“The Girl in the Window”

M Mehran

The village of Elmswood was quiet, forgotten, nestled between fog-draped woods and crooked hills. There were no streetlights. The houses were old and leaned into one another like secrets too heavy to carry. But no house was more feared than the red one on Hollow Street — the one with the window on the second floor that always had a little girl staring out.

People said she never moved.
People said she never aged.
People said she was never alive.

When Leah moved to Elmswood, she didn’t believe in ghost stories. A fresh graduate from the city, she wanted solitude — the kind found in sleepy towns and untouched nature. She bought the red house for cheap. Too cheap. She didn’t ask why.

The villagers watched her unload boxes in silence. No one offered help. No one waved. One old woman muttered something about “the child,” but Leah brushed it off.

The first night was uneventful. Cold. Quiet. Just the wind sighing through the gaps in the walls.

But on the second night, Leah heard soft tapping.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It came from the second-floor window — the one she hadn't opened. She climbed the stairs, heart slow but steady, and saw… nothing. Just her reflection in the glass and the trees swaying in the moonlight.

Then she heard it again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

This time, it came from behind her.

She turned, and the hallway was empty.

Leah laughed nervously. “Old houses make noises,” she whispered to herself. But as she turned back to the window, her reflection had changed.

There was a girl standing beside her.

Hair matted. Eyes wide. Dress soaked and rotting.

Leah screamed, spun around — no one there.

The girl was gone. The reflection was hers again.

In the morning, Leah went into the village to ask questions. The baker went pale at the mention of the house. The librarian simply shook her head. Finally, she cornered the old woman who’d spoken before.

“They never told you, did they?” the woman rasped. “That house is cursed. Has been since the river took her.”

“Took who?” Leah asked, though her voice felt distant.

“Annabelle. The girl who lived there. Drowned at seven. But she came back. Some say she never left. Her parents locked the room. Refused to speak of her. Until they vanished too.”

Leah returned home, unsettled but defiant. Ghosts weren’t real. She was tired. Stressed. Seeing things.

That night, she bolted the bedroom door and turned on every light.

At 3:07 AM, the lights flickered and died.

In the silence, Leah heard the floorboards creak.

Then came the whisper.

“Play with me…”

Her breath caught. She clutched her phone, but the screen was black. She looked up.

The girl was at the foot of the bed.

Wet footprints led from the doorway. Her mouth hung open unnaturally wide. Her eyes — empty pits.

“Get out!” Leah shouted, flinging the lamp. It passed through the girl and shattered against the wall.

The girl tilted her head. “You’re in my room.”

Suddenly, Leah was flung backward. The room grew cold. The walls bled water. The girl moved closer, reaching.

Then everything went black.


---

When the villagers entered the red house three days later — after noticing no lights, no movement — they found it empty.

No sign of Leah. No packed bags. No struggle.

Just a single wet handprint on the second-floor window.

And a little girl staring out once more.