The Glass House

My mother, Elena, was born in a village nestled in the Carpathian Mountains, where the old ways still held sway. She had always been sensitive to the unseen, but after we moved to the city, she tried to leave that part of her behind. My father, Marcus, was a cruel man, and I have no fond memories of him. He left us when I was three, and we never spoke of him again.

When I was ten, a police officer appeared at our door. My father had died, he said, a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. My mother’s face went pale, and she crossed herself, muttering a prayer I didn’t recognize. At the funeral, I watched her from across the room. She held a rosary so tightly that her knuckles were white. She didn’t cry, but her eyes darted to the corners of the room, as if expecting someone else to be there.

A week after the burial, strange things began to happen in our small apartment. My mother had a habit of leaving a glass of water on the windowsill overnight, a remnant of her village superstition to keep away bad dreams. Every morning, the water would be murky, like silt had settled at the bottom. She would pour it out, but the glass itself left a ring of grey residue that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

Then, the plants on our balcony began to die. It started with the basil, then the tomatoes. Their leaves would curl and blacken overnight, as if scorched by frost. My mother would whisper to them, but they withered anyway. I once saw her hold her hand over the soil and mutter, ‘He’s still here.’

One night, I woke to a sound like a gurgling breath. I crept to the kitchen and saw my mother standing at the window, staring at the glass of water. It was bubbling, as if boiling, though it was cold. She didn’t move, and in the reflection, I saw something beside her, a tall, dark shape with no face. I screamed, and she spun around, her face a mask of terror. ‘He’s come back,’ she said, her voice trembling.

The next morning, she called my aunt, her sister, and I listened from behind the door. ‘The glass,’ she said. ‘It’s filled with his anger. He was always so angry.’ My aunt told her to come home, to the village, where the old rituals could protect her.

We packed our things, but as we left the apartment, the lights flickered, and I heard a faint, wet sound, like something dragging across the floor. My mother didn’t look back, but I did. In the hallway, a shadow emerged from our doorway, following us.

The train ride to the village was long, and my mother barely spoke. She kept her hand on her chest, over a small pouch she wore she never let me touch. ‘It’s a charm,’ she explained, ‘to keep the dead from following.’ But when we arrived, I saw the pouch was empty, its stitching torn.

The village was as old as time, with crooked houses and a church that leaned to one side. My grandmother’s house was on the edge of the woods. The moment we stepped inside, I felt the weight of something watching me. My mother clutched me, her eyes scanning every corner.

That night, I had a dream. I saw my father, but not as I remembered him. He was gaunt, his skin grey, and his head was split open, oozing dark blood. He stood at the end of my bed, and he pointed at the window. When I looked, there was a glass of water on the sill, but it was filled with what looked like black ink. I woke screaming.

My mother rushed in, and I told her what I saw. She began to cry, and she pulled me close. ‘He won’t let us go,’ she whispered. ‘He never did.’

We found out later that the bullet hadn’t killed my father instantly. He had survived for hours, dragging himself through the house, leaving a trail of blood. In his final moments, he had crawled to the garden, where my mother’s prized roses grew, and he had whispered a curse into the soil.

All through the village, people began to find grey rings on their windowsills, and their plants died. The old women crossed themselves and muttered about the glass man. They said he hadn’t just come for us, but for the whole village.

One evening, I was in the cellar, looking for preserves, when I saw a shard of a broken mirror. In it, reflected behind me, was the shape of my father, but his eyes were black holes. He reached out, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I spun around, but nothing was there.

The next day, my mother refused to leave the house. She sat in the corner, clutching a dried branch, whispering a prayer. I tried to talk to her, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on the water glass in the window, which was slowly filling with a grey sludge.

I decided I had to end it. I remembered that my father had hated water, never bathing, crossing streams only at bridges. So I took the glass, carried it to the well, and poured the sludge into the dark water. As I did, I heard a guttural scream, and the well’s surface rippled, even though there was no wind.

That night, I heard my mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. When I went in, she was standing over the stove, her back to me. ‘He’s gone,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘He’s finally gone.’ But when she turned, her eyes were wrong, too bright, and the smile on her face was not her own.

I backed away, and she advanced. ‘You thought you could wash him away?’ she said, but it was his voice, coming from her mouth. ‘You think water can cleanse what I planted in your blood?’ She laughed, a sound like dry leaves.

I ran. I grabbed the branch she had been holding, a piece of rowan, and pointed it at her. ‘Leave her alone!’ I shouted. The thing wearing my mother paused, and for a second, her eyes flickered. ‘Elena,’ I said, ‘fight him.’

Her body shook, and she vomited water, black and thick. Then she collapsed, and I caught her. She was cold, but alive. When she opened her eyes, she looked at me with recognition. ‘It was in the water,’ she whispered. ‘He poisoned the well. He poisoned everything.’

We left the village that night, and we haven’t returned. But sometimes, when I pour a glass of water, I see a swirl of grey at the bottom. And I wonder if he’s still waiting, somewhere, for the water to bring him back.