The Window

The drapes darkened the room so much that the dull space was illuminated by the shade of charcoal gray. I was tired of it. I hated the grim gloominess of it so much that I decided to put those dreadfully heavy curtains into the trash. One after another, I took down the drapes allowing the light to seep through the glass, the light was so majestic that it slowly reflected off the metal in the room. I dumped those curtains happily while acknowledging the fact that they’d forever be gone. The parlor had finally been given the justice it deserved; I had brought it back to life. This miracle seeped joy into my soul. Never again would these windows be hidden. Whoever desired those curtains to be there, certainly must’ve enjoyed them well enough to keep them there once they moved out of this huge cluttered apartment. Honestly, I’d be in quite a shock at discovering anyone who claimed those curtains to be attractive. 

However, due to the sun enlightening the room, I noticed all the dust being collected by the furniture, and naturally, I quickly decided to get rid of it. While I was dusting, I observed the oddest reflection from the metal vase on the grand piano. Mark you, there are many glass trinkets and ornaments on the grand piano, so much so that it was a curious matter to why my attention was drawn to that particular vase. Nevertheless, that vase seemed to have a distorted shadow of a face, which undoubtedly couldn’t have come from anywhere except the window. This occurrence didn’t concern me. My apartment was three stories high and very well maintained, therefore it was completely ordinary for me to assume it to be none other than a window washer.

I continued with my previous task of dusting the room. As the sun fell below my window, I stopped my work for two main reasons: one, the absence of light prevented me from seeing the sheet of dust that lightly laid like a veil in the room, and two, because I longed to admire the beauty of the setting sun through the lens of the uncovered window. I stood watching this wondrous sight until the sky darkened at night. 

However, with the room completely dark I had a strange feeling-- as if I was being watched. I wasn’t too concerned about this feeling because I know well enough that the imagination can sometimes interfere with reality. When I was young, I used to believe in phantoms and shadows of these sorts. This belief would be imagined on stormy winter nights when the wind would howl. This howl was proof to myself that those mysterious things existed. This feeling made me shudder, and it still occurs even now, twenty years later. So I started to do my things, but this feeling told my mind to quickly zip into bed--and I did. 

I woke in the morning with the same distinct feeling, which seemed slightly odd to me because when I was afraid in the past, waking to my family often gave me a sense of comfort. Perhaps I feel this way because I live alone. Perhaps it’s because of the conclusion I made a long time ago: fears are based on imagination. I know that some fears are based on traumas or the liking, but my fear came from elsewhere. From somewhere greater. 

I decided to push this feeling aside and make myself a cup of  black coffee while I read the daily paper. I tried so hard to focus on the words and the news of the day, but I simply could not resist the urge to glance up from my paper, observe the room for peculiarities, and glance back down in an attempt to erase my mind from the thought of being watched. I needed to be reasonable. Nothing was out to get me. I took a swig of coffee, set the mug back down on the cork coaster which laid on the table at all times, and I watched the ripples of the coffee slow down into a flat surface. Paranoid, I saw the reflection of the same person I saw on the vase last night in my coffee. As if the face was peering at its reflection in the coffee from on top of the ceiling. I decided to knock sense into myself, so despite my heart pounding fear, I stared at the face in the reflection. I could not even describe what I saw, for there was no face. Just a silhouette of a face staring into my mug. I rushed a glance towards the ceiling and nothing was there.

After this moment, all I saw was that silhouette. As I brushed my teeth after the coffee, the figure was there behind me in the mirror. I grew anxious of my own home and scared of what might occur to me. I thought about watching a film to erase my mind of these series of occurrences but I even saw the figure silhouetted on the television. With beads of sweat collecting on my upper lip I grabbed an old handyman hammer and started smashing everything I had seen the figure through: the television, the mirror, and the mug. I stopped at the window with my hands gripped tightly around the hammer, I wound to hit the glass but something stopped me from swinging my arms. The figure stopped me. From this I rushed outside with my slippers and pajamas on and dug through the trash can as if my life depended on the little scraps of food left in that trash can alley, and I grabbed those awful dreaded curtains. I ran back inside my house, grabbed nails, and hammered those curtains back on the wall so that no one will ever be able to remove them again. To that no light and shadow can get through. From my terror and exhilaration I tied the end of the curtain in a loop and decorated my neck with it. With that hideous tie around my neck, I finally was able to smash the window with the hammer. Shards of glass flew out on the streets everywhere. If one was there at that exact moment, they would have seen my insanity come to an end as I jumped out the window, challenging the durability of the curtains as the tie around my neck stretches the fabric to absurdity. Those awful dreaded curtains were there for a reason and for that reason they should stay.