The Screen Door Watcher

The rain had been drumming against the tin roof of the old farmhouse in Mindanao for hours, a steady, hypnotic beat that seemed to seep into the bones. My sister, Maya, and I were sprawled on the floor of our parents’ bedroom, the flickering light of the television casting dancing shadows on the cracked plaster walls. The movie was Jeepers Creepers, and though I was only nine, I was determined not to show any fear. Maya, two years older, was braver, but even she jumped when the Creeper’s truck roared across the screen.

Our parents were at the tobacco warehouse, leaving us alone in the house that had belonged to my great-grandfather. It was a sprawling, two-story structure with creaking floorboards and rooms that smelled of mothballs and old wood. Our parents’ room, where we watched the movie, adjoined Maya’s room through a door that was half solid wood, half wire screen. The screen door was a remnant of a time when the house was open to the breeze, but now it only served to blur the boundaries between rooms. We had turned on the lamp, casting a warm glow, but Maya’s room beyond the screen was dim, lit only by the faint, gray light of the rainy afternoon filtering through the slatted windows.

During a particularly tense scene, I glanced over at Maya’s room. The bed was a dark silhouette against the window, and for a moment, I thought I saw a lump in the covers. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was just a trick of the light. Then, as the movie reached its climax, I looked again. This time, there was no mistaking it. A man was sitting on the edge of the bed, his figure outlined against the window, his face obscured but his posture unnaturally still. He was wearing a dark raincoat, and even in the dim light, I could see the wet sheen of it, as if he had just come in from the storm.

My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to scream, but my voice was stuck. I nudged Maya, who was absorbed in the movie, and pointed. She turned, and her face went pale. ‘Who is that?’ she whispered. The man didn’t move. He just sat there, watching us through the screen. I tried to convince myself it was a relative or a neighbor who had let himself in, but the house was locked. And why would anyone sit in the dark like that? Maya grabbed my arm, her grip tight. ‘Don’t move,’ she said.

The man slowly raised his hand, the movement fluid and deliberate. He placed his palm flat against the screen, pressing against it, and I could see the faint impression of his fingers through the mesh. I noticed something odd: his fingers were too long, and there was a weird, glistening substance on them, like oil. The screen bulged slightly, as if pushing inward. Maya’s voice trembled, ‘That’s not our Tito. Our Tito doesn’t have a scar.’ The man’s hand withdrew, and he tilted his head, as if listening to something. Then, he slowly leaned forward, his face coming closer to the screen. In the dim light, I saw a face that was not a face. It was a mask of taut, grey skin, with no eyes, only empty sockets, and a mouth that stretched far too wide, filled with needle-like teeth.

Terror gripped me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The movie played on, oblivious, the Creeper on screen now screaming, but my mind was consumed by the silent watcher. Maya’s grip on my arm was painful. She whispered, ‘We have to get out of here. On three, we run for the back door.’ I nodded, my muscles frozen. She counted, ‘One… two…’ But before she could say three, the screen door burst open with a violent crack, splintering the wood frame. The man—the thing—lunged into the room, moving with unnatural speed, its raincoat flapping. We screamed, scrambling to our feet, but it was already between us and the door.

It didn’t grab us. It just stood there, its empty eye sockets fixed on us, and a sound came from its mouth, a wet, gurgling whisper that seemed to echo in the room: ‘I’ve been waiting.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that when I opened them, I would wake up. But when I did, the creature was still there, closer now. Its long, spidery hand reached out, and the last thing I saw was its mouth opening impossibly wide, revealing a tunnel of darkness, before the world went black.

The next thing I knew, I was in Chicago. My parents had moved us there when I was ten, a year after the incident. They never spoke of what happened in the Philippines, and Maya and I had silently agreed to bury it. But sometimes, in the rainy afternoons, when I’m alone in my apartment, I think I see a figure sitting on my bed, its hand pressed against the window, and I hear that wet whisper. I’ve tried to convince myself it was just a nightmare, a child’s imagination playing tricks. But last week, my sister called me, sobbing. She said she saw him again, in her own house, sitting on her sofa, watching her. And then she asked me, ‘What do we do?’ I had no answer, because I know that whatever it was, it didn’t leave us in that house. It followed us, and it’s still waiting. And I know that one day, it will finish what it started.

I now live in a high-rise in Chicago, far from the old farmhouse, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s patient. It doesn’t need to hurry. It has all the time in the world. And I know that when the next rainy afternoon comes, and my apartment grows dim, I’ll see it again—sitting on my bed, waiting, with that gaping mouth. And I’ll wonder if I’m still in that room, lost in a nightmare, or if I’m just trapped in a story I can’t escape.

I’m writing this down now, hoping that by putting it into words, I can somehow control it. But even as I type, I see a movement in the corner of my eye. A figure, drenched, standing by the window. It’s smiling. And it raises its hand, presses it against the glass, leaving a greasy smear. And I know that this time, it’s not behind a screen. It’s in the room with me.

And the worst part is, I’ve started to remember what happened after the blackness. I remember waking up in a hospital, with my parents crying and Maya staring blankly at the wall, not speaking. The doctors said we’d suffered a traumatic event, but they didn’t know. They didn’t see it. And now, I can feel it. It’s getting closer. It’s always been there, just waiting for the moment when the rain falls, and the world grows dark, and there’s no one else around.

I’m almost afraid to finish this story, because I know that once I do, it will become real. But I have to. I have to remember. And as I write these final words, I hear the rain start to fall again, and I see the figure at my window, and I realize that it’s not a memory, not a story. It’s a waiting thing, and I am its next chapter.

Don’t be fooled by the silence. Don’t be fooled by the rain. For in the shadow of your old home, something watches. And when you least expect it, it will press through the screen, and you will know its name.

I’ll never forget that day. I’ll never forget the rain. I’ll never forget the man on the bed. And I’ll never, ever watch Jeepers Creepers again.

But some things, they don’t need a movie to be real. They only need a rainy day, and a door left open.

Or a heart left open.

I close my eyes now, and I see it. I see him. And I know that this isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. And the beginning is always the worst part, because you don’t know what’s coming.

But I do. It’s coming for me. It’s coming for us.

And it’s patient.

So patient.