Story 8: The Window Rule
355 Words
In my town, you don't look out of your window at night. It's not a suggestion; it's survival. We learn it as kids, like "don't talk to strangers." But no one explains why—until you break it.
My town is small, 2,000 people, nestled in Appalachian mountains. Old mining community, lots of history. The rule started after the 1920 mine collapse, killing 50. Survivors spoke of "things" in the dark.
I broke the rule at 10. Sneaked a peek. Saw nothing but stars. But next day, scratches on glass.
As teen, friends dared me. I looked. Saw a shape—tall, thin, eyes glowing. It smiled. That night, nightmares of being buried alive.
Adult now, I forgot. Until last week.
Woke at 3 AM, thirst. Passed window, glanced out. There it was: the thing, face pressed to glass, mimicking my expression. Pale skin, too many teeth.
I screamed, backed away. Morning, handprints on window—from outside, second story.
Since then, it comes every night. Knocks softly. If I ignore, knocks louder. Once, I peeked again. It whispered my name.
Friends disappear if they look. Official: runaways. But we know.
Last night, it broke in. I fought, machete from dad. Cut it, black ichor. It howled, fled.
But mom covered it with tarp. Said, "They come back."
Tonight, more shapes outside. The town hides a secret: the things are the dead miners, mutated by something in the earth.
They want company.My dad told me the story once, drunk. The mine collapse wasn't accident. Miners dug too deep, found a cavern with "entities"—shadow beings. They possessed the dead, came up.
Survivors sealed the mine, but at night, they emerge, drawn to eyes watching.
Dad broke the rule, saw one. It followed him years. He killed it with iron—old lore.
But killing one calls more.
When I fought, the ichor burned my skin. Now, I hear voices: "Join us."
The town has a council, covers up. They sacrifice lookers to appease.
They're at my door now. Mom let them in.
If you live in such a town, board your windows. Curiosity kills.
- Writer
