The Glass Door

It was a raw, gray afternoon in March when I found myself sprawled on the couch at my friend Elara’s place, watching her practice back handsprings on the front lawn. Her family’s house sat on a sprawling property at the edge of a dense pine forest, and the front door was a single sheet of glass, a window really, that gave a clear view of the driveway and the lawn beyond. Elara’s parents had just left for the grocery store, leaving us alone with the creaking floorboards and the occasional gust of wind rattling the panes.

I was cozying under a knitted throw, my breath fogging the cold glass as I watched Elara’s blond ponytail whip through the air. She was determined, her face set in concentration, counting her steps before each tumbling pass. I was just glad I wasn’t out there shivering. ‘That was a ten,’ I called, though I had no clue about cheerleading. She rolled her eyes and tried again, her giggles echoing in the empty space.

The house was old, with a low ceiling and a smell of cedar and dust. The couch I sat on was against the wall opposite the glass door, and to my right was the dining room, leading to the kitchen and a side door that creaked. To my left, a hallway stretched into the dark recesses of the house, where the bedrooms were. The whole place felt like a time capsule, with floral wallpaper and heavy wooden furniture.

I was watching Elara when I noticed something odd: a small, dark shape at the edge of the lawn, just where the trees began. It looked like a child, standing still, watching Elara. I blinked, and it was gone. Must be a deer or a trick of the light, I thought. I rubbed my eyes and refocused on Elara, who was attempting a roundoff back handspring. She landed awkwardly and looked up at the house, waving. I waved back, but she didn’t move. She just stood there, frozen, her gaze fixed on the window.

Then she pointed at the door.

I turned my head, and there it was: a face pressed against the glass. But it wasn’t a real face. It was like a smudge that vaguely resembled a child’s visage, with hollow eyes and a grinning mouth that seemed etched into the glass. I jolted, my heart slamming against my ribs. The face vanished, leaving only my pale reflection. I laughed nervously, telling myself it was just my imagination, a trick of the afternoon light filtering through the pines.

But Elara had stopped practicing. She was walking to the house, her face pale, her eyes wide. ‘Did you see that?’ she mouthed through the glass. I shook my head, not trusting my voice. She came inside, closing the door quickly, and locked it. ‘There’s someone out there,’ she whispered. ‘I saw a little boy, sitting on the porch step, swinging his legs.’ My blood ran cold. I had seen something too, but I couldn’t put a name to it.

We decided to check the house. The rooms were dim, the hallway light flickering as we passed. In the kitchen, the back door was slightly ajar, banging softly against the frame. Elara latched it, muttering about her brother never closing anything. We returned to the living room, but we were both on edge. I sat on the couch, facing the glass door, and Elara perched on the armrest, watching the yard.

Minutes passed like hours. The wind picked up, and the pine trees swayed, casting dancing shadows across the lawn. Then, near the tree line, I saw a figure again, this time clearer: a small boy in overalls, barefoot, his face as gray as the sky. He was just standing there, staring at the house. I pointed, and Elara gasped. ‘I see him too,’ she whispered.

The boy took a step forward, then another, moving with a jerky, unnatural gait. He stopped at the edge of the yard, about twenty feet from the door. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He just stood there, his head tilted, as if he was waiting. We were paralyzed, our hands gripping the cushions.

Then the doorbell rang.

We both screamed. We didn’t move. The doorbell rang again, more insistent. Elara crept to the door, her hand trembling on the handle. ‘Who is it?’ she called. No answer. She looked through the glass, and I could see her face contort in fear. ‘There’s no one there,’ she said, her voice cracking. But as she turned to look at me, her expression shifted to one of absolute horror. I followed her gaze to the glass door: there, pressed against the pane, was a handprint. A small, muddy handprint, as if a child had just pressed its palm to the glass, leaving a smeared outline.

We were about to unlock the back door and run for the neighbors when the phone rang. It was Elara’s mother, asking if she wanted anything from the store. Elara stammered, ‘Mom, there’s a little boy out here, he rang the doorbell, but there’s no one there.’ Her mother laughed. ‘Honey, there’s a legend about that house. An old lady used to live there with her grandson, he drowned in the creek behind the property. Some people say they see the boy, but he’s harmless; he just likes to play tricks.’

We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Elara hung up, and we looked at each other. The handprint was still there. I had the strange urge to place my hand over it, to leave my own print, maybe to prove it was real. I walked to the door, feeling a pull, an unnatural curiosity. I pressed my palm to the glass, and as I did, the temperature dropped. I could feel something on the other side, pushing back, not a hand but a pressure, like the glass was breathing.

I snatched my hand away, and the handprint changed: it had become two prints, side by side, one larger and one smaller, as if another hand had joined mine from outside. Elara screamed, and I stumbled back. We knew then that we had to get out. We ran to the kitchen, but the back door was locked, and the key was missing. We tried the front door, but it wouldn’t budge, as if something was holding it shut.

We were trapped. The house grew darker, the shadows lengthening. We heard a faint sound, like a child humming, coming from the hallway. We huddled together, watching the darkness, praying for our parents to come home. And then the humming stopped, and the light bulb above the couch flickered. I looked at the glass door one last time.

In the reflection, I saw not just Elara and me, but a third figure, small and gray, standing between us, its face a smear, its hand pressed to the glass as if to wave. And in that moment, I understood: we had not seen a ghost; we had been invited into its game, and the game was just beginning.

When our parents returned, they found us huddled in the far corner of the living room, clutching each other, the glass door wide open, letting the cold wind in. They asked us what had happened, but we couldn’t speak. All I could do was stare at the handprints on the glass, two pairs, one old and one new, and wonder where the ghost had taken the small boy’s soul, and whether it would ever let us go.