The Half-Raised Shade

The first time I noticed it was the morning we finally unpacked the last box. We’d moved into a sprawling Victorian house in the Berkshires, a place my mother had inherited from a great-aunt she barely remembered. My father, a commercial pilot, was away more than he was home, so it was just me, my mom, and my little brother, Leo. I was eleven, Leo was six.

That morning, I shuffled to the bathroom to brush my teeth, still half asleep. The window there was tall and narrow, and the blinds were pulled up to exactly halfway. I yawned, thinking nothing of it, and went to wake Leo for school. His window was the same—blinds at half-mast. Curious, I padded down the hallway to the landing. The big picture window there also had its blinds raised exactly halfway. A cold tingle ran down my spine. I went downstairs, checking every window. The living room, the dining room, the kitchen—all had their blinds pulled up to the exact same height. Only my bedroom, at the end of the hall, was untouched, its blinds still lowered as I’d left them.

I called my mom, who was making coffee. ‘Did you open all the blinds?’ I asked. She looked at me blankly. ‘No, I haven’t touched them. Maybe the realtor did?’ But we’d been there for two weeks, and they’d never been like that before. I felt a knot in my stomach. I told Leo to stay close that day.

A few days later, I woke to a strange sound: a soft, rhythmic tapping against glass. I turned to the window. There was a tree branch outside, but the wind was still. The tapping was coming from *inside* the window pane, like someone was tapping from the other side. I watched as the blinds began to rise on their own, slowly, jerkily, until they stopped at the halfway point. My heart hammered. I screamed for my mom, but she was in the shower. By the time she came, the blinds were still halfway, and I couldn’t explain it.

That evening, I decided to set a trap. I placed a small piece of tape on the window sill and marked the exact position of the blinds on the tape. I checked it every hour. At 2:17 a.m., I was jolted awake by a soft click. I looked at the window. The blinds were rising. I watched, frozen, as they reached the halfway mark and stopped. I flicked on my flashlight, but the tape was gone. In its place was a small, perfectly folded piece of paper. My hands shook as I unfolded it. Written in neat, old-fashioned cursive were three words: ‘Come and see.’

I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I searched the house for anything hidden. In the attic, beneath a dusty tarp, I found a child’s diary. The name on the inside cover was ‘Margaret.’ The last entry was dated October 12, 1923. It read: ‘I saw the half-raised shade today. It means she’s coming. The lady in white who wants to play. She pulled the shade for me, but I didn’t go. Now she’s angry. I’m scared. If you’re reading this, do not raise the blinds. Do not answer when she calls. She only wants to find a new friend.’

I slammed the diary shut. I told my mom we should leave, but she thought I was being dramatic. That night, I heard Leo crying from his room. I rushed in. He was sitting up in bed, pointing at his window. The blinds were halfway up, and in the moonlight, I saw a pale, gaunt face pressed against the glass, lips moving silently. I grabbed Leo and ran to my parents’ room, but my mom was gone. I found her downstairs, standing in the kitchen, staring at the window. She was muttering to herself, ‘She wants me to play.’ I saw her reflection in the glass—but it wasn’t her. It was a woman in a white dress, with hollow eyes, smiling.

I don’t remember what I did next. All I know is that we left that house the next morning, and we never went back. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I still see the blinds move—just a little, just enough to let the moonlight through. And I hear a soft voice, barely a whisper, saying, ‘Come and see.’ I’ve never raised a blind in my house since. Not even to look outside. Because I know she’s still waiting, behind the glass, for someone to pull the shade up halfway.