The Cry of the Desperate Window

A misty, cold night found Maya sitting by herself in her little, rickety apartment. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the old windows like it was trying to get in. The unrelenting wind, the eerie mood, the unnerving feeling that something was horribly wrong had all been present for days.

A few weeks prior, Maya had moved into this apartment in search of a new beginning.

At first, everything appeared perfect—the building was ancient but charming, and the rent was inexpensive. However, of late, a strange noise had begun to trouble her—a disconcerting wail emanating from one of the windows.

It wasn't the breeze alone. No, something about this was... distinct. Something that is nearly living.

She tried to ignore it at first, telling herself it was just the weather, but every night the sound grew louder, more desperate. It was as if someone—or something—was trapped behind the glass, begging to be let out.

The noise level was intolerable tonight.

Maya whispered to herself, "It's just the wind," as she tried to concentrate on her reading. Her hands, though, were shaking. She knew in her heart that it wasn't the wind. The wail was too genuine, too human.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed through the room, and the window slammed shut on its own. Maya jumped, her heart pounding in her chest. She stared at the window, her breath shallow, fear creeping up her spine.

What was that?

She hesitated for a moment, then cautiously approached the window. The sound was louder now, almost like a soft, desperate whimper. Maya pressed her ear against the cold glass.

Who’s there? She whispered, her voice trembling.

For a few seconds, there was silence. Then, a faint voice echoed through the room, low and chilling. “Help me…”

Maya gasped, stumbling back. Did the window just… speak?

She shook her head, trying to convince herself she was imagining things, but the voice came again, louder this time. “Please… help me…”

Her heart raced. Every instinct told her to run, to leave the apartment and never come back. But something—perhaps curiosity or a strange compulsion—kept her rooted in place. Taking a deep breath, she walked closer to the window, her hand hovering over the latch.

What if something is trapped behind the glass? She thought.

What if someone needs my help?

She unlocked the window and slowly pushed it open. A rush of cold air swept into the room, but there was nothing outside. Just the fog, thick and swirling. But the cry—the desperate, haunting cry—was still there, echoing from somewhere deep within the fog.

Maya leaned out of the window, peering into the darkness.

“Who’s there?” She called out, her voice shaking.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, suddenly, a pair of pale hands reached up from the fog and grabbed her arm, pulling her forward. Maya screamed, trying to pull away, but the grip was too strong. The hands—they were icy cold, skeletal.

She kicked and struggled, but the force pulled her further and further out the window. Desperation gripped her as the fog closed in around her, swallowing her whole. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.

Was this how it would end?

Just as her strength was about to give out, the hands released her. Maya tumbled backward into her apartment, gasping for air, her heart racing. The window slammed shut behind her with a deafening crash, the sound reverberating through the small room.

For a few moments, she lay on the floor, breathing heavily, her mind racing.

What just happened? Was it real? Or was it just some twisted dream? But the bruise on her arm told her otherwise—the handprint, icy cold, was still there, a reminder of whatever had just tried to pull her into the fog.

The window was silent now, but the air in the apartment was heavy, thick with an unspoken presence. Maya didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the corner of her room, watching the window, waiting. But the cry never came again.

In the morning, when the sun finally rose, she packed her things and left the apartment. She never looked back, never asked questions about the window or the eerie cry. Some things, she realized, were better left unanswered.

The apartment stood empty for years after that night. No one dared to move in, and those who passed by the building swore they could still hear a faint, desperate cry coming from the old, abandoned window—calling out into the fog.