The Glass Door on the Bay

I never believed in ghosts, not really. I mean, I wanted to, especially after my grandma passed and then my mom. But wanting and believing are two different things, aren’t they? I used to spend nights at my grandma’s house, the one with the big glass door that looked out onto the lake. My grandma would sit in her rocking chair, watching the fishermen cast their lines, and I’d sit on the floor with my back against the wall, feeling the cool draft from under the door. She’d tell me stories about her childhood, about the time she saw a deer swim across the water, about the old man who lived in the cabin on the other side and never seemed to age. I loved those nights. But after she died, I stopped going over there. The house felt different, emptier. My mom tried to keep it up, but we barely visited. Then my mom got sick, and we moved in with my aunt. That’s when the dreams started.

It was always the same dream. I was back at the house, standing in the living room, staring at that glass door. The lake was churning, gray, with whitecaps, and the sky was the color of wet cement. And there, on the other side of the glass, was my grandma. She was wearing her favorite blue dress, the one with the pearl buttons, and she was pressing her palm against the glass, but her mouth was moving like she was trying to tell me something. I could never hear her. I’d wake up with my heart pounding, and I’d lie there in the dark, feeling the absence of her presence like a physical weight.

I never told anyone about the dreams. I thought they were just my way of mourning. But then, one night, I was awake. I couldn’t sleep, so I walked downstairs, barefoot on the cold hardwood, and sat on the floor in front of the glass door. The lake was calm, a silver mirror under the full moon, and I could see the silhouettes of a few fishing boats in the distance. I don’t know how long I sat there, just staring, but then I saw it. A figure standing at the edge of the water. It was tall and thin, wearing a long coat that seemed to move even though there was no wind. It wasn’t my grandma. I would have recognized her. This thing was wrong, hunched slightly, as if its shoulders were too heavy for its frame. It turned its head slowly, and even though it was too far to see its face, I felt a horrible certainty that it was looking at me.

I tried to move, but my legs were locked. The figure took a step, and then another, but it didn’t get closer. Instead, the water rose around it, covering its feet, then its waist, then its chest, until the figure was nothing but a dark head bobbing on the surface. And then it disappeared. I blinked, and it was gone. I thought I’d imagined it, but my throat was raw from holding back a scream. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next morning, I told my aunt about the dream, but I didn’t mention the figure. She just nodded and said that grief does strange things to the mind. But I knew what I saw. I decided to stay up again the next night, and I brought my grandma’s old camera with the zoom lens. I sat in the dark, waiting. Nothing happened until about 2 A.M., when the water started swirling near the shore, like something was churning beneath the surface. I raised the camera and snapped a few pictures. When I looked at the screen, there was a blurry shape in the water, dark and indistinct. I felt a cold dread settle into my bones.

Over the next week, the sightings became more frequent. Sometimes it stood on the shore, sometimes it was half-submerged in the lake. It always faced the house, and I always felt its gaze on me. I tried to research the area, but all I found was an old newspaper article about a fisherman who went missing on the lake in the 1940s. His body was never found. The article called it a freak accident. But something in my gut told me there was more.

One night, I woke up to a loud tapping on the glass door. I rushed downstairs and saw a hand pressed against the outside of the glass, the fingers splayed wide. It was pale, almost grey, and the nails were long and yellowed. I stumbled backwards, but the hand didn’t move. Then, slowly, it slid down the glass, leaving a trail of wetness. I didn’t stop to think. I ran to the phone and called the police, but by the time they arrived, there was nothing there. They thought I was a prankster, a kid with too much imagination. But I knew what I saw.

A few days later, I found my grandma’s old journal in a chest in the attic. It was filled with her neat, handwritten entries, but the last few pages were different. The handwriting was shaky, almost frantic. She wrote about a presence in the lake, something that had been there since she was a child. She wrote about a bargain she made, but she didn’t say with whom. The last entry read: ‘If anything happens to me, do not go to the water. Do not look out at night. Keep the door closed.’ I closed the journal, my hands trembling. I didn’t go to the water. I didn’t look out. I kept the door closed. And for a week, nothing happened.

Then, my mom died. I was devastated, and I felt more alone than ever. I wanted a sign that she was okay, that she was still with me. And in my grief, I forgot my grandma’s warning. One night, I went to the glass door and pressed my hand against it, calling out into the darkness, ‘Mom, if you’re there, please show me a sign.’ The lake was completely still. A few minutes passed, and nothing. I turned to go back to bed, but as I did, I caught a glimpse of movement in the reflection. A figure was standing behind me, reflected in the glass. It was tall and thin, dripping water, and its face was obscured by strands of dark hair, but I could see its eyes, black and endless. I couldn’t move. I could only watch as the reflection raised a finger to its lips, as if to quiet me, and then pointed at the lake. I turned slowly, and in the moonlight, I saw a small hand rising from the water, reaching for the sky. Then, a burst of light, and the image vanished. I fell to the floor, gasping.

I never went back to that house. I sold it, or rather, I had my aunt sell it. I never told anyone the full story, because who would believe me? But I still have dreams, and in those dreams, I see the lake, and I see my grandma waving at me from the shore, and my mom standing beside her, both of them silent, both of them pointing at the water. And in the water, there is a dark shape, waiting. I still want a sign, but now I’m too afraid to ask. Because I know now that some things on the other side are not guardian angels. Some things just want to be seen, and they will do anything to make sure you never forget them. And the glass door, that door is still there, staring out at the bay, waiting for the next soul foolish enough to look.