The Frosted Window

The old farmhouse sat hunched at the edge of the marsh, its weather-beaten clapboards the color of bruised plums. I’d rented it for the summer with two friends, needing a place close to the coast while I finished my book and they recovered from a long, grinding stretch of work. The air inside was perpetually damp, and the radiators coughed out a thin, grudging heat that barely curled the edges of the curtains. It was the season of long evenings and short tempers, and I often found myself alone in the kitchen, staring at the salt-stained window that looked out onto the reeds.

My name is Mira, and I’ve always been a light sleeper. That particular morning, I woke at 5:45 to the sound of the wind shoving against the glass, and to the pale, watery light that filtered through the moth-eaten drapes. My roommate, Anya, had left a pile of unread prescriptions on the counter, and I’d promised to help her organize them before she went to her clinic appointment. I shuffled into the kitchen in my robe, the floorboards groaning under my weight, and reached for the kettle. As I filled it, I noticed the window was coated in a thick, crystalline frost, even though the calendar said May and the thermostat claimed sixty-eight degrees. I set the kettle down and pressed my palm against the glass. The cold seeped through like a whisper, and I could see, etched into the frost, a perfect outline of a hand—smaller than mine, with long, elegant fingers. I yanked my hand away, and the frost remained, glowing faintly in the dawn light.

I tried to ignore it, figuring it was just condensation from the marsh. But as I plugged in the straightener and laid out my clothes, I caught a movement in the reeds beyond the window. A figure—tall and impossibly thin—stood motionless, watching the house. It wore a long coat that seemed to blend with the reeds, and its face was obscured by shadow. I told myself it was a bird, a trick of the light. But the figure didn’t move. I turned away to grab my phone, and when I looked back, it was gone. Only the handprint remained.

That evening, Anya came home with a new prescription, her eyes wide and pupils the size of saucers. She’d been seeing a specialist for anxiety, but I knew she’d also been dabbling in things she shouldn’t. She brushed past me, reeking of synthetic musk, and said she’d found a ‘guide’ who could help her clear her mind. I wanted to ask more, but she retreated to her room and didn’t come out for dinner. I was left alone in the kitchen, the frost on the window now spread to the lower corners, and I could see, through the icy veins, the silhouette of that same figure, closer than before, almost at the edge of the yard.

I pulled the curtains shut, but the cold followed me. I decided to take a bath to warm up, and as I ran the water, I heard a soft, rhythmic tapping on the window behind me. I spun around—nothing but steam and the frosted glass, now covered in a web of tiny cracks. The tapping continued, faster, like fingernails skittering across the pane. I grabbed my robe and ran out into the hallway, colliding with Anya, who was standing there, her face pale and blank.

‘I saw her,’ she whispered, her voice hollow. ‘In the marsh. She waved at me.’ She pointed at the window at the end of the hall, which was bare of frost, but there, pressed against the glass from the outside, was a pale face with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. It stared at us, then slowly turned and dissolved into the reeds.

I called the police, but by the time they arrived, the frost had disappeared, and the face was gone. They searched the marsh, but found nothing but footprints that ended abruptly at the water’s edge. Anya refused to speak about it, and the next morning, she packed her things and left, saying she couldn’t stay. I was alone.

For weeks, I tried to convince myself it was a hallucination brought on by stress. But the frost returned every night, and with it, the figure, always closer. And then one night, as I lay in bed, I heard a whisper, scratchy as dry reeds, right next to my ear: ‘You’re next.’ I turned to find the handprint on my window, but it was on the inside, and it was reaching for the lock.

I fled the farmhouse before dawn, leaving everything behind. I never saw Anya again, and I still don’t know what she saw in that marsh. But sometimes, on cold, foggy mornings, I catch a glimpse of a tall figure in the reflection of my mirror, and I know it followed me. And the frost, it always finds a window.