THE HOUSE ON INDIGO STREET

Window That Opens By Itself

I didn’t pick up the key that night.

I left it on the doorstep, lying there in the rain like an accusation. The blue glow faded the moment I stepped back inside and locked the door. But the handprint on my palm didn’t fade. It stayed there, warm and faint, like a brand.

I didn’t sleep.

At 3:07, the house exhaled.

The sound came from upstairs — a long, slow creak, like wood settling. Then another. Then the soft _click* of a window latch lifting.

The window in the locked room.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs with my back against the wall, listening. The rain had stopped. The only sound was that window swinging open, inch by inch, as if someone on the other side was pushing it carefully, not wanting to wake me.

But there was no one there. The landlord swore it. The street swore it.

The latch clicked again.

And then I heard breathing.

Not mine. Shallow, wet, like someone had been running in the rain and couldn’t catch their breath.

The blue handprint pulsed.

I climbed the stairs. One step at a time. My bare feet were silent on the cold wood. The air got colder with every step, and it smelled like wet school uniform and old dust.

The door to the locked room was open now.

The window was wide open too, rainwater dripping onto the floor. The curtains moved even though there was no wind.

And on the mattress, the dust had formed a new shape.

Not words this time.

A pair of small bare footprints, leading from the mattress to the window. Child-sized. The toes were curled like the person had been standing there a long time, gripping the floor.

The footprints stopped right at the edge of the window frame.

Then they started again.

On the outside windowsill.

Like someone had climbed up and stepped out into nothing.

I leaned forward and looked down.

Twelve feet below was the concrete yard. No ladder. No ledge. Just concrete and a puddle of rainwater.

In the puddle, the reflection didn’t show me.

It showed a girl in a blue and white uniform, standing on the sill. Her hair was plastered to her face. She wasn’t looking down at the ground.

She was looking up at me.

And she smiled.

The window slammed shut by itself.

The glass cracked down the middle with a sound like breaking bone.

When I stepped back, the blue handprint on my palm was ice cold.

And carved into the new layer of dust on the floor were three words:

*DON’T FOLLOW ME*