Short Story 361 - The Attic Window (Int)

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Short Story 361 - The Attic Window (Int)
The old house had always been a bit creepy. Even in the summer, with sunlight streaming through the dusty windows, there was a chill in the air, a sense of something unseen watching you. I'd inherited it from my great-aunt, a woman I’d barely known, and I'd moved in hoping for a fresh start. Instead, I found myself increasingly disturbed by the house's oppressive atmosphere, especially the attic.
The attic was accessed by a narrow, creaking staircase tucked away in a dark corner of the landing. The air up there was thick with dust and the smell of dry rot. Cobwebs hung like ghostly curtains, and the only light came from a small, grimy window at the far end. I avoided it as much as possible, using it only for storage. But one rainy afternoon, while searching for some old photographs, I found myself drawn to that window.
The rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the world outside. Through the streaked glass, I could barely make out the overgrown garden below. As I wiped a section of the window clean, I noticed something odd. A face. Not a clear, distinct face, but a pale, blurred shape, pressed against the glass from the outside. My heart pounded in my chest. I blinked, trying to focus, but the rain distorted everything. I thought I saw wide, dark eyes and a gaunt cheek. Then it was gone, swallowed by the downpour.
I backed away from the window, my breath catching in my throat. I told myself it was just my imagination, a trick of the light and the rain. But the image lingered in my mind, unsettling and persistent.
Over the next few days, I found myself constantly drawn back to the attic. I would go up there, telling myself I was just checking for leaks or looking for something I'd misplaced. But really, I was going to look out that window. Each time, I would peer through the grimy glass, half-expecting to see the face again. And sometimes, I thought I did. A fleeting glimpse of something pale and distorted, always at the edge of my vision.
One evening, as the sun was setting, I went up to the attic again. The light was dim, casting long, eerie shadows across the dusty floor. I stood at the window, my heart pounding in my chest. The rain had stopped, and the sky was a bruised purple. As I looked out, I saw it. Clearer this time. The face was pressed against the glass, its features more defined. It was a woman, with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. Her hair was dark and matted, and her mouth was slightly open, as if she was trying to speak. Her skin was almost translucent, and I could see the faint outline of the wooden window frame through her cheek.
I gasped, stumbling back from the window. The face remained there, staring at me with an intensity that made my blood run cold. I could feel its gaze on me, burning into my soul. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I turned and fled, stumbling down the stairs and out of the house, not stopping until I reached the end of the street.
I spent the night at a nearby hotel, too terrified to return to the house. The next morning, I went back with a friend, hoping that the daylight would dispel the horror. We went up to the attic together, but there was nothing there. Just the dusty room, the cobwebs, and the grimy window.
But as I looked at the window, I noticed something I hadn't seen before. On the outside of the glass, near the top corner, there was a single, muddy handprint. Small and delicate. The handprint of a woman. And it was on the outside.
I never went back to live in the house. I sold it as quickly as I could. I still sometimes think about that face at the window, those hollow eyes staring at me through the glass. And I still wonder who she was, and what she wanted....
Story written by Google Gemini 2.0 AI
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[@111shared-room]

it must be a soul of the woman who was murdered in that house long ago

[@steveuk]

Either that... or a nosey ex-neighbour 😋