A Look Through the Window

The story I found that day in my journal was as follows.

A Look Through the Window

by Ethel

The house on the corner of the neighborhood’s furthest street is two stories high.

It’s built out of wood, as if not built to last, and yet it still stands where it stood in the past. With permanently drawn curtains and blinds, an outsider might wonder what goes on inside.

On the bottom floor, there might be a kitchen, and a living room. There is probably a bathroom and an office. There must be a dining space, with a table that a family can share.

But I know what happens on the second floor, because every night, the light turns on, and the curtain is drawn open.

Long ago, I knew this house. I was around when it was built. The paint’s a different color now, the windows are all covered now, and it’s hardly the same house at all. You used to be able to see the stars from out the windows when it got dark out. You used to be able to greet the neighbors from out the windows every morning.

But I know what happens on the second floor, because every night, the light turns on, and the curtain is drawn open, and a boy sits on his bed with pen in hand.

The streetlights on this street turn on routinely at 7pm. The lights in every house start to turn off within the next few hours. The light from indoors migrates out like a warm current. The moon didn’t used to have such competition.

But only in this house do the lights remain illuminated, and only in one room, on the second floor.

I know what happens on the second floor, because every night, the light turns on, and the curtain is drawn open, and a boy sits on his bed with pen in hand, and he writes stories about the world.

He writes stories about worlds I’ve never seen, and about this world in ways in which I have never seen it.

He reminds me of what it was like to be here, living in this house and staying up late every night, reading books and writing stories.

The lightbulbs have been replaced by fluorescents, and then again by LEDs. The popcorn ceiling was scraped away and the wallpaper torn down along with it. But the shape of that room is exactly the same, and so too, perhaps, is its spirit.

I know what happens on the second floor.

Every night, a look through the window helps me feel at peace.

I was so stunned I could only stare at the pages in disbelief. It was written in ink, but there was no smudging anywhere, like a hand had never actually touched the page as the ink was drying. The handwriting, which was definitely not mine, nor that of anyone in my family or anyone else I knew, was neat. The whole passage was written in cursive and only took up two of the journal’s pages, even though if I had written that many words in my comparatively sloppy handwriting, it would have filled at least three or four.

It almost didn’t seem like a short story at all, but rather like an epic poem. To be honest, though, the contents of the story were not my main concern in that situation.

I searched the depths of my memory for answers. Did I know someone named Ethel? Maybe a childhood friend I forgot? No, it sounded like a grandmother’s name if anything. I’ve definitely never met someone by that name.

The next most likely possibility: could this story have actually been here the whole time? Flipping to the page before it starts just to double check, I became certain that this was impossible. The last story I wrote had ended on the page exactly before the one where this story began. I would definitely have noticed something like that, and even if I didn’t, like if the pages had gotten stuck together or something, it seemed like too much of a coincidence for it to be written starting from the first empty page.

There was also that unsettling fact that the latch had been open when I picked up the book. I had definitely remembered to close it.

Somehow, someone other than me, who I didn’t know, had gotten in here and opened this book. They had even written a story of their own in it, and it was a story that, using admittedly interesting prose, could be interpreted as the confession of a stalker!

Could I have been in danger? I wondered: should I get the police involved in this case?

I decided against it, though. Instead, I simply re-hooked the latch and replaced the book on top of the shelf, deciding to give up writing anything in it today after all. I must have just been overly tired, so I would just read a little and then go to bed early.

Tomorrow morning, I was sure the story would be gone and this would all have been nothing more than a weird dream.