The Face in the Window

I’d always liked my apartment because it was on the top floor. A tiny one-bedroom tucked into the corner of a creaky old building, far enough up that nobody could just stare in from the street. It felt safe — my sanctuary after long shifts at work.

That’s probably why I didn’t notice it at first. The face. It was a cold, damp Tuesday night when it happened. I’d just come home, kicked my shoes into the corner, and switched on the soft yellow lamp that filled my living room with its usual cozy glow. Rain was tapping at the windows like tired fingers, and my hands still smelled faintly of the take-out noodles I’d grabbed on the way. I was scrolling absently on my phone when I felt it — that strange prickling on the back of my neck that told me someone was watching. Instinctively, my eyes shifted to the window across the room. And there it was. A face. Pale as bone, pressed right up against the glass — eyes empty and unblinking, mouth slightly open as if caught mid-breath. I froze. Heart pounding in my ears. But that was impossible — I was on the top floor. I didn’t move for what felt like forever. Then my fingers found my phone again and I fumbled to switch the flashlight on. The light glinted off the glass and — just like that — the face was gone.

My hands were trembling as I crossed the room, heart thudding so hard I felt dizzy. When I pressed my palm to the cold glass, there was nothing outside but the rain-smeared dark and the sleepy shapes of neighboring rooftops. “You’re tired,” I told myself, forcing a shaky laugh. “You imagined it.” And maybe that would’ve been the end of it — if it hadn’t happened again the next night. I was reading in bed this time, rain still hissing against the glass. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional rumble of distant traffic. A loose shutter somewhere banged against its frame. I glanced up, eyes unfocused — and there it was again. That face. This time, its features were sharper: hollow cheekbones, black, lightless eyes. It hovered just inches from the glass, perfectly level with my window. And then, slowly, its lips began to move.

No sound just shapes I couldn’t make sense of. My chest went tight; my whole body locked in place. I grabbed my phone and flashed the light outside again. Nothing. Only the empty fire escape slick with rain. That was the moment my sanctuary began to feel like a trap. Over the next few nights, it happened like clockwork — a face appearing outside my windows. Always the same blank stare. Always at the edge of my periphery until I looked straight at it. My friends told me I was too stressed, that maybe the shift work was playing tricks on my eyes. The building manager chuckled when I mentioned it. “You’ve been watching too many horror movies,” he joked. “Nobody can get up there.” But I knew better. I started keeping my curtains drawn all the time. Even in broad daylight, my stomach felt twisted with unease. That’s when the sounds began. Soft scratching. Almost polite, like someone was politely knocking with the tips of their fingers. At first it was only at night, as I lay in bed, heart pounding in my throat.

Then it followed me into the bathroom, into the kitchen as I made my morning coffee — a gentle scrape-scrape-scrape at the glass. Every muscle in my body tensed every time I heard it. I stopped sleeping properly. Nights blurred into one long stretch of listening, waiting for the next scratch, the next glimpse of that empty face. One night, after hearing the sound by my bedroom window for what felt like hours, I finally snapped. Armed with my phone and a kitchen knife, I stormed over to the window and yanked the curtain aside. And my breath caught in my throat.

There was no face this time — just a palm print smeared on the glass. A palm print that started slowly sliding downwards, as if whoever — or whatever — was out there losing its grip. My knees buckled. I pressed myself against the floor and tried not to make a sound as the smear disappeared past the windowsill, vanishing into the dark.

By morning, my hands were raw from scrubbing every inch of glass in the apartment. Nothing stayed on them — no smudges, no trace. And nobody ever believed me.But even now, months later, I can’t stop glancing toward the windows after dark. I still wake up some nights thinking I heard the faint scratch of fingernails against glass — and every so often, in the corner of my eye, I see a pale face just on the edge of the dark. And I wonder if it ever truly left.