The Pane in the Rain

My best friend, Maya, and I had been inseparable since we were kids. We shared everything: secrets, snacks, and even a homemade Ouija board that we never dared to use. When her family moved to the other side of the country, I was devastated, but I had my sister, my brother, and my parents to keep me company. Still, the silence from her empty house next door was deafening.

One Saturday morning, while rain battered the windows, I was in my room reading when I heard it: a sharp, crystalline crash from the house next door, like a dozen glass bottles shattering at once. Then came a low, guttural growl, not like any dog I’d ever heard. The sound was wet, ragged, and seemed to rumble through the walls of my own bedroom. I froze, my heart hammering. Then I heard footsteps—heavy, stomping, as if someone was running down the hallway of the empty house, then a slow, deliberate walk, as if pacing.

I tiptoed to my window, peering through the rain-streaked glass. The house next door was dark, but for a moment, a face appeared at the window—pale, gaunt, with eyes that glowed a sickly green, and hair that was a tangled mess of reddish-brown, plastered against the glass. I gasped and stumbled back, nearly tripping over my own feet. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I whispered to the dispatcher, ‘There’s someone in the neighbor’s house, and they’re making horrible noises.’ The dispatcher said they’d send someone right away.

I hid in my bedroom, peeking through the blinds, waiting. An officer arrived within minutes, knocked on the door of the empty house, and went inside. He was in there for what felt like an eternity. When he came out, he walked over to my door and knocked. I opened it, my voice trembling, ‘Did you find anything?’ He shook his head, his expression apologetic. ‘Ma’am, we searched every room, the attic, the basement, every closet. There’s no one in there. The place is empty, just dusty floors and covered furniture.’ I told him I saw a face, heard breaking glass and growling, but he just looked at me with sympathy, suggested it might be the wind or an animal, and left.

But I know what I saw and heard. The officer couldn’t have missed the person if they were still there, but the timing was too tight. I had called immediately, and it takes at least five minutes for the cops to arrive. There’s no way anyone could have slipped out without me seeing. Unless they vanished.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, listening to the rain, which had turned into a steady downpour. Around midnight, I heard it again—a sound like nails scraping against glass, coming from my own window. I sat up, hair on the back of my neck standing up. The window was wet with condensation, but I could see a faint outline of a face pressed against the pane, its green eyes staring right at me. It smiled, a too-wide, jagged smile, and then it was gone.

I didn’t sleep at all after that. I stayed under my covers, counting my breaths, trying to convince myself it was my imagination. But the next morning, when I went to the kitchen, my mom asked me why I looked so pale. I told her about the noises, about the face, about the officer’s visit. She just chuckled, saying, ‘Probably just a raccoon, dear.’

But I knew better. That face wasn’t a raccoon. It was something else, something that thirsty. And I knew it was waiting for me to look again.

A week later, my parents sent me to stay with my aunt in the countryside. They thought I needed a break. But the strange visitor followed me. The first night at my aunt’s farmhouse, I heard the same growl from the barn. I saw the same pale face peering through the window of my room, its reddish-brown hair dripping wet, as if it had just crawled out of the rain. Its green eyes burned into mine, and its mouth moved, forming words I couldn’t hear.

I closed the curtains and hid under the blankets, but late that night, I felt a cold breath on my ear. A voice, like gravel and broken glass, whispered, ‘You see me because you’re the only one who ever looked.’ I screamed, and the voice was gone.

Now, I never sit near windows. I never look outside after dark. But every night, I still hear the glass breaking, the growling, the stomping. And in the reflection of my phone screen, I sometimes catch a glimpse of that pale face with green eyes, smiling at me, waiting for me to look again. And I know, with a certainty that chills my bones, that it won’t stop until I finally look back.