The Window That Watched Me Sleep

I never thought much about the window in my bedroom. It faced the street, framed by two thin curtains that barely kept out the light from the lamp post outside. I’d lived in that room for almost six months before I noticed something was wrong.

It started with the feeling. You know the one—like when you can tell someone’s staring at you from across a crowded room. At first, I blamed it on the stories I’d been reading online, or the horror shows I watched too late at night. But when I lay down in bed and closed my eyes, it was there. Heavy. Patient. Like something was studying me.

I told myself not to look. But one night, against my better judgment, I turned toward the window.

And saw the curtain move.

It wasn’t wind. The window was shut tight. The fabric rippled as if a hand had just brushed against it from the outside.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat, but when I finally worked up the nerve to get up and yank the curtain back, nothing was there. Just the quiet street, the lamp post, the cracked sidewalk below.

I convinced myself it was nothing. But the feeling kept coming back—night after night.

The second time it happened, I heard something too.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three soft knocks against the glass. Not loud, not demanding. Almost polite.

I sat up, staring into the dark. The streetlight was dim, but I could swear I saw the faintest outline on the other side of the window. A shape. Tall. Lean.

I didn’t move until the sun came up. When I finally looked, there were smudges on the glass—long streaks, like fingers dragging down.

I scrubbed them off that morning, telling myself some kid had been messing around. But deep down, I knew. Kids don’t stand outside your window at 3 A.M. without making a sound.

The third time, it spoke.

I was half-asleep when I heard it. A whisper, muffled by the glass:

“Are you awake?”

I bolted upright. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then it whispered again.

“I’ve been watching you.”

Every instinct in me screamed to run. But where? To the living room? Out the front door? Whatever it was knew where I slept. It knew my name, too—I swear I heard it murmur it once before fading back into silence.

I couldn’t bring myself to open the curtain. I just sat there, staring at that thin piece of fabric, too afraid to see what waited behind it.

By the fourth night, I was done. I nailed the window shut. I taped the curtains closed. I even dragged my dresser in front of it.

But that didn’t stop it.

That night, I woke up to a sound I will never forget.

The dresser—my heavy oak dresser—sliding across the floor.

I was paralyzed, pretending to be asleep, eyes squeezed shut as the wood groaned and scraped. Then came the knock again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Right against the glass. The only barrier left between me and it.

And then, as if leaning close, it whispered:

“Let me in. Just once. I promise you’ll never have to wake up again.”

I broke then. I screamed until my throat tore, until my neighbors called the cops, until the flashing red and blue lights pulled up outside.

When the officers came in, the window was shut tight. No dresser out of place. No handprints on the glass.

They didn’t believe me.

That was three weeks ago.

I haven’t slept since. Every time I close my eyes, I hear it—just outside, waiting. I know if I give in, if I fall asleep, it will finally get what it wants.

Last night, I made the mistake of looking.

The curtain was gone.

And the window was open.