The Window on the Left

I never thought I would be writing this, but something happened that made me put it all down. Please forgive any clumsiness; I’m still shaking.

I live in a small, old bungalow in Pune, India, with my mother and my younger brother, Karan. My father passed away three years ago, leaving us alone. Our house has a strange layout: my bedroom is at the end of a long, narrow corridor, separated from the rest like an afterthought. The room has a single window on the left wall, overlooking a gully that is always in shadow. My bed is pushed against the opposite wall, so that when I lie down, I face the window directly. There is an old rosewood cupboard near the door, and the switchboard is just inside, next to the frame.

My mother is an early riser, and she expects Karan and I to be up by four, because she starts the morning prayers and wants us to join in. But sometimes, like any teenager, I ignore my alarm and sleep in. This particular morning, though, my alarm went off at four, and I smacked the snooze, groaning. I lay back, staring at the window, which was dark. The streetlight outside cast faint, distorted streaks of yellow through the dirty glass, and I thought of how my father once told me not to look into that window at night because it faces the west, where the spirits wander. I had laughed then.

I was just drifting back to sleep, thinking that mother’s stern voice would come in a while, when I heard the muffled sound of footsteps. They were soft, barefoot, coming down the corridor. My heart raced. The footsteps stopped just outside my door, and then I saw the doorknob turn slowly. I assumed it was my mother, coming to drag me out of bed. ‘I’m coming, I’m getting up,’ I called out, my voice groggy. But the door opened only a crack, and a small, pale hand with long, bony fingers slipped through, waving, as if to say ‘No, no, don’t get up.’ Then the hand retreated, and the door closed with a click.

I sat up, my breath caught in my throat. That was not my mother’s hand. It was too skinny, with nails that seemed sharp. I got up and cautiously opened the door, peering into the dark corridor. It was empty. I walked to the kitchen, where mother was boiling milk. ‘Did you just open my door?’ I asked. She looked at me, puzzled. ‘No beta, I just came to the kitchen. Why?’ I shook my head and went back to my room, dismissing it as leftover dream imagery.

I lay back down, but I was now fully awake. I lay facing the window, and I noticed something odd. The window pane on the left, the one that had been dusty, now bore a distinct smear, like a palm print, as if someone had pressed their hand against it from outside. But the window was on the second floor, and there was no ledge. I froze. I forced myself to look away, but my eyes kept drifting back. The smear seemed to be growing, spreading, or perhaps it was just the light. I heard the footsteps again, this time inside my room, shuffling to the left side, near the window. I turned sharply, but there was nothing. The room was empty.

I decided to ignore it, chalking it up to a restless mind. But over the next days, things escalated. I would wake up at exactly 4:15, not by alarm, but by the sound of that same doorway creaking open. Once, I saw the gap widen and a pair of hollow eyes peering through, watching me. I would shout, and it would vanish. My mother began to notice my dark circles. ‘You look ill,’ she said. I told her I was having trouble sleeping, but I didn’t tell her everything.

Then Karan, my little brother, started to talk. He is five and has an imaginary friend, whom he calls ‘Usha’. He said Usha told him that she lives in the window, and she likes to watch me sleep. My blood ran cold. The name Usha means dawn, but the figure I saw was no dawn. I tried to question Karan, but he just giggled and ran off.

One night, I had a terrible dream. I saw the window in my room, and it was open. A woman with long, wet hair, wearing a white shroud, was climbing in. Her face was half-eaten, and she had no eyes, just dark holes. She crawled across the floor, making a wet, dragging sound, and whispered in my ear, ‘You are the only one who can see me. I will not leave until you do as I say.’ I woke up screaming, drenched in sweat.

When I looked at the window, I saw her. Not a glimpse, but full in the moonlight. She was standing outside the glass, her face pressed against it, her mouth stretched into an unnatural grin. Her hand, the same pale, bony hand, was tapping on the glass, slowly, rhythmically. I grabbed the mattress and threw it over the window, blocking it. My mother rushed in, turning on the light. I was panting, pointing at the window, but when she pulled the mattress aside, there was nothing. Just the glass, covered in a thin layer of mist.

From that night on, I couldn’t sleep in that room. I slept with Karan and mother, and we left the room locked. But things followed. I would see her reflection in mirrors, or a shadow at the foot of the bed. I knew I had to do something. I called my aunt, who is a tantric healer, and she said to burn salt and neem leaves in the room, and to place a black string around my wrist. I did, but the presence only grew stronger.

One afternoon, while I was in the room to get something, the window pane shattered. A piece of glass cut my arm, and as I bled, I saw her again, now inside the room, hovering near the ceiling, her head twisted at an angle. She opened her mouth, and a sound like a thousand locusts filled my ears. ‘You are mine now,’ she said. I stumbled out, slamming the door.

My mother and I have decided to move. We are selling the house, but the bungalow has a strange condition: no one will buy it because of the stories. The previous owner, an old woman, had hanged herself in that very room, leaving a note saying she would come back. I believe her now. As I write this, I have moved to my aunt’s house in a nearby city. But last night, I woke up at 4:15, and I saw the window on the left of my bed, now a different window, but there was a smear on the glass. And in the reflection, I saw her face, smiling at me.

I know she has followed me. I don’t know how long I have. But I hope that by writing this, someone else will understand, and perhaps find a way to stop her, before she takes me completely.