The Glass Visitor

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in late October when I agreed to watch my eight-year-old cousin, Ellie, while her parents attended a wedding across town. The sky was an odd shade of bruised purple, and the wind had picked up, rattling the bare branches of the maple trees that lined the cul-de-sac. I was nineteen, home from college for the weekend, and had foolishly volunteered to babysit to avoid a family dinner I wanted no part of. Ellie was a sweet kid, but she had a bottomless appetite for cartoons, and within an hour of her arrival, I was already yawning into my palm.

We were sprawled on the living room floor of my parents’ house, the television blaring some animated show about a talking sponge with an unnerving high-pitched laugh. Ellie was enraptured, her nose practically touching the screen, while I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. My throat was dry, so I asked, ‘Ellie, want a juice box?’ She nodded without looking away. I hauled myself up and padded into the kitchen, the linoleum cold against my bare feet. I poured her a glass of apple juice and grabbed a soda for myself.

When I returned, Ellie had scooted closer to the TV. I set the juice on the coaster beside her and flopped back onto the lounge. The same cloying theme song played for the third time, and I felt my eye twitch. ‘Ellie, can we watch something else? Please? There’s this documentary about deep sea creatures I’ve been wanting to show you.’ She stuck out her tongue. ‘No! My show.’ I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Then, as a last resort, I tried, ‘How about we go outside and play? The leaves are perfect for jumping in.’ Ellie’s eyes lit up, and she scrambled to her feet. ‘Okay, but only for a little bit.’

I grabbed her hand, and we made for the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. I reached for the handle, but the moment my fingers touched the metal, I froze. There was a boy standing on the other side, his face pressed against the glass. He was small—maybe three or four—with a shock of dark hair plastered to his forehead, despite the fact that it wasn’t raining. His eyes were wide and unblinking, and he had one small palm flat against the pane. He wore a faded red t-shirt and gray shorts, both smudged with what looked like mud, but his expression wasn’t playful. It was vacant, almost hungry.

I took a step back, dragging Ellie with me. My heart had started to pound, but I forced my voice to stay steady. ‘Ellie, do you see that little boy?’ I whispered. Ellie squinted at the door, frowned, and looked up at me with that impish expression she got when she thought I was joking. ‘What little boy? You’re freaking me out, Maddie.’ I turned back to the door. He was still there, but now his lips were moving, forming words I couldn’t hear. I leaned closer, certain I’d misheard, and that’s when I noticed the reflection. The boy wasn’t standing in the yard; he was standing on the other side of the glass, inside the house. I saw his reflection against the living room furniture, and it was wrong—his mirror image was slightly out of sync, like a lagging livestream.

I yanked Ellie toward the kitchen, my mind racing. ‘We need to call your mom,’ I said, but when I tried to dial, the phone was dead. Ellie pouted, annoyed at the disruption. ‘I want to go back outside.’ I looked over my shoulder. The boy had moved. He was now in the hallway, just beyond the kitchen door, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. My blood ran cold. ‘There’s no boy, Ellie. He’s just a tree shadow,’ I lied, but my words felt hollow. I grabbed Ellie’s hand again and started for the front door, but it was locked, and the key was nowhere to be found. The windows the backyard looked like a glass prison.

Ellie pulled away, stomping her foot, and marched back toward the living room. ‘Stop being weird! It’s my show time!’ I chased after her, fear clawing at my throat. When I reached the doorway, she was standing in the center of the room, staring at the TV, which had turned itself on to static. The boy was now sitting on the couch, his legs swinging, humming a tune I recognized from a lullaby my grandmother used to sing. Ellie was looking at him now, her expression changing from annoyance to confusion. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. The boy smiled, and his teeth were wrong—gums black, like rot. He pointed to the TV, and the static started to coalesce into shapes: a woman’s face, screaming silently.

I shouted Ellie’s name and ran to her, scooping her up. She cried out in surprise, and the boy vanished. The static cleared. The phone buzzed to life. The front door key was in the lock. I didn’t wait, didn’t question, just bolted out the door and to the neighbor’s house, my heart in my throat. That night, as I lay in my old bed, I couldn’t shake the image of that boy’s reflection lagging behind. I convinced myself it was a trick of the light, a nightmare from a sleepy afternoon. But then, before I drifted off, I heard a soft tapping on my bedroom window. I pulled the curtain back. The boy was there, but now he was older—maybe seven—and his face was pressed against the glass, his lips moving. I couldn’t hear, but I could read the shape. ‘You left me.’ I know it wasn’t real. But every Sunday since, when the light hits just right, I see a small figure lingering at the edge of any glass surface. And I never babysit again.