The Stained-Glass Seers

I was nine when my parents’ marriage collapsed like a rotten porch. My mother and I moved into a house owned by her friend, a stern, childless woman named Mrs. Kettering. The house sat on a quiet street in a town called Mapleton, Iowa, where nothing ever happened. It was a plain two-story white house with black shutters, indistinguishable from its neighbors. But inside, the walls were lined with stained-glass windows near the ceiling. They were ornate, with swirling patterns of deep blue, red, and amber, and they could be opened and closed with a crank. They let in no light and no air, but they offered a clear view down into the basement.

I discovered the windows’ true purpose on my first afternoon there. My mother was unpacking boxes in the kitchen, and I wandered into the living room. The basement door was ajar, and I saw a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Curious, I climbed the stairs to the first stained-glass window and peered through. Below, I saw a room I hadn’t noticed before: a small, dimly lit chamber with a concrete floor and a single wooden chair. A faint, sour smell drifted up, like spoiled milk and rust.

At first, nothing happened. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. But at night, after my mother had gone to bed, I heard a rhythmic tap-tap-tap from below. I crept to the living room and looked through the same window. The basement room was now lit by a bare bulb, and a woman sat in the chair. She was old, with gray hair and a pale, wrinkled face. She was rocking back and forth, tapping her fingers on the armrests. She seemed to be staring at something in the corner, but I couldn’t see what. I watched for what felt like hours, until the tapping stopped and she turned her head and looked directly at me. Her eyes were milky white, like marbles. She smiled, revealing black, rotten teeth. I stumbled back, my heart pounding, and didn’t sleep that night.

I told my mother in the morning, but she dismissed it as a nightmare. ‘The house is perfectly safe, honey. Mrs. Kettering said her parents used to live here, and they were just sweet old people.’ But I knew what I had seen. Over the next weeks, I noticed that the stained-glass windows were in every room: the living room, the dining room, the hallway, and even the bathroom. They all looked down into the basement, but the basement seemed to shift between different rooms, depending on which window I used. One time I saw a different old woman, with a long braid, crying in a corner. Another time, I saw a young man, shirtless, chained to the wall. They never saw me, except the first woman, who now seemed to know exactly where I was. She would follow me from window to window, her milky eyes tracking my movements, her mouth moving silently.

One night, I woke to the sound of crying. It was coming from the basement, a low, desperate wail. I grabbed my flashlight and tiptoed down the stairs. The door at the bottom was unlocked. I pushed it open and saw a long, narrow corridor with doors on both sides. The crying came from the last door. I walked towards it, my heart racing. I opened it, and saw Mrs. Kettering’s parents, or what I assumed were them, from an old photograph I had seen. They were old, gray, and gaunt, sitting on metal chairs, staring at a wall. They turned to me in unison and said, ‘You shouldn’t be here, child.’ I ran back up the stairs and locked myself in my room.

The next day, I told my mother everything. She finally listened, and she called Mrs. Kettering. Mrs. Kettering laughed and said, ‘Oh, that’s just my parents. They’re still in the house. They’ve always been there. They like to watch the children. They’ve been watching since I was your age.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. My mother decided we would move, but that night, I heard the tapping again. I looked through the window, and this time, all the old people were there: the first woman, the crying woman, the chained man, and Mrs. Kettering’s parents. They were all looking up at me, their mouths open in silent screams. They began to climb the stairs from the basement, their feet making wet, slapping sounds. I screamed for my mother, but she didn’t come. They reached the top of the stairs and walked through the door, into the living room. I saw their faces, deformed and hungry, and they reached out to me with gnarled hands.

I woke up in a hospital bed, my mother weeping beside me. She said I had a seizure and fell down the stairs. But I knew the truth. I never spoke of it again, but to this day, when I close my eyes, I see them: the stained-glass seers, forever waiting beneath the floor, watching and wanting to pull the living down into their cold, dark home.