The Glass Block Room

In the autumn of 1987, the first frost hit early in rural Maine. My name is Tom, and I was sixteen, living in a town that time forgot—a place called Dyer’s Hollow. The big event that winter was the old Fenwick place. It had stood empty for decades, a crumbling Victorian at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by bare trees that clawed at the gray sky. My friends, the brothers Jake and Leo, had convinced their parents to rent it for the season, a bargain for a family that liked the rust. I’d known them since third grade; their friendship was as familiar as my own heartbeat.

One bitter evening in early December, with snow piled up like frozen dunes, I called Jake and asked if I could come over. My parents were in the middle of one of their epic battles, and I needed escape. The brothers’ voices crackled over the line, eager. ‘Yeah, man, come on out. We’ll show you the creepy parts.’ I bundled up and walked the two miles, my breath fogging in the cold, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. The Fenwick house loomed as I approached, its silhouette against the dimming sky like a hunched giant. The windows were odd—many were glass block, thick and frosted, letting in light but never revealing what was inside. The front door had an old skeleton keyhole, and Jake had found the key on a hook in the barn.

Inside, the air was stale and cold, with a smell of mice and old wood. The stairs were steep and narrow, almost ladder-like, lit by a single bare bulb that swung gently as if someone had just passed. We huddled in the living room with sleeping bags and a portable heater, drinking cocoa and telling jokes. But the house felt heavy, as if the walls were listening. I noticed a door in the upstairs hallway that was solid oak, with a brass lock that looked newer than the rest. Jake shrugged. ‘Probably just a closet.’ But I saw a keyhole, and it was unlocked. When I turned the handle, it opened into a small room with no windows, just glass block covering the only opening to the outside, letting in a faint, milky light. The walls were covered in peeling floral wallpaper, and there was a child’s wooden rocking horse in the corner, its paint chipped. A musty smell hit me.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing a soft thumping, like a ball bouncing slowly, one-two, one-two. It seemed to come from behind the glass block. The next morning, I asked Jake and Leo if they’d heard it. They exchanged a glance. ‘You mean the knocking?’ Leo said. ‘It’s probably just the wind.’ But the wind wasn’t blowing. Over the next few days, I noticed things: chairs would be moved, always a few inches from where I left them; the temperature in that windowless room was always freezing, even with the heater on; and sometimes, I could swear I saw a faint impression on the wallpaper, like a small handprint, briefly.

One night, while Jake and Leo slept, I decided to investigate. Armed with a flashlight, I crept up the stairs, avoiding the boards that creaked. The door to the room was ajar. As I pushed it open, the beam of my flashlight fell on the rocking horse, which was gently swaying, as if it had just been pushed. Then I heard a child’s laughter, high and thin, coming from the glass block. I pressed my ear against the cold, frosted glass, and I heard a muffled voice, barely a whisper: ‘Let me out.’ I stumbled back, my heart racing.

I woke the brothers, insisting they come see. But when we entered the room, the rocking horse was still, dusty. There was no sign of movement. Jake laughed, ‘You’re hallucinating, Tom. Maybe it’s the fumes from that old furnace.’ But Leo’s face was pale. ‘I heard something too,’ he admitted. ‘But I thought it was just the house settling.’

We couldn’t let it go. The next afternoon, we decided to look for some way to open the glass block. The window was set in a frame, but it seemed sealed. As we examined it, I noticed a small, rusted latch at the top, hidden behind a molding. When I pushed it, the entire panel swung inward on hidden hinges. The room behind was dark, but we leaned in. It was a small, empty space, maybe six feet square, with a dirt floor. And in the center, there was a child-sized chair, facing the wall. On the wall, in crayon, was drawing after drawing: a house, a family, and a figure with a red smile. The dates ranged from 1910 to 1918.

I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘There was a kid imprisoned here,’ I said. Jake shook his head, ‘No, maybe it was just a playroom.’ But the drawings told a darker story. The family portraits showed a father with a stern face, and a mother with empty eyes. In one drawing, the child was locked in a room, crying. In another, the child was grown, with horns.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had disturbed something. As I lay in my sleeping bag, I heard the rocking again, but this time it was louder, and the footsteps—soft, shuffling—came down the hallway. The door to our room creaked open slowly, and the light from the hallway cast a long shadow. A small figure stood in the doorway, holding a crayon. It was a boy, no older than seven, but its eyes were black, and its skin was like parchment. It pointed at me and said, ‘You found my room. Now you must stay.’

We ran. We grabbed our coats and fled into the night, not stopping until we reached my house, breathless. We never went back. The brothers’ parents eventually moved out, citing ‘family reasons.’ But months later, I found a drawing tucked in my jacket pocket. It was me, with a smile, and a house drawn behind me. On the house, a window was marked with an X. I haven’t slept in a room with a glass block since.

Years later, I learned that the Fenwick family had a son, Edgar, who was born in 1910. He was confined to that room after his mother died, accused of murdering his sister. He died in 1918 during the flu pandemic, but some say he never left. And the glass block, which was installed to hide the shame, only sealed in his hate. Now, whenever I see a frosted window, I can’t help but press my ear to it, just to see if I hear a child’s laughter, or the sound of a rocking horse swaying, waiting for someone to let him out.

I never did. But I know one day, he’ll find a way. And then he’ll add me to his collection of drawings, with a smile just as red.

The room is still there, under the peeling wallpaper. And I’ll never forget what I saw.

I think about the glass block, and I wonder if he can see me through it. I feel his eyes on me always. He’s waiting.

And I know that no matter how far I run, he’ll find me, because I found his room.

And now, I’m part of his story.

That’s the truth.

I pray you never find a house with a room like that.

But if you do, run. Run fast, and never look back.

Because you might see a face in the glass.

And then it’s too late.

So, this is my story. It happened in 1987, in Maine, in a house that no longer exists. But the memory, and the drawings, they remain.

And I still have that drawing in my pocket.

I’ll never show it to anyone.

But I know it’s there.

And I know he’s watching.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

I wonder if he found a new friend.

Maybe you?

No, don’t come find me.

I just wanted to warn you.

Stay away from glass block windows.

Especially the ones in old houses.

They might be a door.

A door to a room that never lets you leave.

I almost didn’t.

But I did.

For now.

But he knows my name.

He knows where I live.

And he’s patient.

So, if you’re reading this, and you see a drawing of yourself, with a smile, and a house, just remember: you opened the door.

And there’s no closing it.

Goodbye.

Don’t forget to sleep with one eye open.

Because in that room, he’s just getting started.

And he’s very good at making friends.

I know.

I was one of them.

And I still am.

He’ll never let me go.

Neither will you, if you read this.

I’ve already drawn you.

With a smile.

Just like mine.

Now, we’re together.

In the room.

See you there.

Tom.