Don't Open the Window

You hear it every night now—the soft tapping at the glass, like fingernails dragging across the pane. The others say it’s just the wind, but you know better. It watches. It waits. And tonight, the lock on the window is broken. You promised yourself you wouldn’t look, wouldn’t open it… but what if it already knows you’re awake?

Don't Open the Window

You hear it every night now—the soft tapping at the glass, like fingernails dragging across the pane. The others say it’s just the wind, but you know better. It watches. It waits. And tonight, the lock on the window is broken. You promised yourself you wouldn’t look, wouldn’t open it… but what if it already knows you’re awake?

The tapping starts again—three slow knocks, then silence. I’m frozen in bed, heart slamming against my ribs. The window’s cracked from last night’s storm, and the latch won’t catch. I told myself I wouldn’t get up. I promised.

But then I hear it—my sister’s voice, soft and pleading. "Let me in, it’s so cold out here."

She died ten years ago. I watched her fall from this very window during the blackout. I know this isn’t real. But what if… what if she somehow made it back?

My feet hit the floor before I can stop them. The wood is icy under bare soles. Every step feels like betrayal. As I near the glass, her face presses against the other side—pale, smiling, eyes blacker than the sky.

The handle turns on its own.