The Window of the Third Floor

The old house on Hemlock Lane had always felt alive in a way that made my skin crawl, but as a kid of eight, I didn’t have the words to explain it. My brother, Sam, was six, and we shared the upstairs floor of a converted Victorian that my mother had inherited from a great-aunt we never met. The third floor was ours—two small rooms and a narrow hallway that creaked even when no one walked it. Mom’s room was at the front, overlooking the street, and mine was at the end of the hall, tucked under the eaves. The window in Mom’s room was wide and old, with a sill that sloped outward, and below it, a two-story drop to the overgrown garden that no one tended.

That night, as autumn wind rattled the panes, I fell asleep to the sound of dry leaves scratching the glass. Sam was in Mom’s bed because he’d had nightmares about the shadows in his closet, and she’d given in, as she always did. Around midnight, something woke him—not a sound, but a prickling awareness, like a cold finger tracing his spine. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and through the blue glow of the streetlight, he saw a figure near the loveseat by the window. It was a girl, maybe her hair pale gold, her face too smooth, her lips too full. She was crouching, as if trying to hide, and she was giggling—a soft, bubbling sound that didn’t belong in the dark.

Sam thought it was me. ‘Sissy?’ he whispered, but the girl didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted her head, and her eyes—the same blue as mine—held a glint of mischief that was all wrong. He shook Mom’s arm. ‘Mom, why is sissy by the couch?’ Mom stirred, grumbling, but when she saw the figure, she froze. The girl was standing now, her shadow stretching across the floor, and she was looking directly at them. Mom’s breath caught. ‘Sam, don’t move,’ she said, her voice tight. But the girl didn’t advance. She turned, walked to the window, and without a sound, stepped through the glass—not opening it, just passing through as if it were water. She fell, and they heard nothing. No thud, no cry.

Mom scrambled to the window, her hands shaking as she yanked it open. Below, the garden was still, moonlit, empty. No body, no footprint in the damp soil, no broken branches. She turned back, her face ashen. ‘Stay here,’ she ordered, but Sam was already slipping off the bed. He followed her into the hall, and they both ran to my room. Mom threw open the door, and there I was—curled under my quilt, breathing softly, my golden hair spread on the pillow. She let out a sob, and I woke up, groggy. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. Mom didn’t answer. She just hugged me, and Sam stood in the doorway, staring at my face, then back at the window in his mind. He didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

The next morning, we all sat at the kitchen table, eating cereal in silence. Mom kept glancing out the back window, as if expecting something. I asked what had happened, but she said it was just a dream. I didn’t believe her. For weeks, I couldn’t sleep without the light on, and Sam refused to be in any room with a window at night. Mom started sleeping with the curtains drawn so tight that not a sliver of light came through. But the house didn’t forget.

One evening, about a month later, I was playing in my room when I saw it—a girl’s reflection in my own mirror, but it wasn’t me. I turned around, and there she was, standing by my closet, her lips curved in a smile that was too wide. She mouthed something, but I couldn’t hear. Then she pointed at the window. I felt a cold dread. I ran to Mom, but when I looked back, the girl was gone. I didn’t tell Mom, because I knew she’d think I was crazy. I decorated Sam’s room with old family photos, hoping to anchor the house to something real. I asked Great-Aunt Mildred’s ghost to leave us alone.

Years passed, and I grew up, but that image never left me. The girl with my face, the one who jumped from the third-floor window, became a story I told only to myself. When I was sixteen, I found a letter in the attic, hidden in a floorboard. It was from my great-aunt, addressed to her sister. ‘The child came to me last night, the one with my face,’ it read. ‘She wanted to play, but I told her no. She said she’d wait. She’s waiting still.’ The letter was dated 1942, and it mentioned a room in the house that had been sealed—the room at the end of the hall, where I slept as a child. My room. I never felt comfortable in that room again.

Last summer, I returned to the house to sort through the estate before selling. Sam came with me, though he was reluctant. We stood in my old room, and Sam said, ‘Remember that night? The girl?’ I nodded. ‘She wasn’t you,’ he said, looking at the window. ‘She had your face, but she wasn’t you.’ We both stared at the glass, and for a moment, I thought I saw a pale figure outside, pressing her nose against it. But when I blinked, it was just the reflection of a bird. We locked the room, put a heavy bookshelf in front of the door. Two weeks ago, the realtor called. She said they’d found something strange—a child’s dress, old-fashioned, hanging in that room, even though we’d cleared it out. And on the floor, a layer of dust that looked like tiny footprints leading to the window.

I’m not superstitious, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s still there, waiting for me to come back. The girl with my face, who jumped from the third-floor window. She’s patient. And one day, she’ll find a way to make me look out that window, and I’ll see her standing on the lawn, waving up at me, and I’ll know she’s not asking me to play. She’s asking me to join her. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to say no.