I Saw My Dead Sister in the Window

I.

I didn’t want to go back to that house.

It had been empty for years, rotting on the edge of town like a scab everyone ignored. But after my mother died last month, the house became mine. The lawyer said I could sell it “as is,” but he advised I at least clean it out first.

That’s why I drove there alone on a gray October afternoon, feeling like the past was closing its fist around my throat.

The house hadn’t changed. Same sagging porch. Same cracked second-story window. Same wind-chimes clattering on rusted hooks even though there was no wind.

It smelled like mold and mouse droppings inside. My footsteps echoed in the empty living room, the stained rug still there, even after all these years.

My sister’s old room was upstairs. I tried not to look at the door as I passed it.

But of course, I did.

II.

Her name was Anna. She died when I was ten.

That’s the clean version.

The messy version is that she fell down those stairs, screaming. I still hear it in my sleep sometimes—a high, sharp sound that ends in a thud.

My mother told everyone it was an accident. But she never forgave me.

Because I was the one who pushed her.

We were fighting over a doll. I didn’t mean to kill her. But dead is dead.

Mom never said it outright. But every look she gave me after that day said: I know what you did.

III.

I cleared the kitchen first. Threw out rancid boxes of cereal and ancient cans. My goal was to finish fast, get out before dark.

But I had to go upstairs eventually.

I paused at the top of the steps, the air colder somehow.

Her door was cracked open.

I hadn’t opened it.

For a second I stood frozen. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would split my ribs. I told myself it was the house settling. Old hinges. Drafts.

But then I heard something move inside.

A scrape. Like a chair dragging.

I wanted to turn around and leave. I should have.

But I pushed the door open.

IV.

The room was dark. The blinds were drawn, but light leaked in just enough to show the mess: broken toys, boxes of my mother’s old clothes. Dust everywhere.

And in the corner, the rocking chair moved back and forth.

Creak.

Creak.

Creak.

My mouth went dry.

“Hello?” I whispered.

The chair stopped.

That was somehow worse.

I reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. The bulb was dead.

I used my phone’s flashlight. The beam wobbled over the walls.

And that’s when I saw it.

The window.

From the outside, it had always been cracked.

But now, from inside, I saw a handprint smeared on the glass. Small. Child-sized.

It wasn’t dusty like everything else. It was clear, wet-looking, like it had just been made.

V.

I backed out of the room so fast I tripped over a box. My phone clattered to the floor. When I picked it up, the screen was cracked.

I didn’t care.

I sprinted downstairs, heart hammering.

In the living room I forced myself to stop, to breathe.

“This is grief,” I told myself. “Stress. Old memories. There’s no ghost.”

I was saying it out loud. Trying to believe it.

That’s when I heard the laugh.

High. Childish. Coming from the top of the stairs.

I looked up.

There was nothing there.

But the laughing continued, soft and sing-song, like a nursery rhyme underwater.

My blood felt like ice.

VI.

I ran to the front door. Yanked it so hard the hinges shrieked.

Outside, the sun was already setting. Long, red fingers of light stretched over the dead grass.

I didn’t even lock the door behind me.

I got in my car. My hands shook as I jammed the key into the ignition.

In the rearview mirror, I saw the house one last time.

She was in the upstairs window.

A little girl with long brown hair. Wearing the yellow dress she’d been buried in.

Watching me leave.

VII.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I drank half a bottle of whiskey instead, sitting on my couch, staring at my phone’s cracked screen.

I thought about calling someone. But who would I call? The police? A priest? A psychiatrist?

I remembered the way my mother used to look at me. The disappointment. The accusation.

I never forgave myself.

And now—maybe Anna hadn’t forgiven me either.

VIII.

This morning, I got a text.

It was from an unknown number.

No words.

Just a photo.

The cracked window.

With the handprint.

Below it, someone had written in the grime with a finger:

horror

true-story

paranormal

family

grief

forgiveness

ghosts

thriller

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