The Visitor at the Window

The night the storm came to Rookwood, I was nine, and the wind howled like a wounded animal around our old farmhouse. The rain hammered the tin roof of my attic bedroom, a relentless drumming that made sleep impossible. I lay in my narrow bed, the covers pulled up to my chin, watching the bare branches of the willow tree thrash against the black glass of the window. My parents were in their room at the other end of the hallway, but I was too old to go to them, too scared to admit that the sound of the storm had twisted into something else.

At first, I thought it was the wind playing tricks on my ears, a low moan that rose and fell. But then I heard a voice, thin and reedy, slithering through the rattle of raindrops. It was trying to say something, the words fumbling at the edges of my understanding. I clutched my pillow, my heart thumping against my ribs. The voice grew clearer, a rasping whisper that seemed to come from just beside my ear. ‘Open the window,’ it said. ‘Open it and let me in.’

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to convince myself it was a dream. But the voice persisted, growing impatient. ‘You know you want to,’ it hissed. ‘You’ve been waiting for me.’ My eyes snapped open, and I forced myself to look around the room, my gaze landing on the tall mirror that stood on my dresser, its silvered surface reflecting the pale face of the moon. In the glass, I saw my own terrified expression, but behind my shoulder, a silhouette took shape. An old man, gaunt and wizened, with hair like straw and eyes that burned like coals. He was standing so close I could feel the phantom cold of his breath on my neck.

I tried to scream, but my voice was locked in my throat. The figure in the mirror smiled, revealing rows of crooked teeth. ‘You see me now,’ he said, his voice a dry rattle. ‘But I have been watching you for a long time. I have been waiting for the right moment to ask you a question.’ The lights flickered, and the rain seemed to pause, the storm holding its breath. The old man leaned closer, his reflection touching mine. ‘What is your name?’ he whispered, and in the mirror, I saw my own lips move, but the words were not mine.

A cold hand gripped my shoulder, and I whipped around, the room empty. The mirror shimmered, and on its surface, a single word had been written in the condensation: ‘Soon.’ I stared at the word, my breath coming in short gasps. Then I heard a sound from below, a heavy thud, like a body hitting the floor. I rushed to the top of the stairs, and there, in the hallway, the old man stood, his shape flickering like a dying candle. My parents’ door was open, and I could see them lying still in their bed, but the old man paid them no mind. He turned his hollow eyes to me and raised a bony finger to his lips.

‘Shhh,’ he said. ‘Don’t wake them. We have unfinished business, you and I.’ He began to climb the stairs, each step a groan of old wood. I backed into my room, my hands trembling, and slammed the door, the lock snapping shut. I pressed my back against the door, heaving, and when I looked up, the old man was in the mirror again, not behind me but inside it, his face pressed against the glass like a fish in a bowl. He tapped on the mirror with a long nail, and the sound was like a death knell. ‘You cannot hide from me, dear child. You carry my name in your blood. And I will have it back.’

I grabbed a blanket and threw it over the mirror, but the tapping continued, growing louder, more frantic. Then the mirror shattered, exploding outward in a burst of silver, and the room was silent. The storm had passed, and the rain had become a gentle patter on the roof. I didn’t sleep that night, and when morning came, I saw that the mirror was whole, unmarred, and the word ‘Soon’ had been erased. But I knew, even then, that the old man would return. And he did, on the next storm, and the one after that, each time asking me the same question: ‘What is your name?’ I never told him, but sometimes, in my dreams, I whisper it to him, and he smiles.

To this day, I have never seen him again in the mirror, but I still hear his voice in the rain, asking, always asking. And I wonder, what would he have done if I had answered? What would I have become if I had given him my name? I will never know, but the fear of that unknown has never left me. It is a shadow that clings to my nights, a question that I will carry with me until the day I die.