The Window That Wasn't There

I’ve always been a sucker for big windows. You know, the kind that let in streams of golden morning light, make your crappy little apartment look like something off a Pinterest board?

That’s what I wanted.

So when I stumbled across this old apartment on Maple Street—tall ceilings, ancient hardwood floors, and most importantly, those glorious oversized windows—I thought, Finally. I’m living the dream.

The place had some... character, sure. Okay, maybe it was more “mildly haunted chic” than “Pinterest-perfect.” But I was on a budget, and I convinced myself it was all part of the charm.

It wasn’t until I was unpacking on the first night that I noticed it.

An extra window.

At first, I thought I was just tired. You know how your brain plays tricks on you when you’re running on three slices of pizza and too much caffeine? But no. There it was. Right in the bedroom, squished into this weird little corner by the radiator.

Funny thing was, I didn’t remember seeing it during the tour. And when I thought about it... I couldn’t recall ever seeing it from the outside either.

I told myself it was probably just an old, sealed-off window. Buildings this old are full of weird quirks, right? But something about it rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn’t like the other windows.

The glass was cloudy, the frame looked like it belonged in a haunted house, and no matter how hard I tried, the latch wouldn’t budge. Stuck. Forever shut.

I figured it was nothing.

Until night fell.

That’s when things started to get... off.

During the day, the window looked dull and harmless, almost like it wasn’t even trying to be creepy.

But at night?

At exactly 3 a.m., I swear it would glow. Just faintly. Like a soft shimmer, almost like the moonlight was leaking in. Except, this window faced a brick wall in a back alley. There shouldn’t have been any light.

Still, I brushed it off. Probably my overactive imagination, right?

Or, I told myself, maybe some old streetlight reflecting weirdly.

But deep down, it itched at me.

Then, one night, curiosity got the better of me.

I crept up to it, breath fogging the cold glass.

And that’s when I saw it.

My reflection.

Except... it wasn’t me.

It looked like me, sure, but the eyes? Too wide. Too hungry.

And then... it smiled.

I wasn’t smiling.

I jumped back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet.

I tried to laugh it off, but my heart wouldn’t slow down.

And from that night on, the fear started sinking its claws deeper.

Every night at 3:03 a.m.—like clockwork—I’d wake up, heart racing, knowing exactly what I’d see.

The silhouette.

Standing on the other side of that cursed glass.

Watching.

I tried everything. Covered it with a blanket. Taped it up. Heck, I even nailed boards over it like I was living in a bad zombie movie.

But it didn’t matter.

The glow still seeped through.

And the figure? Still there. Always there.

I even called the landlord. He laughed, told me it was “decorative.”

Yeah, real cute.

Desperate, I finally set up my phone to record it overnight.

Part of me hoped I was being ridiculous. The video would show nothing but an empty room.

But when I watched it the next morning... my blood ran cold.

At 3:03 a.m., the screen flickered.

And I watched—wide-eyed, frozen—as the figure stepped through the window.

Into my room.

It just stood there, right by my bed.

Staring.

Then it leaned down, right into the camera.

And smiled.

That was it for me.

I moved out that day. Left half my stuff behind.

I didn’t care. I never wanted to see that window—or whatever was behind it—ever again.

Now?

I live on the 7th floor of a very boring, very normal building.

No old windows.

No weird lights.

And you know what?

I keep my curtains closed.

All the time.

Because honestly... you never know what’s looking back.