The Black Bird That Landed on My Window Every Night

It began in winter. The nights were longer than usual, and the wind carried whispers no one wanted to hear. I was staying at my grandmother’s old countryside house, a lonely wooden structure nestled between dying trees and distant hills.

The first time I saw it, I thought it was just a crow.

A single black bird landed on the window outside my room just after midnight. It didn’t caw. It didn’t flutter. It just sat there—completely still—its glowing red eyes staring through the glass, straight at me.

I froze.

I waved my hand, expecting it to fly away.

It didn’t.

I got up to tap the glass.

It blinked once, then flew into the darkness.

I tried to forget it.

But the next night, it returned.

Same time: 12:07 a.m.

Same window.

Same stare.

This continued for days.

I began to dread the sound of midnight wind, the soft thump of claws against glass. My sleep was ruined. My dreams, haunted.

On the seventh night, I decided to record it.

I set up my phone camera aimed at the window, hit record, and tried to sleep. I woke up the next morning to check the footage.

My heart skipped.

At exactly 12:07 a.m., the bird appeared. But something was wrong.

On camera, it wasn’t just a bird. It was... changing.

Its wings rippled unnaturally, like shadows made of smoke. Its beak elongated. For one brief frame, its form twisted into something humanoid, hunched and long-fingered, then snapped back into bird-shape.

I dropped my phone.

That wasn’t a bird.

That was a messenger.

That evening, I called my grandmother—she was the only one I trusted.

Before I could finish explaining, she gasped.

“Did you leave your window open that first night?” she asked urgently.

“Yes, just a little. Why?”

Her voice was stern. “Then you let it in.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not all birds are birds,” she said. “Some are watchers. Some are bearers of forgotten curses. You acknowledged it. That’s all it needed.”

She told me about an old family story—one we never discussed openly.

A dark creature, bound to our bloodline, that visited one member every few generations. Always as a bird. Always silent. Always after midnight.

“But why now?” I asked.

“Because it’s your turn,” she whispered.

I wanted to leave the house, but the road was blocked from recent snowfall. I was trapped.

That night, I stayed up, lights off, watching the window.

At 12:07 a.m., it came again.

But this time, it didn’t stay outside.

The moment our eyes met, it vanished.

And a second later, it landed on the inside of my window sill.

I couldn’t move.

Its feathers were darker than the room itself, absorbing every speck of light. It tilted its head—and I swear it smiled. Not with a beak, but with something beneath the illusion.

It opened its wings.

Symbols were carved into its feathers—ancient runes glowing faintly, shifting like they were alive.

It hopped down to the floor.

That broke me.

I screamed. I ran out of the room. I bolted the door and chanted every verse of protection I could remember. Surah Al-Baqarah. Ayatul Kursi. Surah Al-Falaq.

There was silence.

Then three knocks.

Soft. Deliberate.

On the inside of the window.

I didn’t sleep.

In the morning, I found the bird gone.

But on my window glass, drawn in condensation, were three perfect claw marks—deep and curved.

I left that house the next day.

But the bird followed.

Different windows. Different cities.

Always at 12:07 a.m.

Always those glowing red eyes.

One night, I asked a spiritual elder what it meant.

He closed his eyes and said, “Some shadows are ancestral. You cannot escape them. You must accept or resist.”

I asked, “What happens if I accept?”

He said, “It becomes a part of you.”

“And if I resist?”

“It never stops hunting.”

Now I keep all windows sealed.

I don’t own mirrors. I sleep with recitation playing all night.

But sometimes... when the power goes out, I hear it land. I feel its eyes on me.

And I know, whether I run or stay...

It remembers.

And someday, it will no longer knock.

It will simply enter.