The Window View

The Window View

There is something outside my window.

I thought it was human, once. The first time I saw its shadowy form lurking behind the curtains, it looked person-shaped. I screamed, and it vanished into the night. That was when I was eight, almost too old to believe in monsters.

Almost.

My parents rushed to my room, and as I told them what I had seen, I thought they would brush my fears aside like always. “See?” they would tell me. “Nothing under the bed. Nothing in the closet. Nobody at the window, either.” Then they would kiss my cheek and tuck me in and say goodnight.

But they didn’t.

Daddy turned pale and Mommy ran to look out the window. There was no one there, of course. Whoever it was didn’t like being seen.

My parents let me sleep in their bed that night—or at least I pretended to sleep. I crept to the door and listened to them whisper-argue in the hall. They mentioned a man’s name from the news and some other things I couldn’t hear. I think Mommy was crying. Finally Daddy told her that I have a very vivid imagination and it was probably just a cat, a tree branch, a hundred other things.

Then he chuckled. “Maybe it was a monster.”

Mommy said that wasn’t funny and then I heard their footsteps coming close so I snuck back into bed. In the morning they were very nice to me but didn’t speak to each other. The next night, the figure at the window came back.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Instead, I curled up under my covers, feeling very cowardly. I was too mature for teddy bears and nightlights, or so I had been told. I didn’t feel very grown-up at the moment.

There was a rhythmic tapping from outside. I sat up in bed, and the noise stopped. The shadow shifted behind the glass, as if it knew I was watching.

A long moment passed where neither of us moved. Finally I gathered up the courage to break the stillness.

“Who are you?” I said aloud. Quietly, with a tremor in my voice.

There was no reply. I buried myself under the blankets and screwed my eyes shut, hoping that somehow this would make me feel safe. When I woke up, the figure was gone.

The nightly visits continued, but they were never constant. Sometimes the person at the window appeared a week in a row, sometimes only once every few months. Each time, they became less frightening and more expected. It was only when three years had passed since the first encounter that I began to notice something strange.

My window was always locked. I made sure to check it each night, not opening it even to let in a cool breeze during the stuffy summer evenings. I didn’t dare.

But one day I pulled on the metal clasp to find it just a tiny bit loosened. I quickly put it back in place. Next time, the same thing had happened.

The change was done so slowly that it took me a while to understand what was going on. One night, though, I was awakened by a soft click. I sat up and stared hard at the lock, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. In a few moments, my vision focused.

The latch was undone.

Monsters are different when you are younger. They hide under the bed and in the closet and disappear when the light turns on. Whoever was outside the window seemed to be a monster until that night—when I at last became certain that they were real. But I had since learned that there were more serious dangers. Kidnappers, murderers, and worse.

And this person might be one of them.

I felt I should do something logical. Maybe call the police, ask my parents for help, scream even. Anything was better than waiting. I wanted to tell somebody, to make this secret a little less lonely.

But I couldn’t. I was trapped by a promise I hadn’t meant to make.

I would stay silent. I would pretend to sleep. And I would ignore the slight creak of the window frame each time someone pushed it open just a quarter-inch more.

Six months ago, I awoke to see a figure standing in my room. Behind them, where there was once a sheet of glass, was now a dark patch of sky, open and exposed. I tensed up. The person had never come so close before.

A thought that had been hiding in the back of my mind for ages suddenly came to me. What if this person was not a person at all? What if the terror at my window was something, not someone?

The maybe-Something took a step towards me. I shut my eyes tightly. No, it must be human. I tried to be brave, to look the person straight in the face, but when I opened my eyes the room was empty. Relieved to find myself alone, I felt a sudden rush of courage.

A few weeks ago, I turned sixteen years old. Last night, the figure came back again.

I was waiting.

This time, the window was locked. It was hard to act fearless in pajamas, but I tried my best.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I told the form behind the curtains. “And if you ever come back again, I’ll send you to jail, so stay away!”

The person leaned back in apparent surprise. They seemed to look at me for a moment, then turn away. I watched them leave, getting further and further away until they faded into the darkness. For the first time in years, I had a good night’s sleep. That morning, my parents and I packed up the rest of our things and moved.

As we drove away, I didn’t look back.

Tonight is the first night in our new home. I am lying in a sleeping bag until the moving van comes.

I am smiling, but in the back of my mind I keep thinking about my old window, and the person behind it. I like my new view from the window much better.

It has no shadowy curtains.

It has a strong frame and thick glass.

Most importantly, it does not open.

I look outside, and can see the stormy evening sky. My gaze holds for a long time, until my eyes begin to water. I blink.

In one instant, all the breath is sucked from my chest.

There is something outside my window.

I thought it was human, once. I was terribly, terribly wrong.

The glass shatters, and my shriek is lost in the tempest of wind and rain flooding into the room.

Monsters don’t go away if you stop believing, I finally realize. A dark and terrible silhouette begins to take form past the jagged opening.

I had hoped that moving to an apartment would make me safe. Any human could follow me, but not reach me.

My own fears have no such limit.

The monster—and I know at last that it is a monster, this unholy offspring of truth and terror—seems to beckon to me. Whether I would come by choice or force was mine to decide.

I have chosen.

I take a running leap, arms flung open to embrace my fate, mind racing with final desperate thoughts. What will people find here tomorrow morning?

A storm-struck room.

A broken body.

And the splintered frame of a nineteenth-story window.