The Weight at the Window

It was the summer I turned thirteen, the summer my mother moved us into the old Sandford house on the edge of town. The house was a relic of a forgotten century, a tall, narrow Victorian with a steep gabled roof and a wrap-around porch that groaned underfoot. The interior was a maze of dark wood, crumbling wallpaper, and a staircase that curved up into the shadowed second floor like a spine. My younger sister, Elsie, took one look at that spiral staircase and refused to go up. So I claimed the upstairs for myself, a converted attic with a sloping ceiling, a single dormer window that faced the back field, and a narrow bed pushed against the far wall.

Every night, I would lie in that bed, facing the wall, listening to the house settle. The floorboards would creak, the pipes would groan, and then, without fail, there would come a shift in the mattress. A dip, as if someone had sat down beside me. I would feel the weight first, a subtle compression of the springs, then the warmth, a faint heat that would seep through the thin blanket. Then the stroking would begin. A hand, dry and slightly rough, would start at the top of my head, move down my neck, over my shoulder, along my side, to my hip, and then back up again. It was a rhythm that was almost soothing, but the horror of it never faded. I would lie frozen, my heart pounding, counting the seconds until I could bear to look.

On the third night, I decided I had had enough. I waited until the hand reached my shoulder, then I spun around. The room was empty. But the impression of a body was still there, a deep dent in the mattress, as if an invisible person were still sitting. The indentation was shaped like a man, broad in the shoulders, narrow at the waist. I stared at it, and after a moment, the dent began to rise, slowly, as if the person were standing up. The floorboards of the attic creaked, one by one, moving toward the door. I heard the door swing open, then shut, and then silence. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

I told my mother, but she dismissed it as my imagination, or maybe the house settling. Elsie refused to even discuss it. So I endured. Each night, the ritual continued. The dip, the warmth, the hand stroking me. I tried facing the other way, but the hand would still find me, starting at my forehead. I tried staying awake longer, but exhaustion would always win. I tried sleeping in the living room, but my mother insisted I sleep in my own bed. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ she said, but I never did.

One night, I decided to fight back. As the hand stroked my hair, I grabbed it. My fingers closed around something solid, but cold, like a polished stone. The hand stopped, and I felt a surge of panic. I squeezed harder, and I felt a wrist, a forearm, muscles tensing. Then the force of something pushing back. I rolled over, still gripping the invisible wrist, and I saw it. A flicker of light, like a heat haze, and the outline of a man, barely visible, his face a smudge of darkness. The outline was leaning over me, his weight pressing down on the mattress, his mouth moving as if he were trying to speak, but only a faint, high-pitched whine came out. I screamed, and I let go. The outline vanished, and the room was still.

After that, the visitations changed. The hand no longer stroked me. Instead, I would feel the weight of someone sitting on the edge of the bed, then the sound of breathing, a slow, raspy inhale and exhale. One night, I woke to find the room darker than it should be, and the shape of a figure standing at the dormer window, looking out. It turned its head, and I saw two hollow eyes, like burnt holes in a blanket. It pointed at the window, then at me, and then it was gone.

I started to notice things. The wallpaper in the attic had a pattern of faded roses, but in one corner, the flowers were arranged to spell a name: ‘Edmund.’ I asked my mother about it, and she said the house had belonged to a family named Sandford. There was a son, Edmund, who had died in the attic, in the 1930s. The cause was never determined, but some said it was a broken heart.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Edmund wanted something from me. The night after I learned his name, I lay in bed, and I felt a cold hand on my cheek. It turned my head, gently, toward the window. The moon was full, and it cast a pale light on the field. I saw a tree, an old oak, with a thick branch that extended over the roof. And I saw a rope, hanging from the branch, swinging slightly. Then I heard a voice, a whisper, so faint I almost missed it: ‘I never left.’

I got up, my legs shaking, and I walked to the window. The rope was still there, but now it was knotted into a noose. I put my hand on the glass, and I felt a cold draft. The window was closed. I looked down at the field, and I saw a figure standing at the edge of the woods, a boy, no older than I was, in old-fashioned clothes. He waved at me, and then he turned and walked into the trees.

The next day, I found a small key in the attic, under the floorboard where the rose pattern morphed. It was old and rusted. I searched the house, and finally, I found a locked door in the basement, hidden behind a shelf. I opened it, and inside was a small room. The walls were lined with pictures of a boy, Edmund, and a girl. In each picture, they were together, smiling. The last picture showed them on their wedding day, but the bride’s face was scratched out. There was a letter on a table, yellowed with age, written in a shaky hand. It said: ‘She left me for another. I couldn’t bear the weight. I took the rope. But the weight stayed.’

That night, I didn’t go to my bed. I sat in the corner of the attic, watching the window. The rope was still there, but now it was knotted into a noose. I put my hand on the glass, and I felt a cold draft. The window was closed. I looked down at the field, and I saw the figure again, Edmund, but this time he was holding the rope, and he was motioning for me to join him. He pointed to the noose, then to himself, and then he mouthed, ‘Your turn.’

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’ He stared at me, and then he slowly faded. But as he vanished, I felt a hand on my shoulder, cold and heavy. I turned, and there was nothing there. But the indentation on the bed, that remained, and it never went away. I moved my bed to the other side of the room, but every night, the dip would appear on the mattress, shaped like a man, and I knew that Edmund was still there, waiting for me to give in, to let the weight pull me down.

I told my mother we had to move. She finally listened, and we left the Sandford house. I never saw Edmund again, but sometimes, when I lie in bed, I feel a weight on the mattress, and I smell old rose perfume, and I hear a faint whisper: ‘I never left.’