The Third Face at the Window

It was the autumn we moved into the old farmhouse on Harlow Lane, a place that had stood empty for nearly a decade. My partner, Marcus, and I had been bickering for weeks, and that night he announced he needed a break, so he drove to his mother’s place on the other side of the county. I stayed behind with our two boys, Oliver, who was three, and Elias, who had just turned two.

I put the boys to bed early, exhausted from the move and the constant tension. They were tucked into their beds, their tiny breaths steady, and I finally had a moment of quiet. But the silence felt wrong, heavy, as if the walls were holding their breath. I decided to text Marcus, hoping to bridge the gap between us. I typed a message: ‘Come over. Let’s talk. The boys are asleep.’

I was standing in the living room, staring at my phone, when I saw Marcus’s car pull up outside. He stepped out and walked toward the gate, his figure framed by the porch light. I moved to the window, watching him approach, and then I stepped onto the veranda to greet him. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and dying leaves. I expected an argument, maybe a cold silence, but what he said chilled me to the core.

‘Who was that little girl standing next to you in the window?’ he asked, his voice strained, his eyes darting over my shoulder.

I blinked, confused. I turned to look behind me, but there was nothing but the empty living room, the glow of the lamp spilling onto the porch. ‘There’s no girl, Marcus. Only the boys, and they’re asleep. You know we only have boys.’ I tried to laugh it off, but my heart was pounding.

He shook his head slowly, his face pale. ‘I saw her, plain as day. She was right beside you, looking out at me. Long dark hair, a white dress. She had her hand pressed to the glass, just like…’ His voice trailed off, and he shivered.

‘I’m telling you, there was no girl. Maybe it was a shadow, or the reflection of a tree,’ I said, but doubt crept into my mind. The window was old, wavy glass, and could play tricks, but I hadn’t seen anything.

Marcus stepped closer, took my hand, and led me inside. We talked quietly in the kitchen, our earlier fight forgotten. He kept glancing at the window, and I couldn’t shake the unease. Eventually, he agreed to stay the night, sleeping on the couch, and I went to check on the boys.

Oliver was still asleep, his face serene. But Elias’s bed was empty. I froze, my heart lurching. I called his name, but no answer. I searched the house, my panic growing, until I found him in the hallway, standing perfectly still, staring at the bathroom door.

‘What are you doing up?’ I whispered, scooping him into my arms. He was cold, his skin like marble, and his eyes were wide, unblinking.

‘There’s a girl in the bathtub,’ he said, his voice soft and matter-of-fact.

I pushed the door open, my hand trembling. The tub was empty, of course, but I felt a draft, a sudden drop in temperature. I carried Elias back to bed, trying to calm him, but he kept repeating, ‘She said she’s been waiting for us.’

I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, while Marcus tossed on the couch. The house creaked and groaned, old wood settling, but every noise felt predatory. At one point, I heard a faint humming, a childish melody from the hallway. I got up, my bare feet cold on the floorboards, and peered out. There was no one there, but the hum stopped the moment I opened the door.

The next morning, Marcus found a child’s handprint on the inside of the window he had looked through the night before. It was small, delicate, and the glass was fogged where it had rested, as if a breath had lingered. We both knew, without speaking, that something was in the house with us, something that had attached itself to our family.

We tried to ignore it, but the activity escalated. Toys moved on their own. Shadows flitted at the edge of vision. Elias started calling out for ‘Alice’ in his sleep. One night, Oliver woke up screaming, saying that a girl with black hair had been sitting on his bed, whispering that we should leave. But the worst was yet to come.

A week later, I was alone with the boys. Marcus had taken a shift at the plant, and the house felt especially oppressive. I put the boys down for a nap, and as I walked past the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror. For a split second, I saw another face beside mine, a pale girl with hollow eyes and a smile that was too wide. I whirled around, but there was nothing.

I called Marcus, my voice shaking. ‘You need to come home. There’s something here.’ But before he could answer, the line went dead. The lights flickered, and I heard the boys screaming from their room. I ran, burst through the door, and found them huddled in the corner, pointing at the closet. The closet door was open, and inside, written in red crayon, were the words: ‘She likes the window best.’

I grabbed the boys and fled to the car, driving to the nearest town with no intention of returning. But as we sped away, I looked in the rearview mirror, and I saw a small figure standing at the upstairs window, watching us go. Her hand was pressed against the glass, and her mouth moved silently, as if blowing a kiss.

We never went back. We sold the house at a loss, and the buyers didn’t ask why. To this day, I still see her sometimes, in the reflection of a storefront, in the corner of my eye. And I know she followed us, because last night, Elias pointed at the window of our new apartment and said, ‘Look, Mom, Alice is back.’ And sure enough, there was a handprint on the glass, small and cold, as if it had been waiting for us all along.