The Hollow Window

In the autumn of 2019, I moved into a century-old house in the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. The house had a peculiar feature: a bedroom with a large arched window that faced the dense, tangled woods behind the property. The previous owner, an elderly woman who had passed away, had left the room virtually unchanged. My Golden Retriever, Biscuit, seemed uneasy near that window, often growling at nothing.

I am a pragmatic woman, a retired nurse, and I have always dismissed supernatural tales as folklore. However, on the third night, I experienced something that shook my skepticism.

I had been working late at the hospital, and by the time I returned home, it was past eleven. Exhausted, I fell into bed without even undressing completely. My bedroom, like the original description, had the bed positioned so that one side was against the wall, and the window was directly behind the headboard. I always slept facing the window, despite the glass offering a view of the impenetrable darkness outside. Biscuit was curled up at my feet.

I drifted off within minutes. I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke to a strange pressure on my chest. The room was pitch black, and I could hear Biscuit whining. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a faint, silvery light emanating from the window, illuminating the curtains. The light was unnatural, with a cold, blue tint. I tried to move, but my limbs were heavy, as if weighed down by lead.

The pressure on my chest increased, and I felt a presence behind me, between me and the wall. I couldn’t turn my head, but I could sense it: a shape, taller than a man, with arms that seemed too long. Its cold breath brushed against my neck, and a voice, like the rustling of dry leaves, whispered in my ear: ‘You’ve taken my spot.’

I squeezed my eyes shut, reciting every prayer I knew. The pressure lifted abruptly, and I heard a soft thud on the floor. I forced myself to open my eyes. The silvery light was gone, and the room was normal. Biscuit was standing, staring at the window, his hackles raised.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, keeping the lights on. In the morning, I examined the window. There was a single handprint on the inside of the glass, as if someone had pressed their palm against it from inside the room. The print was too large for any human hand, with six fingers.

I tried to rationalize it: perhaps a prank, a smudge from cleaning. But the fear lingered. That night, I decided to sleep in the living room. As I was about to leave the bedroom, I noticed something on the floor near the bed: a small, antique brooch in the shape of a rose, tarnished and old. I had never seen it before.

I picked it up, and a chill ran through me. The brooch felt cold, as if it had been kept in a freezer. I realized then that the previous owner had probably worn such a brooch; the old photographs in the hallway showed her wearing one. But how did it end up here?

That night, as I lay on the couch, I could hear faint footsteps from the bedroom upstairs, pacing back and forth. The sound continued until dawn. The next day, I called a local historian, who informed me that the house had been built on the site of an old psychiatric hospital that had burned down in the 1920s. Several patients had died in the fire, and their bodies were never recovered. The room I used had been part of a ward.

I decided to move out, but before I did, I wanted to capture evidence of the paranormal. I set up a camera in the bedroom, aimed at the window. That night, I watched the feed from my laptop in the living room. Around 2 AM, the window began to frost over, even though the temperature inside was warm. Then, a shape emerged from the frost, a tall, gaunt figure with elongated limbs and a featureless face. It pressed its face against the glass from the outside, but I knew it was inside because the handprint appeared again, this time overlapping the first.

I ran to the window and threw it open, but there was nothing there. As I stood there, trembling, I felt a cold breath on my neck again, and the voice said, ‘You’re still in my spot.’ I spun around, but the room was empty. Then, the brooch on the dresser, where I had placed it, began to glow faintly. It rose into the air, floated toward the window, and vanished through the glass.

I left the house that night, never to return. The brooch was never seen again. I later learned that the historical society had investigated the property and discovered a hidden room behind the wall of my bedroom, sealed with bricks. Inside were the remains of a patient who had escaped the fire but had been trapped. The patient had a deformed hand with six fingers.

Now, I can’t sleep in any room with a window facing a wall. Every time I close my eyes, I see that frost, and I hear the whisper: ‘You’ve taken my spot.’