The Open Shutters

The house on Maple Street had never felt like mine, even after all these years. My ex-husband’s mother, Edith, lived there now, alone since her husband Harold had passed away last winter. I’d come to keep her company for the weekend, and to face my one persistent dread: the basement. It wasn’t the dark or the damp that got to me; it was a sense of being watched, of something patient waiting down there. But I’d come, because Edith needed company, and because I’d promised myself I’d be brave.

I was given Harold’s room. It was a time capsule of a man I’d known and loved. His flannel shirts hung in the closet, his worn leather boots stood by the door, and his dresser was a museum of small things: a tarnished watch, a pipe, a wallet with a faded photograph of Edith from decades ago. Lying in his bed that first night, surrounded by his scent and his belongings, I felt a strange calm. I wasn’t haunted; I was comforted.

The first day, after a long walk and a heavy lunch, we both decided to nap. I settled into Harold’s bed, closing the wooden shutters that divided his room from the small computer room next door. I wanted privacy. I fell asleep to the whisper of wind against the glass.

When I woke, the room was too bright. My eyes snapped open, and I saw the shutters were open, neatly folded back, letting in the afternoon sun. A cold tickle ran down my spine. I rationalized: Edith must have opened them. But when I padded to her room, she was asleep, her breathing deep and even. I walked back to the shutters, running my fingers over the wood, feeling a faint residue, almost like it had been touched by oily hands. But there was no one else in the house. I shrugged it off, a trick of the mind, and closed them again.

The second day, we napped again. I closed the shutters with a firm click, resolving to ignore any strange urges to open them. I woke to find them open again, perfectly symmetrical, as if placed by a painter. This time, Edith was awake, sitting in the kitchen, sipping tea. She said she hadn’t touched them. I felt a prickle of unease, but I forced a smile.

That night, after Edith went to bed, I lay in Harold’s room, staring at the shutters. The moon cast pale stripes through the slats. At 2:17 AM, I heard a faint creak from the direction of the bathroom. I held my breath. Then, the shutters began to move on their own. Not a gust of wind, but a slow, deliberate push, as if invisible hands were pressing them open. They glided until they were fully folded, revealing the dark computer room beyond. A shadow stood there, darker than the night, shaped like a man. It didn’t move; it just stood, watching. I felt a cold sweat break out, and my heart pounded so hard I thought it might wake Edith. But I couldn’t scream. I was frozen.

The shadow took a step forward, and I saw it was Harold. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, but there was a gentle half-smile on his lips. He raised a hand, not menacingly, but as if to comfort me. I heard his voice, a soft whisper: ‘Don’t be afraid. I just check on her.’ Then he faded, like smoke, leaving only the open shutters and the cold.

The next morning, I told Edith. I expected her to laugh or dismiss it, but she grew pale. She told me that Harold had always been a light sleeper, and that he used to check on her at night, always opening those shutters to make sure she was safe. She had never told anyone, but she often felt his presence, especially in that room. She said, ‘He’s watching over me. It’s his way.’

I left on Sunday, promising to visit again. But in the weeks since, I’ve been unable to shake that image: the shutters opening on their own, and Harold’s ghostly shape, reassuring his wife. I think of the basement, of the creaks that follow me even here, in my own apartment. Sometimes, late at night, I find my own shutters open, and I know it’s not the wind. It’s Harold, reminding me that love doesn’t end with death. And as long as there are shutters to open, he’ll watch over us all.