The Glass-Fiber Coffin

It was the summer of 2009 when my partner, Elias, and I moved into a ground-floor flat in a row of terraced houses on the outskirts of Bergen. The building was from the early 1980s, all gray concrete and narrow windows, squatting low under the endless drizzle of the Norwegian west coast. We chose it for the cheap rent and the proximity to the university, ignoring the way the previous tenant had left in a hurry, his furniture still stacked in the hallway for the removals company that never came. The landlord just shrugged and said he was ‘a bit eccentric’.

The first sign came the night we unpacked the last box. We were lying in bed, the window open to let in the cool air, but the room was oddly still. The streetlight outside cast a weak orange glow through the thin curtains, and I remember watching the shadows of raindrops race down the glass. Elias was already asleep, his breathing steady. I was just drifting off when I heard a sound like a fingernail being drawn across a chalkboard—only softer, as if it came from inside the wall. I told myself it was pipes settling. But then I felt a pressure on my chest, not heavy, just a gentle, persistent push, like a cat kneading. I opened my eyes and saw a faint, shimmering shape at the foot of the bed, a distortion in the air, like heat haze. It lasted a second, then vanished. I didn’t sleep well that night.

The second episode was more deliberate. A week later, I was home alone. Elias had a late lecture, and I was in the kitchen making tea. Our flat had a peculiar layout: the living room and kitchen were separated by a half-wall, and from the kitchen sink you could see the sliding glass door that led to the small, paved courtyard. No one had entered, but as I filled the kettle, I saw the curtains over that door twitch, as if a hand had brushed them. I froze, staring. The curtains settled. Then, clear as day, I heard a whisper from the hallway: my name, ‘Liv’, drawn out in a low, hesitant voice. It wasn’t Elias’s voice. I dropped the kettle with a clatter and called out, but there was no one. I checked every room, every closet, even under the bed. The only thing I found was a small, triangular shard of glass in the hallway carpet, which I’d never seen before. It was warm to the touch.

I tried to rationalize it. The building was old, maybe it was settling. Maybe the wind had moved the curtain. But the whisper had been unmistakable, and it had said my name. That night, I told Elias, who laughed it off and said I was stressed from the move. He had a point: my thesis was due, and the constant rain was getting to me. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the flat was watching me. I started leaving every light on when I was home, and I kept the radio playing to fill the silence. But the sounds persisted—soft footsteps in the living room, a doorknob turning very slowly, and once, in the middle of the night, I woke to find the wardrobe door open, though I knew I’d closed it. Elias slept through it all, tangled in the duvet, oblivious.

The climax came on a Sunday in August. The sun had finally broken through, and the flat was bathed in a sickly, pale light. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when I looked in the mirror and saw something in the reflection: a dark shape in the doorway behind me, maybe half a meter tall, vaguely humanoid, but with proportions all wrong—long arms, a too-small head. It stood there, motionless, and then it tilted its head, as if it was studying me. I spun around, but there was nothing. My heart hammered. I could feel its presence, though, behind me, even as I stood alone. I backed out of the bathroom, refusing to turn my back, and practically ran to the living room.

That’s when I decided to investigate. I had read about such things, and I knew that the key was to understand. I searched the flat, opening every drawer and closet, looking for anything unusual. In the bedroom, under the bed, I found an old shoebox, dusty, hidden so far back that it had been concealed by the bed frame. Inside was a collection of photographs, all of the same family: a middle-aged couple and a young boy, maybe six. They were taken in this flat, I could tell from the layout of the living room. But in every photo, the boy’s face was scratched out, not with a sharp tool, but with something blunt, leaving a cloudy, worn patch. On the back of the last photo, written in pencil, was a single phrase: ‘He is still here.’

The handwriting was shaky, as if the writer had been trembling. I had never believed in ghosts, not really, but as I held that photo, a cold dread settled into my bones. I looked around the room, and the air seemed thicker. The curtains moved, though the window was closed. And then I heard it again—that whisper, but closer now, right behind me. ‘Liv,’ it said, and this time there was a note of urgency. I ran. I grabbed my jacket and keys and fled the flat, leaving Elias a note that I had to get out for a while.

I didn’t tell him the full story. I said I needed a walk. But as I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the damp air, I looked back at our flat. The window of our bedroom was dark, though I had left lights on. And in that darkness, I could just make out a shape, a faint, child-like silhouette, peering out at me. It raised a hand and waved, slowly. I didn’t wave back. I walked, aimless, for hours, and when I returned, the flat was quiet. Elias was reading on the couch, and he asked where I’d gone. I lied and said I’d lost track of time. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and at some point, I felt a small, cold hand press against my cheek. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. And then it was gone.

We moved out a month later. I never told Elias about the hand, or the whisper, or the photographs. I destroyed the shoebox, burning it in the courtyard, but even as the flames consumed the faces, I could feel its gaze on me. The new flat is brighter, newer, and I’ve tried to put it behind me. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I find a small shard of glass on the floor, or the curtains twitch in a still room. Last week, I found a photograph of myself, taken from behind, in our new bedroom. I don’t know when it was taken. I don’t know who took it. But in the photo, there is a faint, blurry shape standing just behind me, its hand raised as if in greeting. I don’t tell anyone. No one would believe me. But the glass-fiber coffin of that old flat still holds something, and I think it followed me. It wants an audience. And it’s patient.