The Weeping Glass

I’ve always seen them, the quiet ones who drift at the edges of the world. My grandmother called it ‘the sight’, but it was never a gift; it was more like living in a house with walls that were too thin, where every creak and sigh belonged to someone else. Our home, a Victorian relic named Hollowrest, had been in the family for generations, and with it came the presence of the Ellsworths—the original owners who had perished in a fire back in 1892. They were benign, almost friendly, especially the daughter, Eleanor, who seemed to have taken a particular interest in me since childhood. She’d appear at the foot of my bed, her dress singed and her eyes kind, and I’d feel a warmth, a sense of protection. My mother saw them too, but my father pretended not to, and my younger brother, Mark, was blissfully oblivious.

But a few years ago, something changed. I started seeing another figure, a woman in a wet, clinging gown, her hair plastered to her face, and her eyes the color of a stormy sea. She was different. She didn’t hover at the periphery; she actively sought me out. I’d catch her reflection in mirrors, a fleeting silhouette in the hallway, always watching, never speaking, but her mere presence made my skin crawl. She felt ancient and malevolent, a stark contrast to the gentle warmth of the Ellsworths.

The first time she truly manifested was in the library. The old television, which rarely worked, flickered on by itself, static hissing. When I went to turn it off, I saw her reflected in the dark screen, standing behind me. I spun around, but she was gone, yet the air reeked of brine and decay. That became her signature—a smell that preceded her appearances, followed by a cold that seeped into my bones.

My mother noticed the change. She said the Ellsworths had become restless, and she saw the woman too, standing by the window in the parlor, weeping silently. She tried to shield me, but the woman’s attention was fixed on me, and her taunts were psychological. She’d whisper my name in the dead of night, scratch at the walls, and once, she left a trail of wet footprints leading from the bathroom to my room, the water still dripping.

Two years ago, a paranormal investigation team visited Hollowrest. Their lead, a skeptical woman named Dr. Hale, had been researching the house’s history. She brought her equipment, and after a séance in the living room, she announced they had established contact. The spirits communicated through a series of knocks, and the names they spelled out were not just the Ellsworths—they included a name I’d never heard before: ‘Mara’.

Dr. Hale looked concerned. She explained that ‘Mara’ was a term for a malevolent spirit in Scandinavian folklore, often associated with nightmares. She suspected the house had been built on what was once a drowning marsh, and that Mara might be a residual haunting, a spirit trapped by the tragedy of her own death. But for me, it felt much more personal.

Last year, another team came, younger and more enthusiastic. They brought a spirit box, and through the white noise, a guttural voice emerged. It said ‘Ellsworth’ several times, and then, ‘She’s not who you think.’ When they asked who ‘she’ was, the box went silent. That night, I had a dream. I saw the Ellsworths standing by a hole in the ground, and Eleanor was crying. She pointed to a locket at my throat, a locket I’d inherited from my great-grandmother. In the dream, I opened it, and inside was a photograph of a woman I didn’t recognize—a woman with wet hair and stormy eyes.

The next morning, I confronted my mother. She paled and told me the truth. My great-grandmother had a sister, Clara, who had drowned in the lake behind Hollowrest in 1910. Her death was ruled accidental, but there had been rumors of suicide, and some said she was pushed. The family had buried her in a quiet corner of the estate, and they never spoke of her again. But why would she haunt me? My mother hesitated, then whispered, ‘Because you look just like her. You have her eyes.’

Since then, Mara has grown bolder. She no longer taunts from a distance. She stands at the edge of my vision, her lips moving silently, forming my name. The Ellsworths, once protective, now seem to be pleading with me, urging me to uncover something. I can feel their anxiety, their fear. And I know that this is not over. The truth about Clara’s death is buried in the past, and Mara is clawing her way back to force it out. I have to know what happened, but I’m terrified of what I’ll find. The house is silent now, but the weeping glass—the window in the parlor that Mara always appears in—is fogged with her breath, waiting for me to finally listen. I think it’s time to face her, and with the Ellsworths’ help, I might just survive the truth.