The Face in the Window

I noticed the face on the fourth night after I moved into the apartment. It was raining heavily, and the city lights reflected strangely on the glass. I had just finished dinner and was standing near the window when something caught my eye. For a brief second, I thought I saw someone staring back at me from outside.

I stepped closer, my heart racing. I lived on the seventh floor. No balcony. No fire escape. When I looked again, there was nothing—just my own reflection and the dark sky behind it. I laughed quietly at myself and turned away.

That should have been the end of it.

The next night, I saw it again. This time, it was clearer. As I brushed my teeth, I glanced toward the window and froze. A pale face hovered behind the glass, its eyes wide and unblinking. I spun around, expecting to see someone in the room.

There was no one.

When I looked back at the window, the face was gone.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Every sound made me jump. Every shadow felt wrong. The next morning, I convinced myself it was stress or exhaustion. Big cities played tricks on people. That’s what I told myself.

On the third night, the face returned.

It appeared while I was sitting on the couch, scrolling through my phone. I felt that strange sense of being watched and slowly lifted my head. The face was there again, pressed close to the glass. Its mouth was slightly open, as if it were trying to speak.

I screamed and dropped my phone.

The lights flickered. When they steadied, the window showed nothing but rain. My reflection stared back at me, pale and shaken.

The next day, I asked my neighbor if he had noticed anything strange. He looked uncomfortable and avoided eye contact. After a long pause, he asked me which apartment I lived in. When I told him, his face tightened.

“People don’t stay there long,” he said quietly. “They say something watches from the window.”

That night, I covered the window with a curtain. I turned on every light and tried to stay awake. Around midnight, I heard a soft tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. It came from the glass.

My name was whispered.

I stood slowly and pulled the curtain aside.

The face was closer now. Too close. Its skin looked stretched, its eyes sunken and dark. It smiled, revealing teeth that were far too many and far too sharp.

“You see me now,” it whispered through the glass.

I backed away, shaking my head. “You’re not real,” I said, my voice breaking.

The face tilted its head. “You invited me,” it said softly. “Every time you looked.”

The glass began to crack. Thin lines spread outward from where its hand pressed against the window. I ran for the door, grabbing my keys, my shoes forgotten.

Behind me, the glass shattered.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the street. I stayed with a friend that night and returned the next day with the building manager. Inside the apartment, everything was normal. The window was intact. No cracks. No signs of damage.

“You imagined it,” the manager said calmly.

I moved out that same week.

Months later, in my new place, I avoid mirrors and windows at night. Still, sometimes, when the lights are off and the glass is dark, I catch a glimpse of a face that moves just a second too late.

And I never look twice.

when the lights are off and the glass is dark, I catch a glimpse of a face that moves just a second too late.