30 Jan The Window People

Part I

I drove slowly down Maple Crescent, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. Every house looked the same—two-story colonials painted in varying shades of beige, gray, and white, all with manicured lawns and identical mailboxes perched at the curb. It was the kind of neighborhood I’d dreamed about when I was younger. Safe, quiet—perfect for a fresh start.

Beside me, Oliver hugged his stuffed rabbit and stared out the car window. At six years old, my son had always been a bundle of energy, but now he sat unnervingly still. His big brown eyes followed the passing houses as if committing them to memory.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

He sat quietly for a moment longer, deep in thought, then turned to me. “The houses are too close together.”

I chuckled, though his observation was true. “That’s what makes it cozy. We’ll have neighbors close by if we need help.”

Oliver frowned but said nothing else. His fingers tightened around the rabbit’s floppy ears.

When we finally pulled into the driveway of 204 Maple Crescent, I parked the car and shut off the engine, taking a moment to breathe. The house was modest but had potential. Fresh white siding, dark blue shutters, and a small porch with enough space for a bench and a few plants. It was a house where we could heal, where I could finally move past the divorce and give Oliver the stability he deserved.

“You ready to check it out?” I asked.

Oliver shrugged and stepped out of the car after me. He stopped on the walkway, staring up at the house.

“Do you like it?” I prodded gently.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice quiet.

I chose to interpret that as a good sign.

The movers came and went, leaving stacks of cardboard boxes in their wake. Oliver helped unpack his room, placing his favorite books on the shelves and lining his toy dinosaurs along the windowsill. I tried to make things feel normal, even fun, but I could tell he wasn’t fully present. His attention kept drifting to the window, his small frame silhouetted against the late afternoon light.

“Everything okay?” I asked, peeking into his room.

He turned to me with a hesitant nod, then pointed out the window. “There’s a lady across the street. She’s just standing there.”

I walked over to see what he was talking about. Across the road, a woman stood on her porch, staring directly at our house. Her gray hair was tied back in a loose bun, and she wore a faded floral dress. She didn’t move—didn’t wave, didn’t smile. Just stood there, watching.

I gave a quick wave, hoping to break the awkwardness. She didn’t respond. Instead, she turned slowly and disappeared into her house without a word.

“She’s probably just curious about the new neighbors,” I said, though her behavior left me unsettled. I ruffled Oliver’s hair. “Let’s focus on getting your room set up.”

That evening, I took Oliver to explore the neighborhood. The streets were eerily quiet, with no kids playing outside and only the occasional dog barking in the distance. The few neighbors we encountered were polite but strangely distant.

At one house, a man in his fifties answered the door after my knock. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said flatly. “Let us know if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to sound cheerful. “We’re looking forward to settling in.”

He nodded once and closed the door before I could say anything else.

The most memorable encounter was with an elderly woman named Mrs. Landry, who lived two doors down. Upon seeing us, she shuffled out onto her porch, leaning heavily on her cane.

“Welcome,” she said in a voice as thin as paper. Her watery blue eyes darted toward my house. “Keep your curtains drawn after dark, dear. It’s better that way.”

I blinked, unsure how to respond. “Why is that?”

Mrs. Landry’s gaze shifted back to me, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Just do as I say,” she muttered before retreating inside.

Later that night, as I tucked Oliver into bed, he asked, “Why did that lady say to keep the curtains closed?”

“She’s probably just being cautious,” I said, brushing his hair back. “Maybe it’s to keep the house cooler or for privacy. Don’t worry about it.”

“But she sounded scared,” Oliver said, his eyes wide. “Do you think she’s scared of the window people?”

I frowned. “Window people? What do you mean?”

Oliver hesitated, clutching his rabbit closer. “Never mind.”

I wanted to press him, but he looked so small and tired, his dark curls falling messily across his forehead. I kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, buddy. Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Mom,” he murmured, though his gaze lingered on the closed curtains.

I spent the next few days unpacking while Oliver adjusted to his new school and settled in. The house began to feel more like home, but the odd encounters from our first night haunted me. The neighborhood felt too quiet, as though something unseen hung in the air.

Then, the noises began.

It started as faint creaks in the walls, easily dismissed as the sound of the house settling. But they grew louder, more deliberate—soft thuds that seemed to move from one side of the house to the other. At first, I ignored them, chalking it up to my imagination.

But one night, as I lay in bed, I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the hallway. They were slow and deliberate, stopping just outside my door. I sat up, straining to hear. Nothing.

When I opened the door, the hallway was empty.

By the weekend, Oliver’s unease had grown more noticeable. He spent more time in his room, drawing quietly at his desk. When I asked what he was working on, he would shrug and hide the papers from view.

“Can I see?” I asked one evening, kneeling beside him.

Reluctantly, he handed me a sheet of paper. My stomach dropped as I took in the image. It was a crude drawing of a figure standing at a window, its limbs too long and its head too large. Its eyes were hollow circles, staring out blankly.

“Who’s this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. “The window people.”

“Why do you call them that?”

“Because that’s what they are,” he said matter-of-factly. “They live in the windows. They watch us.”

I forced a smile. “It’s just your imagination, sweetheart. There’s nothing to worry about.”

But as I tucked him into bed that night, I wasn’t so sure.

Part II

I woke the next morning to the sound of Oliver’s footsteps in the hallway. He wasn’t walking; he was running. The rapid thud-thud-thud jarred me from sleep, and I sat up, disoriented.

“Oliver?” I called.

No answer.

I climbed out of bed, the wooden floor cold beneath my feet, and found him standing in the living room. He was at the front window, his small body silhouetted against the pale morning light.

“Oliver, what are you doing?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“They’re still there,” he whispered.

I followed his gaze, my stomach twisting with dread. Across the street, in the same house where the old woman had stood days earlier, a figure stood perfectly still at the window. It wasn’t the old woman this time. It was taller—too tall, in fact—and impossibly thin. Its face was a pale blur, like a smudge of light on glass. I couldn’t make out any features, but its head was tilted, as if it were looking directly at us.

I shivered, forcing myself to stay calm. “It’s probably just someone standing in their house,” I said, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them.

“They don’t move,” Oliver said, gripping the edge of the windowsill. His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. “They never move.”

The day passed uneventfully, though I couldn’t get the image of the figure out of my mind. Every time I glanced out a window, I half-expected to see it standing there, waiting.

That evening, as I cooked dinner, Oliver sat at the kitchen table with a stack of paper and a box of crayons. He was drawing again, his brow furrowed in concentration. I tried to focus on chopping vegetables, but I couldn’t ignore the growing pile of drawings beside him.

“Can I see what you’re working on?” I asked casually, hoping he wouldn’t retreat into silence like before.

To my surprise, he handed me one of the pages. My hands trembled as I looked at the image. It was another figure—this one even more grotesque than the first. Its limbs were impossibly long and bent at strange angles, and its eyes were empty black circles. It stood at a window, just like the one in our living room.

“Why do you keep drawing these, Ollie?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Because they’re real,” he said simply. He picked up another crayon and started on a new page, his movements quick and precise. “They live in the windows.”

That night, I closed every curtain in the house. Even the bathroom window, which was small and frosted, felt like a portal waiting to be breached. Oliver watched me silently as I went from room to room, double-checking the locks on the doors and windows.

“Is this about the window people?” he asked as I tucked him into bed.

I hesitated. “I just want us to feel safe.”

He nodded, clutching his stuffed rabbit tightly. “They don’t need doors,” he murmured as I turned off the light. “They can already see us.”

The tapping started around midnight.

At first, I thought it was the wind. The sound was barely audible over the hum of the heater, but it grew louder as the minutes passed. It was deliberate—tap, tap, tap—like fingers drumming against glass.

I bolted upright. My room was dark, the curtains drawn tight, but the sound seemed to come from the window closest to me. Swallowing my fear, I forced myself to get up and peek through the curtains.

There was nothing there—just the faint outline of the empty street, illuminated by the glow of a streetlamp.

As I turned away, the tapping came again. This time, it was at the living room window.

I grabbed the flashlight from my bedside table and crept down the hall, my footsteps soft against the wooden floor. When I reached the living room, I froze. The curtain over the window rippled slightly, as though something—or someone—was brushing against it.

“Who’s there?” I called, my voice shaking.

The tapping stopped.

I held my breath, listening. The house was silent. For a long moment, I stood there, my flashlight trembling in my hand. Finally, I pulled the curtain aside.

The window was empty.

The next morning, Oliver’s drawings took a darker turn. He now used thick, jagged strokes of black crayon to outline the figures, their eyes growing larger and more menacing with each page. Some of the drawings showed multiple figures, clustered together at the same window. In one, they had their hands pressed against the glass.

“Do they talk to you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

He shook his head. “They don’t talk. They just watch.”

His words sent a chill down my spine. “What do they want?”

Oliver paused, as if considering the question. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But they’re coming closer.”

By the end of the week, my nerves were frayed. The tapping sounds continued every night, always moving from window to window, as if whatever was out there was circling the house. Oliver’s behavior grew more withdrawn. He no longer wanted to play outside, and he refused to sleep in his room, claiming the window people “liked it best in there.”

I found myself staring out the windows during the day, searching for any sign of movement. The neighborhood seemed unnaturally still. The only signs of life were the figures in the windows. They were everywhere now—standing in the houses across the street, down the block, even in the house directly next door. I couldn’t ignore them anymore.

One evening, as the sun set, I stood at the living room window and stared back. Across the street, in the house where I’d first seen the old woman, a figure stood motionless. Its body was obscured by the curtains, but its pale face was visible, pressed against the glass.

I lifted a hand and waved.

The figure didn’t move.

That night, I woke to find Oliver standing at my bedside. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting up quickly.

“They’re inside,” he whispered.

My blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

He pointed toward the hallway. “I saw one. In the mirror.”

I grabbed the flashlight and followed him into the hallway. The mirror on the wall was just a cheap piece of glass, the kind you’d pick up at a department store. It reflected the dim light from the hallway, showing nothing unusual.

“There’s nothing there,” I said, though my voice shook.

Oliver clung to my side. “They don’t stay long. But they’re here. I know they are.”

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

Part III

I spent most of the next day trying to convince myself that Oliver’s fear was just his imagination running wild. But as I washed dishes after breakfast, I caught my own reflection in the small window above the sink. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something move behind me—just a shadow, faint and quick, gone before I could turn around.

My hands trembled, sending the dish soap bottle clattering into the sink. I stared at the window, unblinking. The distorted reflection of the room behind me looked normal, but something felt wrong.

For the first time since moving in, I left the dishes in the sink and went to sit in the living room, drawing all the curtains tighter.

I decided to seek answers. I couldn’t keep living like this—jumping at every shadow, ignoring the sense that the house itself had started to betray me. Maybe the neighbors knew something. Maybe they’d seen the figures, too.

Oliver stayed in his room, reluctantly agreeing to watch a cartoon while I went next door. A young couple lived there; I’d seen them moving groceries inside the week before, though I hadn’t caught their names.

When I knocked, the door opened just enough to reveal the man’s face. He was in his thirties, clean-shaven, and pale as paper.

“Hi, I’m your neighbor,” I said quickly, hoping to disarm the tension. “I wanted to ask if you’ve noticed anything… strange lately. At night, maybe?”

His gaze darted past me toward my house. For a second, I thought he was going to slam the door in my face, but instead, he leaned closer.

“They’re watching you, aren’t they?” he whispered.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“Don’t leave the house after dark,” he said. “And don’t look at them for too long.”

“Why? Who are they?” I demanded, gripping the edge of the door. “Why are they watching my house?”

His face twisted, as though he was struggling to decide whether to say more. Finally, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just keep your curtains closed. That’s the only thing that helps.”

Before I could press him, the door shut in my face.

I returned home, feeling no closer to the truth. Oliver was at the dining table, drawing again, his focus so intense that he didn’t notice me walk in. I watched him for a moment, my stomach tightening as I saw what he was working on.

This time, the figures weren’t standing at windows. They were inside the house.

My throat felt dry. “Oliver?” I said softly.

He looked up, startled. His crayon slipped, leaving a jagged black streak across the paper. “I didn’t hear you.”

I sat down across from him, trying to keep my voice calm. “Why are they inside now? Did you see them?”

He hesitated, his small hands twisting the crayon in a nervous rhythm. “I think they were always inside,” he whispered. “I just didn’t notice before.”

Something cold settled in my chest. I reached across the table and touched his hand. “It’s just your imagination,” I said, but the words felt hollow.

That night, as I passed the hallway mirror on my way to bed, I saw it again—a flicker of movement in the glass. I froze and turned slowly to face the mirror.

There was nothing there.

But as I stood staring at my reflection, I got the overwhelming sense that something was just out of sight, waiting for me to look away.

Over the next few days, Oliver’s behavior grew stranger. He refused to sleep in his room, insisting that the window people “liked it best in there.” He started having nightmares, waking up screaming about shadows crawling across the walls.

I tried everything—nightlights, lullabies, even letting him sleep in my bed—but nothing calmed him. Every morning, he was more withdrawn and exhausted, his drawings darker and more disturbing.

In one, a figure with impossibly long arms reached through a window to grab a child. The black crayon lines were jagged and heavy, as though Oliver had pressed down with all his strength.

“Why do you keep drawing these?” I asked one afternoon, holding up the latest page.

“Because they’re real,” he said simply. “And I don’t want to forget what they look like.”

His answer made my stomach turn. “What do they look like to you?” I pressed. “Can you describe them?”

He frowned as though searching for the right words. “They’re blurry. Like… like they don’t fit here. Their arms and legs don’t move right. And their faces…” He trailed off, his expression darkening. “They don’t have faces. Just holes where the eyes should be.”

I hugged him tightly, fighting the growing dread that had taken root in my chest. “You’re safe, Ollie. I promise.”

But as I rocked him in my arms, I wasn’t sure if I believed it.

The final straw came late one night. I woke to the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway—too heavy to be Oliver’s, but too light to belong to anyone else. My entire body tensed, and I lay still, listening.

The footsteps stopped outside my bedroom door.

“Who’s there?” I whispered.

There was no reply. Slowly, I got out of bed, grabbing the flashlight from my nightstand. My hand shook as I opened the door and shone the beam into the hallway.

Empty.

I let out a shaky breath and stepped into the hall. The house was quiet, the only sound the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. But as I approached the mirror hanging on the wall, a chill ran down my spine.

There, in the glass, was a shadow.

It wasn’t mine.

The shape was tall and thin, its edges fuzzy and indistinct, as though it didn’t belong in the reflection. Its head tilted slightly, and though it had no eyes, I could feel it staring at me.

I stumbled back, nearly dropping the flashlight. The figure didn’t move. It just stood there, watching.

In a panic, I grabbed the mirror off the wall and smashed it against the floor. The glass shattered, scattering jagged pieces across the hardwood. My chest heaved as I stared down at the shards, but the shadow was gone.

Oliver appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “Mom?” he asked, his voice trembling. “What’s wrong?”

I crouched down and pulled him into a hug, hiding my own fear behind a forced smile. “Nothing, sweetheart,” I lied, holding him close. “Just go back to bed.”

Part IV

I woke to the sound of Oliver’s voice.

“They’re here,” he whispered, his small hand shaking my shoulder.

The room was dark, the air heavy with the stillness of the night. I turned on the bedside lamp, casting a warm glow that barely reached the corners of the room. Oliver stood beside my bed, his stuffed rabbit hanging limply from one hand.

“What do you mean, sweetie?” I asked, my voice thick with sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pointed toward the hallway. “I saw one. In the kitchen.”

I felt my stomach drop. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, his face pale. “It was looking at the mirror.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm. Grabbing the flashlight from my nightstand, I swung my legs out of bed. “Stay here,” I told him, though I knew he wouldn’t listen. He followed me as I crept down the hallway, each step a careful whisper against the wooden floor.

The kitchen was dark, the faint glow of the streetlamp bathing the countertops in an eerie glow. I scanned the room with the flashlight, the beam cutting through the dimness.

The light swept over the mirror hanging above the sink–it was empty. Just my reflection staring back at me.

Turning to Oliver, I said, “There’s nothing here, sweetheart. It was probably just a dream.”

But Oliver shook his head vehemently. “It wasn’t a dream. It was real.”

Before I could respond, a sound froze us both in place—a soft tapping, coming from the living room window. I turned toward the noise, the flashlight trembling in my hand.

We moved slowly toward the living room, the tapping growing louder with each step. My mind raced, trying to rationalize the sound. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was a tree branch brushing against the glass. But deep down, I knew better.

When we reached the living room, I stopped in my tracks. The curtain over the large front window rippled as though something—or someone—was brushing against it. I tightened my grip on the flashlight and forced myself to step closer.

“Stay behind me,” I whispered to Oliver.

With a deep breath, I pulled the curtain aside.

The window was empty. Beyond the glass, the street was eerily quiet, the houses across the road shrouded in shadow. But then I noticed something that made my blood run cold.

Reflected in the glass of the window, faint but unmistakable, was a figure standing behind us.

I spun around, my flashlight beam slicing through the darkness. There was no one there.

“Mom,” Oliver whispered, tugging on my sleeve. “Look at the mirror.”

I turned toward the hallway mirror. The faint glow from the living room cast enough light to illuminate its surface, and what I saw made me stagger back.

The reflection showed not one figure, but several. They were crowded together, their elongated limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their hollow eyes fixed on us. They didn’t move, but their presence was suffocating, as though they were pressing against the glass, trying to break through.

I grabbed Oliver and backed away, my mind racing. “We need to get out of here,” I said, my voice shaking.

But as I reached for the door, the tapping started again—this time from every window in the house.

The sound was maddening, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to come from all directions at once. Oliver clung to me, his small body trembling against mine. I tried to think, to focus, but the noise made it impossible.

Then the whispers started.

They were faint at first, barely audible over the tapping, but they grew louder with each passing second. It wasn’t a language I recognized—more like a low, guttural hum that resonated deep in my chest.

I turned to Oliver. “Close your eyes,” I told him. “Don’t look at them.”

He obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in my side. I pulled him close and scanned the room, searching for anything I could use to protect us. My eyes landed on the hallway mirror, its surface rippling as though it were made of water.

One of the figures stepped forward in the reflection. Its limbs stretched unnaturally, its head tilting as it placed a spindly hand against the glass. I felt an overwhelming sense of dread, as if the air itself had turned toxic.

The figure’s hand pressed harder, and a faint crack appeared in the mirror.

“No,” I whispered, backing away. “No, no, no.”

But the crack spread, spiderwebbing across the surface. The tapping grew louder, more frantic, and the whispers rose to a deafening crescendo. I knew we didn’t have much time.

I grabbed a blanket from the couch and threw it over the mirror, blocking the reflection. The noise stopped abruptly, leaving the house in a suffocating silence.

Oliver peeked up at me, his eyes wide. “Did it work?” he asked.

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure. “We need to stay in a room without mirrors,” I said, pulling him toward the bathroom. It was the only place in the house where I could keep him safe.

Part V

The bathroom felt impossibly small with the two of us crammed inside. I locked the door and flicked on the light, the hum of the fluorescent bulb doing little to calm my nerves. There were no mirrors here—only plain white walls and a small frosted window that I’d already covered with a towel earlier in the week.

Oliver sat on the edge of the tub, his knees pulled to his chest, the stuffed rabbit clutched tightly in his arms. His wide eyes never left me, filled with a silent plea for reassurance that I didn’t know how to give.

“We’re safe in here,” I said, though the words felt empty. I sank to the floor, my back against the door, listening for any sound beyond the walls. The house was eerily quiet now. No tapping. No whispers. Just silence.

Somehow, the stillness was worse.

“What do they want, Mom?” Oliver whispered.

I shook my head, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know.”

In the quiet that followed, I became painfully aware of my own breathing as I stared at the towel covering the tiny window. It hadn’t moved, but I couldn’t stop imagining what might be waiting on the other side.

Oliver’s voice broke the silence. “Even when you close your eyes, they’re still watching.”

I didn’t sleep. Hours passed—or maybe it was minutes; time had lost all meaning—and I stayed where I was, guarding the door as if that could keep us safe. Oliver drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, his head resting against the cold porcelain of the tub.

At some point, I noticed something strange. The light in the bathroom seemed to dim, the hum of the bulb growing fainter until it was almost imperceptible. My chest tightened as I glanced at the covered window.

The towel moved.

It was subtle—just the faintest ripple, like a breath of air brushing against it. But in the suffocating stillness of the room, it was enough to send a cold wave of terror crashing over me.

I stood, my legs trembling, and reached for the towel. My hand froze inches from the fabric, and for a moment, I thought I saw a shadow shift on the other side of the frosted glass.

“Mom?” Oliver’s voice was barely a whisper.

I turned to him, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

But when I turned back to the window, I saw it.

In the reflection of the faucet, faint but unmistakable, was a face. Not mine. Not Oliver’s. It was one of them.

Its hollow eyes stared at me, unblinking, as its distorted mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile.