The Sixth Window

Marla had always found comfort in the rhythm of the old coast road—the way it curved along the cliffs, the salt air thick in her lungs, and the distant cry of gulls that seemed to mock the loneliness of the drive. She had taken the job at the lighthouse restoration project partly out of desperation, partly out of a need to escape the city’s constant noise. The lighthouse, named Garrick’s Point, had stood for over a century, its whitewashed walls now stained with rust and bird droppings. The caretaker’s cottage, where she would stay for the duration of the project, was a squat, stone building with six windows facing the sea. Marla counted them on her first evening, memorizing their positions as she unpacked: three on the ground floor, three on the upper. She noted that the sixth window, the one at the far right of the upper floor, was boarded up from the outside, its wooden planks weathered and gray.

Her first week was uneventful. She spent her days scraping paint chips and cataloging damage, her nights reading by the light of a kerosene lamp, for the electricity in the cottage was unreliable. But on the eighth night, as she lay in bed, she heard a sound that made her sit bolt upright—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingers drumming against glass. It came from the direction of the sixth window. She waited, heart pounding, but the sound faded. She chalked it up to a loose shutter, but the next night, it returned, louder this time, and with it, a voice—a woman’s voice, muffled but distinct, whispering a name. Marla couldn’t make out the name, but it sounded like ‘Elsie.’ She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

Over the next few days, Marla tried to ignore the sounds, but they grew more insistent. She began to notice things: a faint, sweet smell of lavender in the hallway, a damp patch on the wall near the sixth window that wouldn’t dry, and the way the seagulls never perched on the roof above that part of the cottage. Local lore, as she learned from a fisherman she met at the harbor, spoke of a woman named Elsie who had been the lighthouse keeper’s wife a hundred years ago. She had gone mad during a storm, believing her husband had been lost at sea, and had thrown herself from the sixth window. Her body was never found, and the window had been boarded up ever since. Marla tried to rationalize the story, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the lighthouse itself was watching her, that the sixth window was a wound that had never healed.

On the tenth night, Marla woke to find the room bathed in an eerie blue glow. The boards covering the sixth window had been removed, and the window was open, letting in a cold wind that smelled of brine and decay. She approached, her bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and looked out. Below, on the rocks, stood a figure in a long, dark dress, its face upturned, featureless in the moonlight. The figure raised a hand and pointed at Marla, and then it began to climb the cliff wall, its movements impossibly fluid, like a spider. Marla stumbled back, slamming the window shut and fumbling for the boards, but they were gone. She spent the rest of the night in the corner, rocking, whispering the name ‘Elsie’ over and over, as if to appease the spirit.

The next morning, Marla tried to leave, but her car wouldn’t start. The phone lines were dead, and the road was blocked by a fallen tree that hadn’t been there the night before. She was trapped. As dusk fell, the tapping returned, and this time, it was on every window of the cottage, as if a hundred fingers were drumming. The smell of lavender was overpowering, mixed with something rotting. Marla lit every candle she could find and sat in the center of the living room, clutching a rusted iron key she had found in a drawer, for no other reason than it felt solid and safe.

The wind outside howled, and the windows rattled. Then, silence. The tapping stopped. Marla dared to breathe. She looked up, and there, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, was the figure from the rocks. It was closer now, and she could see that its face was not featureless but covered in seaweed, strands of it hanging like hair. It took a step forward, and Marla saw that its feet were not feet but the roots of some deep-sea plant, snaking across the floorboards. It spoke, and its voice was the sound of the sea: ‘You opened the window. Now you must close it.’ Marla understood: the only way to end this was to throw herself from the sixth window, to take Elsie’s place. But she was too frightened to move.

The figure advanced, its root-feet leaving a trail of dark water. Marla raised the key, but it did nothing. The figure reached out a hand, and its fingers were long and bony, tipped with barnacles. It touched her forehead, and a flood of images invaded her mind: Elsie’s life, her despair, her leap. Marla screamed and threw the key at the figure. It struck the wall behind, and the figure vanished, leaving behind only a puddle of seawater and a single strand of seaweed.

Marla ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst into the room with the sixth window. The boards were back, but now they were loose, and she could see the night sky through the cracks. She rushed to the window, pulled at the boards, and they came away easily, as if they were never meant to hold. She opened the window and looked out. The sea was calm, but the figure was standing on the rocks below, waiting. Marla knew what she had to do. She climbed onto the sill, feeling the cold night air on her skin, and looked down at the dark water. ‘I’m sorry, Elsie,’ she whispered, and then she let go.

The fall seemed to take an eternity. She hit the water with a shock, the cold stealing her breath. She sank, and then something grasped her ankle, pulling her deeper. She struggled, but it was strong. As her lungs burned, she saw a light above her, and she realized it was the sixth window, glowing with a warm, golden light. And she understood: she wasn’t the one who had to fall. She broke free of the grip and swam upward with all her might. She broke the surface, gasping, and swam to the shore. She crawled onto the rocks, coughing, and looked back at the lighthouse. The sixth window was dark, but she saw a silhouette there, and it waved at her. Then it was gone.

Marla made it back to the cottage, her clothes dripping, and collapsed. In the morning, the fallen tree had vanished, her car started, and she drove away without looking back. Years later, she heard that the lighthouse had been decommissioned and that a new keeper had reported strange noises from the boarded-up window. But Marla never returned, and she never spoke of that night again. Yet sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she sees the sixth window, and she wonders if Elsie is still waiting for someone to take her place or if she had simply wanted her story to be told. Marla never told anyone, but she kept the rusty iron key, hanging it above her bed as a reminder that some doors are meant to be kept closed, and some windows are best left boarded up.