The Gable Window

I have never been one to believe in ghosts. I’ve always chalked it up to an overactive imagination, a trick of the light, or the creaks of an old house settling. But there are some things that defy logic, some events that claw at the edges of reason and leave you questioning the very fabric of reality. This is one of those stories.

It began when I moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the marsh, a place I’d inherited from a great-aunt I barely remembered. The house was a sprawling Victorian with a sagging porch and a gable window that peered out over the reeds like a single, unblinking eye. I was a writer, and I thought the solitude would be good for my work. I was wrong.

The first night, I was unpacking boxes in the study when I heard it: a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap coming from the walls. At first, I dismissed it as pipes or maybe a branch scraping the siding. But it was persistent, almost deliberate, like someone knocking to get my attention. I checked the walls, found nothing, and tried to sleep. The tapping followed me to the bedroom, and it was only when I turned off the light that it stopped.

The next day, I explored the house. It was filled with relics of a bygone era: dusty books, moth-eaten curtains, and a collection of porcelain dolls that seemed to watch me as I passed. In the attic, I found a trunk belonging to my great-aunt, and inside, a journal. I sat down and began to read, and what I found chilled me to the bone.

My great-aunt had written about a presence in the house, a thing she called ‘The Listener.’ It was not a ghost, she wrote, but something older, something that fed on attention. It would tap on the walls to draw you in, then wait. If you listened too closely, if you let it know you were aware, it would start to mimic you. First your footsteps, then your breathing, then your voice. She wrote that she had made the mistake of responding to it, of saying ‘Who’s there?’ one night, and it had copied her so perfectly that she couldn’t tell if the voice in her head was her own or its.

The journal ended abruptly, with a scrawled warning: ‘Do not acknowledge it. Do not even think its name. If you feel its gaze, look away. If you hear your own voice from the other room, do not answer. It wants to take your place.’

I laughed it off, of course. I was a rational man. But that night, the tapping returned, and this time it was louder, more insistent. I ignored it, tried to read, but the sound drilled into my skull. Finally, I shouted, ‘What?’ There was a moment of silence, and then a reply: a perfect mimicry of my voice, coming from the wall directly behind me. It said, ‘Who’s there?’

My blood ran cold. I turned around, and there, in the dim light of the lamp, I saw a shadow on the wall that wasn’t mine. It was shaped like me, but its posture was off, head tilted in a way I never tilted mine. It began to move, slow and deliberate, mimicking my movements as I backed away. I ran to the door, but it swung shut on its own, and the shadow slid across the wall, growing larger.

I could hear my own voice again, but it was distorted, like a warped record, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have answered.’ I pressed myself against the door, my heart pounding. The shadow reached a corner and dissolved, and the room was silent. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I noticed small changes. A book was moved on the shelf; the curtains were drawn in a different pattern; a doll’s face was turned to the wall. I tried to convince myself it was my imagination, but the feeling of being watched was overwhelming. I called a friend, but the call dropped, and in the static, I heard the tapping again.

I decided to leave, to pack my bags and drive back to the city. But as I reached for the front door, it wouldn’t open. The lock was jammed, and no amount of pulling or kicking would budge it. I looked up at the gable window, and there, in the glass, was a reflection. But it wasn’t my reflection. It was a woman with hollow eyes, wearing my great-aunt’s dress, and she was smiling.

I screamed, and she mouthed something, but no sound came. I grabbed a chair and hurled it through the window, shattering the glass. The reflection wavered and disappeared. I climbed through the broken frame, cutting my hands, and ran into the marsh. I didn’t stop until I reached the main road, my lungs burning, my hands bleeding.

I never went back, but I’m not sure I escaped. Sometimes, late at night, I hear tapping on my apartment walls, and when I look in the mirror, there’s a moment where my reflection seems to lag behind, as if something is trying to catch up. I’ve told no one, because who would believe me? But I know now that whatever was in that house wasn’t a ghost. It was something that feeds on those who pay attention, and it’s still waiting, in the gable window, for someone to look twice.