The Man in the Fire Escape

I’ve been looking after Marta and Leo for nearly two weeks now, the children of my neighbor, Clara. We’re not exactly friends, but as a single mom working the night shift at a hospital, she seemed stretched thin, and her story about her ex-husband was enough to make anyone’s heart ache. We live on the fourth floor of a walk-up in the old industrial district, our doors facing each other across a narrow, dim hallway. Each evening, I finish my own shift at the local print shop, grab a quick bite, and then knock on her door at five. Clara trusts me with her kids, and I take that seriously.

Tonight, as usual, I found the kids already in their pajamas, their dinner laid out on the table. Marta, the two-year-old, was toddling around with a stuffed bunny, while Leo, five, was drawing at the coffee table. I fed them, gave them baths, and then began their bedtime routine. They have a little ritual of looking out their bedroom window before climbing into bed. Usually they giggle and wave, as if playing a game with someone outside. I always dismissed it as imagination, but tonight, Leo pointed and whispered, ‘He’s back.’ I felt a chill crawl up my spine and turned to look. The window faced a rusty old fire escape, and beyond it, the brick wall of the adjacent building. In the dim glow of the streetlamp, I saw nothing. I pulled the curtains shut, told them it was just a dream, and tucked them in.

I tried to shake the unease as I returned to my apartment across the hall. But as I settled in to read, I heard a faint scraping sound from the hallway. I peered through the peephole and saw nothing. Thinking it was just the old building settling, I went to bed. That night, I dreamt of eyes watching me from the darkness, and woke with a jolt at 3 a.m. A soft thud came from the direction of the kids’ bedroom. Panic seized me. I threw on my robe and hurried across the hall, using my spare key. The hallway was empty, but I could have sworn I saw a shadow slip into the stairwell. I locked the door behind me and entered the kids’ room. Marta was fast asleep, but Leo was sitting up, staring at the window. ‘He said he’d come back when the moon is high,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘He asked if he could play with us.’

The next evening, I told Clara about the children’s strange behavior and the noises. To my surprise, she didn’t laugh it off. Her face went pale, and she clutched her locket. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘I thought we left him behind.’ She then told me a story she’d never shared before. Her ex-husband had been obsessive, controlling. He used to stand outside their old apartment, just watching. He would climb the fire escape at night and press his face against the glass, playing a twisted game with the kids. She’d gotten a restraining order, but he disappeared before the trial. She moved to this building hoping to escape, but now she feared he had found them. She asked me to keep the kids safe for one more night while she went to the police to file a report. I couldn’t refuse.

That night, after Clara left, I put the kids to bed, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. I closed the bedroom window and locked it, drew the curtains, and double-checked the door. I sat in the living room, trying to stay awake, listening to the building’s creaks. Around midnight, I heard a noise from the kids’ room. A soft tapping on glass. I tiptoed to the bedroom and peeked through the curtain. There, on the fire escape, stood a gaunt man with wild eyes, his face pressed against the pane. He raised a hand and tapped again, then smiled, revealing yellow teeth. I froze. He mouthed something and then pointed at the window lock. I saw he was holding a small crowbar. Panic surged through me. I grabbed my phone and called 911, whispering my address. As I spoke, the man began to pry at the window frame.

I realized I had to act. I put the kids in the bathroom, the only room with a lock, and told them to be quiet. I grabbed a kitchen knife and returned to the bedroom. The man had pried the window open and was climbing in. I brandished the knife and shouted for him to leave. He laughed and said, ‘I just want to see my kids.’ I lunged at him, and we struggled. He was stronger, but I managed to push him back against the window. He lost his balance and tumbled backward onto the fire escape, then fell with a sickening thud to the concrete below. I stood there, trembling, the knife still in my hand.

The police arrived minutes later. They found the man’s body on the pavement. It was indeed Clara’s ex-husband. I later learned that he had been stalking her for years, using the fire escapes to watch kids in various buildings. The children’s game was their way of coping with a trauma they couldn’t articulate. Clara and her kids moved to a different city, and I never saw them again. But sometimes, in the quiet of my own apartment, I hear tapping on the window. I never look. And I always keep the curtains drawn.

Weeks later, I was coming home from work when I saw a new family moving into Clara’s old apartment. I helped them with a few boxes. As we talked, the small boy, perhaps four years old, tugged at my sleeve and pointed toward the fire escape. ‘There’s a man outside,’ he said. ‘He waved at me.’ My blood ran cold. I looked, but the fire escape was empty. I told the parents it was just a game, but that night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at my own window, which overlooks the same fire escape. And in the moonlight, I saw a shape standing there, just a silhouette, but I knew. He was back, or something like him, and he had found a new game.

I never babysat again. I moved out a month later. But even in my new home, on a quiet street with no fire escapes, I sometimes see a face in the window at night. And I always hear a soft tap, tap, tap on the glass, as if someone is asking to come in.