The High Window

When I was twelve, my family moved to a small, sleepy town called Millbrook, nestled in the rolling hills of upstate New York. It was the kind of place where nothing ever happened, and the only history was in the old, decaying mill that gave the town its name. Our house was at the edge of town, a two-story Victorian with peeling paint and a creaky porch. My room was at the end of the hall, and attached to it was a small bathroom with a window so high I had to tiptoe on a stool to see out. It looked over the backyard, which was overgrown with weeds and ended at the edge of a dark, tangled forest.

I was not a particularly brave child. I hated the dark, and I had a habit of leaving the bathroom door closed and the light off at night because I felt like something was watching me from the shadows. That feeling was always there, a prickling at the back of my neck, but I never did anything about it. I just shut the door and tried to ignore it.

The first time it happened, I was settling into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The hallway light cast a thin line under my door, and the room was mostly dark. I glanced toward the bathroom, and my breath caught. The door was open about a foot, a dark gap that I knew I had closed. I stared at it, feeling the familiar dread twist in my stomach. I forced myself to get up, cross the room, and push the door shut, the click of the latch echoing in the silence. I hurried back to bed and pulled the covers over my head, falling asleep to the sound of my own heartbeat.

It happened again a few nights later. And then again. Each time, the door would be open a little wider. The third time, it was half open. The fourth, three-quarters. The fifth, it was fully open, yawning black, and I could see the faint outline of the high window, the moonlight making it glow like a silver eye. I was trembling as I got up, but I slammed the door shut with more force than I intended, making the whole frame shake. I leaned against it, my heart hammering, and I felt something cold seep through the wood, as if something on the other side was pressing back.

That night, I had a dream. In the dream, I was standing in the bathroom, and the high window was open. A figure was perched on the sill, its back to me, its form indistinct. It was humming a tune, a strange, dissonant melody that I could not get out of my head even after I woke up. I woke with a start, the room dark, and I knew without looking that the bathroom door was open again. I did not get up. I just lay there, staring at the gap, and I could see two faint red dots in the darkness, like eyes watching me.

I told my parents, but they laughed it off. ‘It’s just an old house settling,’ my father said. ‘Maybe a draft,’ my mother added. But I knew better. The door latch was firm; the window did not open more than an inch. I started sleeping with the hallway light on, but that made it worse, because I could see the shadow of the door in the light, and the gap was always there, no matter how many times I closed it.

One night, I woke up to the sound of the bathroom door creaking open slowly, inch by inch. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. I heard a soft thud, like something landing on the floor, and then the sound of bare feet on the tile. I could not move. I felt a presence fill the room, a cold that seeped into my bones. I opened my eyes a crack, and I saw a figure standing at the foot of my bed, a thin silhouette with long hair that hung over its face. It was humming that same melody. And then it turned its head, and I saw its face, pale and gaunt, with black hollows for eyes.

I must have fainted, because the next thing I knew, it was morning, and the sun was streaming through my window. The bathroom door was closed, but the high window was open, the glass fogged with condensation. I got up, and I saw a damp footprint on the tile, a small print, as if from a child’s bare foot. It led from the window, across the bathroom, and into my room, stopping at the foot of my bed.

I told my parents everything, and finally they listened. They called in a priest, a local reverend, who came and blessed the house. He said he felt a presence, a lonely spirit of a girl who had died in the house years ago, a child who had fallen from that high window while playing. She had been forgotten, her ghost trapped in the circle of the room, forever trying to get out. He said the open door was her way of seeking company, but her loneliness had turned to malice over the years.

After the blessing, the door never opened on its own again. But I never felt truly safe. Years later, when I was grown, I returned to the house for my parents’ funeral. I went to my old room, and the bathroom door was ajar. I hesitated, but I pushed it open. The high window was open, and a cold draft swept through. On the sill, I saw a small, dusty handprint, as if someone had been sitting there, watching the yard, waiting. And from somewhere far off, I heard that humming melody, drifting on the air.

I closed the window and left the house that day, and I never went back. But sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I hear that tune, and I know that the high window is still open, and someone is still waiting.