The Glass Visitor

It was late October, the year I turned seventeen, and the house on Cedar Lane felt emptier than ever. My parents were away on a business trip, leaving me alone with the creaking floorboards and the restless wind that rattled the old windows. I’d gotten used to the solitude, even enjoyed it, but that night something felt off. I was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of milk, when I noticed a figure standing by the sliding glass door that led to the back porch.

She was young, maybe nineteen, with hair the color of autumn leaves and a dress so red it seemed to drink the dim light. I froze, my hand gripping the cold glass. The house was locked; I was certain. Yet there she stood, her back to me, perfectly still, like a statue carved from moonlight. I should have been terrified, and I was, but curiosity gnawed at me. Who was she? How did she get in? I wanted to call out, but my voice was stuck in my throat.

For what felt like an eternity, I just watched her. She didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe. Then, as if sensing my gaze, she turned slowly. Her face was pale, with eyes so dark they looked like voids. She didn’t look angry or threatening; she looked as frightened of me as I was of her. That fear in her eyes made me want to help, to step forward and offer some comfort, but I couldn’t move. The air in the kitchen grew cold, and I shivered.

I dared to take a step closer, my heart pounding. She took a step back, pressing against the glass. I noticed her hands were trembling, and I saw that she was clutching something small and metallic. Then, for no reason I could understand, I glanced at the refrigerator. On it was a photo of my family, and in the reflection I caught a glimpse of her again, but this time she wasn’t just standing there. She was mouthing something silently, her lips forming words I couldn’t parse.

When I looked back at her, she was gone. The sliding door was still locked, the porch empty under the pale porch light. I ran to the door, my breath fogging the glass, but there was no sign of her ever being there. I spent the rest of the night searching the house, every room, every closet, but she was gone. I told myself it was a dream, a trick of the light, but I couldn’t shake the image of her terrified face.

The next morning, I found something on the kitchen counter. It was a small, tarnished locket, the kind you’d expect to find in an antique shop. I opened it, and inside was a faded photograph of a young woman who looked just like her, wearing the same blood-red dress. On the back, written in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘Please let me out.’ I never saw her again, but sometimes, when I’m alone in that kitchen, I catch a reflection in the glass of a figure standing by the door, waiting. And I wonder if she’s still there, trying to get in, or trying to get out.