The Lattice of Glass and Ivy

The new room was an architectural mistake, a cramped elbow of poured concrete and cheap paneling that the previous tenant had tried to soften with a coat of pale yellow paint. It had one window, a porthole of smeared glass that looked out onto a light well, a vertical shaft of brick and rusted fire escapes that caught only a sliver of sky. Below, in the damp darkness, a twisted mass of ivy climbed the walls, its leaves a sickly sheen in the perpetual twilight. I called it the Lattice of Glass and Ivy, and I had grown to hate it.

My youngest, Elara, slept in a small cot pushed against the far wall, her breath a soft susurrus in the quiet. I lay on my narrow bed, the mattress sagging in the middle, my head propped on a pillow so I could stare at the window. Tonight, the ivy seemed thicker, its tendrils pressing against the pane like fingers testing a lock. A damp, earthy smell seeped through the cracks, mingling with the faint, sour odor of the building’s old plumbing. I tried to read, but the words blurred, and I found myself listening to the building’s creaks and groans, the distant murmur of my parents’ TV from the other room.

It started with a flicker in the glass—a pale smudge that might have been a reflection of a passing car’s headlights, but the street was too far away. I set my book aside and sat up, squinting into the well. The ivy rustled, though there was no draft. A shape moved within the leaves, a suggestion of a face, a glimpse of a dark eye. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a cat, a racoon, anything but what my imagination suggested. I lay back down, pulling the sheets to my chin, and closed my eyes. But I could feel something watching, a pressure in the dark, and I feared to look.

Sleep came in fits, a feverish dream where the ivy crept through the window and wrapped around my legs, pulling me toward the glass. In the dream, I saw her—a woman with short, dark hair, wearing a rain-soaked dress the color of dried blood. She pressed her face to the pane, her lips moving, but I could hear nothing. She pointed, not at me, but at the corner of the room where the old wardrobe stood, its mirrored doors ghostly in the dim light. I woke with a start, my heart pounding, Elara’s cot silent. I realized the room was colder, and the window was open a crack, the ivy having pushed through the latch. I got up to close it, and as I reached for the handle, I saw a hand-print on the glass, small and childlike, on the outside.

The next morning, I examined the window. The ivy was as dense as ever, but I found a strand that was snapped, as if something had brushed against it. My hands trembled as I made breakfast. My parents noticed my pallor, but I said nothing. That night, I locked the window with a hasp I’d bought at a hardware store. I also moved Elara’s cot farther from the wall, and I placed a line of salt along the sill, a folk remedy I’d half-remembered. My mother laughed when she saw it, but I didn’t care.

For a week, nothing happened. I began to relax, thinking I’d imagined it, that the stress of the move had gotten to me. But then Elara started sleepwalking. I’d find her standing at the window, her small hands pressed against the glass, her eyes wide and unseeing. She’d murmur something that sounded like ‘she wants in.’ I’d carry her back to bed, my skin cold, and I’d lie awake, staring at the lattice of ivy, which seemed to grow denser by the day, its tendrils now tapping like impatient fingers.

I tried to trace the source of my dread. I spoke to a neighbor, an elderly woman who had lived in the building for decades. She lowered her voice and told me that a woman had died in my apartment, a young mother who had been sick and confined to that room. She had short, dark hair, and she always wore a red dress. The woman’s child had been taken away, and she had died alone, staring out that window, waiting for a visit that never came. My blood ran cold. The neighbor warned me not to disturb anything, not to move the wardrobe, which the woman had been fond of.

But I had to know. That night, after Elara was asleep, I pulled the wardrobe away from the wall. Behind it, hidden by the paneling, was a small door, no more than two feet square. It was painted shut, but I pried it open with a screwdriver. A cold draft rushed out, carrying the smell of damp earth and something sweet and foul. I peered inside. It was a narrow shaft, descending into blackness, lined with ivy that reached up like grasping arms. At the bottom, something glinted in the dim light—a child’s toy, a red ball. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I jumped. It was Elara, standing behind me, her eyes open but unfocused, her voice a monotone: ‘She’s coming up.’

I slammed the door shut and shoved the wardrobe back, my hands shaking so hard I could barely move the heavy piece of furniture. I spent the rest of the night in a chair, my back to the wall, my eyes on the window. Through the glass, I could see the ivy quivering, and I could swear I heard footsteps on the rungs of the fire escape, growing closer.

I called a locksmith the next day and had him bolt the window permanently, seal it shut with a metal plate. He looked at the ivy and said, ‘Don’t see that much. It’s almost like it’s being watered.’ I didn’t sleep that night either, sitting in the dark, listening to Elara’s steady breathing, and to the faint, rhythmic scratching at the glass, as if something were patiently trying to pry the bolts loose.

That was a month ago. I’ve tried to move, but the lease holds me. I’ve tried to ignore it, but the scratching continues, night after night. And last night, I saw her—the woman in the red dress, her short hair plastered to her skull, her face pressed against the window, but from the inside. She was standing in the corner, by the wardrobe, watching me with hollow eyes. She pointed at Elara, then at the window, and I understood. She wants a companion. She wants to play.

Now I hear Elara’s voice from the other room, calling me. But I’m afraid to go in. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. The ivy has started to grow through the cracks in the ceiling, and I think she’s already in. I’ve started to write this all down, to leave a record, in case someone finds it. If you read this, please, look out for the red ball. It’s already in the room with us. I can see it rolling under the wardrobe, on its own. And the window—I can’t hear the scratching anymore. I only hear a voice, singing a lullaby, in a language I don’t know. It’s in Elara’s voice, but it’s not Elara. And I know, with a certainty that chills my bones, that when I finally open that door, I’ll see my daughter sitting on the floor, playing with a woman who has no reflection in the mirror.