The Window Watcher

The first time I saw it, I was eight years old, standing at the edge of the cemetery behind St. Elara’s chapel. The night was thick with the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves. I had wandered there, chasing a stray cat, and then I saw her—a woman in a gray dress, her face pale as bone, standing perfectly still among the headstones. She did not move, did not blink, just stared at me with hollow eyes. I felt no fear that night, only a strange curiosity. I called out to her, but she faded like morning mist when I took a step closer. I told my mother, and she dismissed it as a trick of the light. But I knew what I had seen.

We moved to a new town when I was ten, to a house on the edge of a pine forest. The activity stopped for a while, and I almost convinced myself it had been a phase. But then, on my thirteenth birthday, the whispers began. At first, they were like the rustle of wind through leaves, but then they grew clearer, forming words I couldn’t quite grasp. I would lie in bed, listening, and the walls seemed to press in on me. It was around that time that I started seeing the boy.

My room was at the back of the house, and because of renovations, there were no curtains. The window faced the forest, and at night, the black trunks of the pines seemed to lean toward me. I had just gotten into bed, pulling the quilt up to my chin, when I felt a gaze upon me. I turned my head slowly, and there he was—a small boy, maybe seven years old, with dark hair plastered to his forehead. He stood just beyond the glass, his hands pressed flat against it, his mouth open in a silent plea. His eyes were wide and desperate, and they locked onto mine. My blood turned to ice. I yanked the covers over my head and squeezed my eyes shut, praying he would be gone. I stayed like that for what felt like hours, until exhaustion dragged me into a restless sleep.

I woke to the sound of my parents’ voices downstairs. The room was bathed in gray morning light. I crept to the window, half-expecting to see him still there, but the forest was empty. I told my parents about the boy, but they exchanged worried glances and said it must have been a nightmare. I wanted to believe them, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was trying to reach me. The next night, I didn’t want to go to bed. I sat on the floor, back against the wall, staring at the window. But I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, the room was dark, and he was there again—not outside, but inside, standing in the corner, watching me. His lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear, and he pointed frantically at the window. I followed his gaze and saw a figure beyond the glass—a tall, dark shape with long limbs that seemed to contort. The boy’s face twisted in terror, and he vanished as the shape pressed its face against the window.

I screamed, and my parents burst in. But by the time the light was on, the shape was gone, and the room was empty. They assumed I had another nightmare, but I knew better. The boy was warning me. The next few nights, I refused to sleep alone, so I stayed in my parents’ room. But on the fourth night, I woke to a cold draft. The door was open, and a faint whisper drifted in: ‘He sees you.’ I ran to the hallway and saw the boy at the end, beckoning me. He led me to the attic door, which was slightly ajar. I had never been up there—it was boarded up, my father said. But the boy pointed, and I saw a crack of light. I climbed the stairs, my heart pounding, and found a small room with a single window. On the dusty floor were old photographs and a child’s toy, and against the wall, a fading name carved into the wood: ‘Daniel.’

I later learned from a neighbor that a boy named Daniel had lived in this house decades ago and had gone missing in the forest. His body was never found, but they said he had a brother named Caleb, who was never right in the head. The neighbor’s voice dropped to a whisper: ‘Caleb blamed himself. He used to say his brother was taken by the thing in the woods. He went mad, they say, and one night, he walked into the forest and never came back.’ I looked out the attic window, into the dark pines, and saw two figures at the edge—a small one and a tall, twisted one. The tall one pointed at me, and the small one shook his head, as if pleading. I stumbled back, and the attic door slammed shut.

Now, I can’t close my eyes without seeing the boy. He still comes to my window every night, his hands pressed against the glass, his lips mouthing a single name: ‘Caleb.’ And behind him, the tall shape waits, patient, with a grin that splits its face. I’ve started to write this all down, hoping someone will believe me, but I know what happens when you turn your back on the thing in the woods. It’s never been about the boy. It’s about me. And I’m afraid that one night, the window will be open.