Beyond the Wet Window

It was one of those rainy nights when it felt like the sky would never stop sobbing. My spine tingled as a chilly wind howled through the old house's gaps and rattled the shutters. I sat by the window and peered out into the dark, never-ending rain, my breath making froth on the glass.

The world beyond the glass was blurred by raindrops that were racing down the window. The silhouettes of the wildly waving trees were scarcely visible in the weak light of the street lighting. Something seemed closer than ever, even though everything felt so far away.

Suddenly, a flickering shadow appeared behind the curtain. I became motionless. I started to feel as though someone was observing me.

Was it just my imagination being tricked by the wind?

Had I really seen something, or what?

My hands gripped the chair's armrest as my heart started racing. Once more, there was that movement—soft yet distinct. The shadow persisted even though the moist window pane made it much more blurry.

I leaned closer, trying to wipe away the condensation. As my hand brushed the cold glass, I felt it—an icy touch from the other side. I gasped, pulling my hand away.

How was that possible? No one could be standing on the other side of the window—it was too high up, impossible for anyone to reach without a ladder. And yet, the cold sensation was undeniable.

“Who’s there?” I whispered, my voice barely audible above the sound of rain. There was no response, just the persistent tapping of raindrops against the glass. My mind raced, trying to come up with logical explanations. Perhaps a branch was brushing against the window, or maybe... no, it couldn’t be.

The shadow moved again, this time more defined, and I could see it—a silhouette, a figure standing on the other side of the glass, its head tilted, as if it were looking right at me. My chest tightened with fear. Should I scream? Run? I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the strange presence.

Then, out of nowhere, a soft, almost melodic tapping began on the window. Tap, tap, tap. The sound echoed in the silent room, sending chills down my spine. It was too rhythmic to be the wind.

The figure behind the glass raised a hand slowly, pressing its palm against the wet pane. For a moment, I thought I saw eyes—pale, haunting eyes staring back at me through the droplets.

I stood up, backing away from the window. My heart pounded in my ears, and my breathing grew erratic. Was I imagining all of this? My body screamed at me to leave the room, but my feet refused to move. A part of me, against all logic, wanted to know who—or what—was on the other side.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I stepped forward. My hand reached for the curtain, trembling. Slowly, I pulled it aside. Nothing. No one was there. The rain continued to pour, and the street lamp flickered, casting eerie shadows across the lawn. But the figure was gone.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Relief washed over me for a moment—until I glanced down at the window again. There, on the other side of the glass, was a handprint. Fresh, wet, as if someone had just pressed their hand against it.

I backed away, my heart racing once more. The room grew colder, and the air felt heavy, suffocating.

A whisper echoed through the room, faint but clear enough to hear. “I’m still here.”

Panic surged through me. Who was this? What did they want? I ran to the door, fumbling with the handle. As I turned the knob, a gust of wind blew the window open behind me. The cold, wet air filled the room, and with it, a sense of dread that I couldn’t shake.

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. The rain continued to fall, and the whisper lingered in my mind as I fled the house.

Even now, I can’t explain what happened that night. But every time it rains, I hear it again. The tapping on the window. The soft whisper. And I know, beyond the wet window, something is still waiting.