The Window | Short Story

I had finally made it, I was here. “Wow,” I whispered slightly out of breath after climbing the steep hill to get here. Finally, my childhood home. The house where my father and mother died, and where I wanted to… where I was going to, but that doesn’t matter now.

Twisted vines led everywhere, turning and moving throughout the house, just like my twisted thoughts. The fatal accident had almost fully destroyed the house, I thought to myself. Bits of ash and cinders crunched beneath my feet as I stepped up the short amount of wooden steps that led to the house, each one had its own eerie creak. The creaks grew louder as I neared to the house, the sound of scurrying and scratching came from inside, it didn’t cross my mind much I guess it was just a rodent or something. Nothing to worry about.

Reaching the partially open door I slowly pushed the now grubby metallic handle. The door swung open with a great thud although I only put a little effort into opening the old antique door. Stepping further into the house, the stench of burnt old wood flooded my nostrils and memories of my ruined and forgotten childhood that had all faded away with time had come dancing back as if they were ballet dancers, gracefully tiptoeing across a foggy stage. The memories not certain but still implanted in my mind. One memory that has always been there and will never leave, the tiny thing that had tortured me for as long as I could remember, the figure in the grubby window of the attic. That is why I am here, to do what I want to, do what my parents did. I am here to die in this house. The figure in the window told me to, so that is what I need to do.

“Hello old friend” it whispered, in my ear. The black figure in the corner of my eye leading me to the window. “I am here just like you wanted.” I slightly whispered, too scared to raise my voice. It’s cold hand in mine as I reached the top of the stairs, the floorboards weak and unstable but still I walked as a sense of bravery washed over me.

Finally I had reached the attic the dark figure still felt as though it was towering over me, even though it was the same height as me. I got to the window and looked out of it absent minded. “Please I am doing this because I want to, but also because you want me to and I think that I should at least see your face before it happens.” It nodded its head and slowly pulled back the dark veil and hood that hung low over its face. “It... it can’t be,” I stuttered, “can it?” I inched closer but it pushed me and now I am falling.

Falling to the ground, falling from life, falling from the nightmare. All I could think of was its face, it was me the black figure in the window. It was always me.

By Chloe Swain