The Glass-Eyed Kestrel

I am twenty-three now, but when I was fifteen, I lived with my grandparents in a decaying farmhouse on the edge of a town that had given up on itself. The house was built in the 1880s, and my room was at the top of a narrow, twisting staircase that creaked with every step. The door to my room was old and warped, and it wouldn’t stay closed unless you propped it with a heavy glass paperweight that my grandmother had shaped like a kestrel—its eyes were two shards of obsidian that seemed to drink the light. I always kept that door cracked open just a few inches, because the latch was broken, and the paperweight would scrape against the floorboards if the door moved even slightly. That was my alarm system, if you could call it that.

That night, I was reading a dog-eared paperback by the light of an oil lamp, because the power had gone out earlier that evening and the generator was acting up. The lamp sat on a rickety nightstand, casting a weak, amber glow that made the shadows in the corners of the room seem to breathe. The house was silent except for the wind rattling the windows and the occasional creak of the old timers settling. I had just reached a chapter where the protagonist was descending into a forgotten well, and I remember thinking how much I disliked the feeling of enclosed spaces. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, I was being pulled out of a dreamless sleep by a sound that I couldn’t place at first.

It was the paperweight sliding across the floor—a slow, deliberate scrape, as if something was pushing the door open inch by inch. My eyes felt heavy, my mind still wrapped in the fog of sleep, but I forced them open just a crack. The lamp had burned low, casting a shifting, hypnotic glow across the ceiling. In the doorway, framed by the darkness beyond, stood a figure. It was tall and impossibly thin, with limbs that seemed too long for its body, and its head was tilted at an unnatural angle, as if it was listening to something only it could hear. The figure didn’t move, just stood there, and I could feel its presence bearing down on me like a weight on my chest. I couldn’t see any features, just a black silhouette against the gloom of the hallway.

I tried to convince myself it was my grandfather, checking on me after the power outage, but the shape was wrong. My grandfather was stout and walked with a shuffle; this figure was lean and utterly still, like a predator waiting. The house was dead quiet—no creaks, no wind, nothing—as if the world had held its breath. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead, and my heart hammered so loudly I was sure the figure could hear it. I did the only thing I could think of: I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that it would go away. I lay there, stiff and barely breathing, listening for the scrape of the paperweight again, but there was only silence.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard a soft, tapping sound—like a finger running along the doorframe. Then, a low, guttural whisper, not quite words, more like a hum that vibrated in my bones. It was coming from the hallway, but it seemed to coil around the room, brushing against my ears. I forced myself to open my eyes again, and the figure was gone. The doorway was empty, and the paperweight was lying in the middle of the floor, as if it had been kicked aside. The house was still silent, but now the silence felt different, like it was listening.

I didn’t sleep again that night. I lay awake until the first gray light of dawn seeped through the curtains, and then I crept downstairs. My grandparents were already in the kitchen, and I asked them if they had come into my room last night. They both looked at me with blank, tired eyes, and my grandfather shook his head. He said he hadn’t left their bedroom all night. My grandmother didn’t say anything, just stared at me for a long moment before turning back to the stove. I told them about the figure, and my grandmother’s face went pale. She set down the spatula and said, in a voice that was almost a whisper, “That was the third time.” I asked her what she meant, but she just shook her head and walked out of the room, her slippers scuffing against the linoleum.

I never found out what she meant. I tried to ask my grandfather later, but he refused to talk about it, and he got angry when I pushed. A few months later, I moved out to live with my parents, and I haven’t been back to that house since. But sometimes, in the dead of night, when I’m trying to fall asleep, I hear that scraping sound, like a heavy object being dragged across a wooden floor. And I see the glass-eyed kestrel, its obsidian eyes glinting in the dark, watching me from the corner of the room. I know it’s not the real bird, just a memory. But every time I close my eyes, I can’t help but wonder if that figure is still standing in my doorway, waiting for me to open my eyes just a crack, so it can step inside.