The Window That Was Never Opened

Whispers

The room was quiet — too quiet.

Adil stood in his new apartment, a small one-bedroom flat tucked in a sleepy corner of town. He’d come here to escape the noise of the city, hoping for peace — and inspiration for his writing.

The apartment was simple, clean, and oddly cozy for such an old building. But one thing stood out. A window. Narrow and tall, it sat above his writing desk. It overlooked the street, but unlike the others, this one wouldn’t open.

Not stuck. Not painted shut. It just… refused.

Adil had tugged, pushed, even tried wedging it with a fork. Nothing. Not even a rattle. He gave up and muttered, “You win.”

The landlord hadn’t mentioned anything odd. Just handed him the keys and said,

“Don’t worry about the window. It’s best left alone.”

At the time, Adil thought he was joking.

---

Whispers

The first night passed without trouble. Rain whispered on the roof, and Adil poured himself tea. He opened his notebook and began plotting a story — a horror piece, ironically.

At midnight, just as he scribbled a character’s name, he heard something.

A whisper.

Faint, soft, just behind his ear. He turned. No one there.

He walked to the window and pressed his ear to the glass.

Nothing.

Shrugging, he returned to his chair. “Too much coffee,” he mumbled.

But the next night, it happened again.

This time, the whisper was clearer. Two words.

“Let me…”

Adil froze.

He spun around, phone light flashing toward the window. The street outside was empty. But the air inside the room had changed. It was cold. Heavy.

He backed away from the glass.

---

The Missing Writer

The following morning, Adil sought answers.

He found Farooq, the elderly janitor, sipping tea in the courtyard.

“Did something happen in this building? In my apartment?”

Farooq raised a brow. “Room 2B?”

“Yes. The window—”

“Ah.” The old man sighed. “That window has been shut for ten years. No one’s opened it since Kareem.”

“Kareem?”

“He was a writer. Lived in your room. Kept to himself. One night, he vanished. No trace. No body. Just gone.”

Adil’s mouth went dry.

“The window?” he asked.

“Never opened again,” Farooq said. “We tried. Even a carpenter couldn’t budge it. It’s like it’s… sealed.”

“Why?”

The old man leaned in.

“Some say Kareem was writing a story about voices in the night. They say the story wasn’t fiction.”

---

Something Inside

That night, Adil stayed up with a notebook in his lap. Midnight came. The wind was still.

Then he heard it again.

“Let me in…”

The words were clearer than ever. And then — something new.

A handprint appeared on the glass from the inside.

Adil stumbled back.

He hadn’t touched it.

Breathing heavily, he snapped a photo. But the screen showed nothing.

He looked up. The handprint was gone.

Suddenly, the window creaked.

Just slightly. Just enough to make his heart skip.

He backed out of the room and slept on the couch.

---

Kareem’s Journal

The next morning, Adil couldn’t stay quiet. He returned to Farooq and begged for more.

The janitor sighed and reached into a drawer. He handed Adil a worn, leather-bound notebook.

“Kareem’s journal. I found it after he vanished. I never read it… felt wrong. Maybe you should.”

Adil took it, heart racing.

Back in his room, he flipped it open. The first page was normal — daily thoughts. Writing ideas. But deeper into the journal, things changed.

> “The whispers have names. They speak in dreams.”

“The window is not a window. It’s a door.”

“I see shadows at night. They tap the glass, asking to come in.”

“If I let them in, will I disappear too?”

Adil slammed the book shut.

The room felt colder.

---

Final Night

That night, Adil made a decision.

He sat at his desk, Kareem’s journal beside him, and waited.

At midnight, the whisper came again. But this time it was a full sentence.

“You can finish what he started.”

The glass began to fog over. This time, not from the outside — but from within.

Adil stood, trembling.

Then, slowly, the window unlatched itself.

It hadn’t done that before.

A soft click. Then a long creeeeeak as it swung open… just a crack.

Adil couldn’t move.

A cold wind slipped into the room. And with it — a voice in his head.

“One word… just write one word, and you’ll see.”

Against his better judgment, he sat down.

He picked up his pen.

He wrote: “Come.”

The room fell dark.

The lights flickered out. The glass shattered — from the inside.

A figure stepped through the empty frame. Tall, pale, eyes like deep water. It looked at Adil and smiled.

"You opened the story," it whispered.

"Now you’re part of it."

---

One Year Later

Room 2B is empty again.

The window is shut. Sealed tight.

A new tenant moves in next week. The landlord gives him the keys.

Says nothing about the window.

Just smiles, and says,

“It’s best left alone.”