I will come through.’

We left that apartment the next morning, within hours. We told ourselves it was just too creepy, too old, but we never spoke about the real reason. As we packed, David refused to go into the bedroom. I went in to grab our last bag, and the frosted glass was clear as a regular window, showing the brick wall of the corridor. But as I turned to leave, I heard a faint waltz from behind the wall, and a soft laugh. I looked back, and the glass had frosted over again, forming a new message: ‘I’ll see you soon, Elsbeth.’

Months later, we’ve moved across the country, into a modern house with no strange panels. But sometimes, when the night is still, I hear a faint melody, and the bathroom mirror will fog up on its own, and I see a woman’s silhouette in the steam. She never moves, just watches me. And last night, I felt a cold breath on my neck, and a voice, soft and indistinct, but I could swear it said, ‘I’m still here.’ I have started sleeping with the lights on, and I never look into frosted glass.