The Stained Sash

The first time I saw her, I was sitting cross-legged on my narrow bed, trying to lose myself in a dog-eared paperback. My room, a converted attic cell in the old boarding house, was barely wide enough for the bed and a wooden dresser, its surface cluttered with chipped mugs and a cracked mirror. I’d had a day that felt like a slow suffocation—my boss’s condescending drawl, the leak in the ceiling that had soaked my only coat, and the phone call from my sister that had ended with her saying, ‘You’re just like Dad, you know. A burden.’ I was trying to escape all of it in the pages when a flicker of movement snagged my peripheral vision.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the grimy window, maybe a bird’s shadow. But when I turned my head, there was nothing. I shook it off and returned to the book. Yet the feeling persisted—a weight in the room, a pressure behind my eyes. I looked again, directly at the corner where the dresser stood, and for a fraction of a second, I saw her. A small figure, no more than seven, in a white dress that seemed to glow against the dim wallpaper. Her hair was scraped back into a severe bun, and the front of her dress was stained with a dark, spreading patch. Then she was gone, and I was left with a cold knot in my stomach.

That night, I told myself it was a trick of the light, a strain from staring at the page. But the next night, I felt her presence again. I was lying in bed, the room dark save for a sliver of moonlight through the curtain, when I caught her reflection in the mirror on the dresser. She was standing beside the dresser, her face blank, her eyes fixed on the wall. I didn’t dare move. I watched her for a long minute, and then she was gone. The hatred that had flooded me the first time returned, bitter and sharp, like bile. It wasn’t my emotion. It was hers. She wanted someone dead, and I had no idea who.

Over the following weeks, I tried to ignore her, to convince myself that I was imagining things. But she appeared more often, always in the corner of my vision, never fully materializing. I started leaving the light on at night, but that only made the shadows in the corners deeper. I began to sleep with my back to the wall, facing the room, but I could feel her watching me from behind, her hate like a cold draft on my neck.

I asked the landlord if anyone had died in the house. He gave me a strange look and said, ‘Only the old lady who owned it before. But she died in the hospital.’ He didn’t ask why I wanted to know, and I didn’t elaborate.

One night, I decided to confront her. I lay in bed, my heart pounding, and spoke into the darkness. ‘What do you want?’ I whispered. For a moment, nothing. Then, I saw her in the mirror, more solid than ever. She was standing at the foot of my bed, her face inches from mine, but she was looking past me. Her lips moved, and I heard a voice, not from her, but inside my head. It was a child’s voice, soft and broken. ‘You have to see,’ she said. ‘You have to see what he did.’

I sat up, but she was gone. The room was empty, but the hatred remained, suffocating. I knew then that she wasn’t just angry. She was pleading. She needed me to witness something.

I started to investigate the house’s history. The old lady, Margaret, had been a recluse. She had a granddaughter, Lily, who visited during the summer. One summer, Lily disappeared. The police suspected foul play but never found a body. Margaret died a year later, heartbroken.

Could the girl be Lily? But why the hatred? And why me?

I researched the house’s past owners, unearthed old newspaper clippings. There was a fire in the attic years ago. A small girl had been trapped in a closet, but was saved by her uncle. The article had a photo of the girl being carried out, her white dress stained with soot. The uncle, a man named Harold, was later suspected of abusing the girl, but charges were dropped for lack of evidence.

I felt a jolt. The uncle. Was he still alive? I found an old address and drove there the next day. It was a run-down condo, and Harold was a withered old man with a mean glare. He didn’t invite me in, but as I stood in the doorway, I saw a photograph on his wall: a little girl in a white dress, her hair in a tight bun. In the photo, she was crying. At the bottom, in faded marker, was a date and the words ‘Lily’s 7th birthday.’

I realized then that the girl in my room was Lily, and that Harold had done something terrible to her. But why did she hate me? She had brought me to her, but I wasn’t the one who hurt her.

I returned to my room, determined to help her. I lit a candle, as if for a lost soul, and spoke to her. ‘Lily, I know what he did. I’ll find out the truth. I’ll make him pay.’

But as I said those words, the hatred in the room intensified, and I heard a child’s scream, not of fear, but of rage. The mirror on my dresser cracked. The lights flickered.

And then I understood. The girl wasn’t angry at Harold. She was angry at me. Because I had seen her for so long but done nothing. She wasn’t looking at the wall; she was looking at the door, waiting for me to act. And now, she wasn’t content to watch from the corner. She wanted me to be her weapon.

A cold hand wrapped around my wrist. I looked down. There was a small, pale hand, sticky with something dark. And when I looked up, I saw her face, inches from mine, her eyes finally meeting mine, filled with a burning, ancient fury.

‘You see me,’ she whispered, her voice like static. ‘Now you must do what I cannot.’

I tried to pull away, but her grip was iron. The room dimmed, and I felt a sharp pain in my chest, as if something were being torn from me. And then I heard a voice, my own, but not mine, say, ‘I will.’

When I came to, I was standing in the attic, in front of a large trunk I had never noticed before. The lock was rusted, but as I touched it, it fell away. Inside, wrapped in a yellowed sheet, was a child’s shoe, a ribbon, and a tarnished locket. I opened the locket. Inside was a tiny photograph of a man—Harold—and the inscription: ‘To my sweet Lily, forever.’

I felt the hatred again, but now it was mine, warm and spreading through my limbs. And I knew what I had to do.

I didn’t go to the police. I went back to Harold’s condo. He opened the door, and when he saw me, his face twisted with recognition and fear. ‘You,’ he whispered.

I smiled, and it wasn’t my smile. I felt my hand reach into my coat pocket, where I had placed the locket. The metal was cold against my fingers. ‘Lily wants her locket back, Harold,’ I heard myself say.

He stumbled back, but I followed. The hatred fueled me, gave me strength. I didn’t stop until his body was still on the floor, until the locket was around his neck, until I heard her voice in my head, soft and satisfied. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now I can rest.’

The next morning, I woke up in my own bed, the room feeling lighter, empty. The mirror was whole, the darkness gone. I never saw her again. But I still felt the hatred simmering beneath my skin, a faint thirst that I knew would never fully quench.

I read the news the other day. Harold’s death was ruled a heart attack. No one suspected me. And as I sit here, in my quiet, dimly lit room, I sometimes think I see a shadow in the corner of my eye. But when I turn, there’s nothing. Only the faint impression of a white sash, stained not with blood, but with the remnants of my own humanity.

I think she’s gone. But I’m not sure if that’s a comfort or a curse. Because now, the hatred I feel isn’t hers. It’s mine. And I’m waiting for the next little girl to appear—this time, not as a ghost, but as a victim. And I know exactly what I’ll do.