The Round Window Watcher

It was the summer I turned eleven, and my best friend Maren and I were inseparable. We lived in Miller’s Hollow, a town so small that the only thing to do was invent stories about the places we weren’t supposed to go. Maren’s house sat on five acres of overgrown field, and at the far edge, half-hidden by trees, stood an old cannery. The windows were boarded, the doors padlocked, but we’d convinced ourselves it was a factory where the workers had died in a horrible accident, and now their ghosts shuffled through the dusty aisles. We’d spend hours daring each other to get closer, and on stormy afternoons, we’d sit in her living room, watching shows about hauntings, our imaginations running wild.

One Tuesday, we were glued to a marathon of a show called ‘Spirits of the Past.’ Maren’s mom had brought us lemonade and popcorn, and we were absorbed in a story about a farmhouse in Ohio. I happened to glance out the bay window, past the lawn, to the old two-story garage. It had a round window at the top, like an eye staring out. And in that window, I saw a figure. A black silhouette, still and tall, like a man in a wide-brimmed hat, just standing there, looking back at me. My blood ran cold. I nudged Maren, pointing with a shaking finger. ‘Look,’ I whispered. She saw it too, and we both froze. Then the show cut to a commercial, and when I looked again, the silhouette was gone. We didn’t say much after that, but we both knew we’d seen something real.

We tried to convince ourselves it was a trick of the light, maybe a reflection of a tree. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about that round window, like a dark eye. I called Maren on the landline, and we whispered to each other, trying to work up the courage to investigate. The next day, we decided we’d go look. We crept through the tall grass, the sun beating down, and when we reached the garage, we pushed on the creaky side door. It swung open to reveal a dark, oil-stained space. An old workbench, rusted tools, a caved-in ceiling. We found a rickety ladder leading up to the loft where the round window was. Our hearts pounded as we climbed, our steps echoing. At the top, we found a room filled with dusty boxes and a single chair facing the window. The window was coated in grime, but we could see the house beyond. And on the windowsill, there was a handprint. Not ours. The handprint was old, pale as dust, with unnaturally long fingers. We touched it, and it was cool, like a stone.

We backed away, and I felt a sudden chill. The door behind us slammed shut, and the air turned thick. A voice, dry as dead leaves, whispered, ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ We scrambled to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The handprint on the sill began to darken, turning black as tar. Then we heard a faint tapping from outside, on the window glass. We turned slowly, and there was the silhouette, pressed against the outside, its face obscured by shadow. It tapped again, and the glass cracked. We screamed, and finally the door gave way, and we fled.

We told Maren’s parents, but they said it was just our imagination. They called us ‘silly girls.’ But that night, I woke to find a handprint on my bedroom window, the same pale, elongated fingers. And then another on my ceiling, right above my bed. I ran to Maren’s house, but she was pale and shaking. She had a handprint on her wall, too, and she said she heard the tapping all night. We knew the thing had followed us. It was attached to the place, but also to us now.

Over the following weeks, the handprints multiplied. They appeared on mirrors, on the TV screen, on our photographs. And then we started to hear the voice, not just in the loft, but in our rooms at night. It would whisper our names, then say, ‘You see me, so I see you.’ We tried to stay together, but the thing seemed to separate us. One afternoon, while we were playing in the field, I looked up and saw Maren standing by the garage, facing the round window. She was motionless, staring up. I ran to her, and when I touched her, she flinched. Her eyes were wide. ‘It wants us to come in,’ she said. ‘It’s been waiting.’

I looked up at the window, and I saw the silhouette. But now it had a face. It was pale, like old paper, with hollow eyes. And it was smiling. A thin, black smile. I grabbed Maren’s hand, and we ran as fast as we could, all the way to my house. But we couldn’t escape. That evening, as dusk fell, I looked out the kitchen window and saw the silhouette standing under the maple tree at the edge of the yard. It was closer. It was always closer. Maren started talking about going back, about ‘answering it.’ I knew we had to do something before she gave in.

The next day, we armed ourselves with salt and a crowbar, and we returned to the garage. The loft was darker now, and the handprints on the floor were everywhere. The chair was gone, but the round window was covered in a film of dust, and the handprint had faded. We opened the window, and the cool air rushed in. And then we saw it, carved into the wooden frame: a name, ‘Ambrose.’ And below it, a date from over a hundred years ago. We later learned that Ambrose was a cannery foreman who had gone mad and locked himself in that loft, and he died there. But he wasn’t done. He was still waiting for someone to see him.

We covered the window with boards, and we tossed salt all around the loft. We even burned some of the boxes, hoping to cleanse it. And for a while, the visits stopped. But the handprints never fully went away. Sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of a shape in the reflection of a window, and I know he’s still there, watching. And I know that if I ever look too long, I’ll see him again, and he’ll smile that thin black smile. The round window is still there, boarded up now, but I can feel his presence, waiting. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m the only one who can see him now, or if he’ll show himself to someone else, someone who’ll make the same mistake I did.

I’m older now, and I’ve moved away. But I still dream of that window. In my dreams, I’m back in the loft, and the window is open, and the silhouette is filling the frame. It says, ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ But now, I’m not so sure I’m the one who’s in the wrong place. Maybe he is, and he just needs someone to let him out.