The Window That Wouldn’t Stay Dark

Evan Pierce had driven that road a hundred times before, long enough to memorize every bend and pothole, but on that night the route felt foreign—like he’d slipped into some older, forgotten version of the countryside. Fog pressed so thick against the windshield he could barely see the faded center line. His headlights carved out only a narrow tunnel of pale light, and the world beyond it looked swallowed whole.

He kept telling himself he should’ve left earlier. His aunt’s funeral had gone long, and the reception longer still. He didn’t want to stay, didn’t want to talk to cousins he barely knew or hear people say She’s in a better place with soft, practiced sympathy. Instead, he drove home alone, thinking only of the warm apartment that waited for him. Twenty minutes from town, the fog rolled in, and the night went wrong.

A shape emerged from the haze—a sagging wooden mailbox, hanging open like a broken jaw. Evan slowed. There shouldn’t have been any houses out here, not for several miles. But the road felt unfamiliar; had he taken a wrong turn? The GPS had died earlier—lost signal—and his phone had only a sliver of battery left.

As he coasted forward, the house appeared.

It sat back from the road, where the forest choked itself into a dense wall of black trunks and brittle branches. Old, two stories, derelict. Something that should’ve collapsed years ago under the weight of storms and time. Every window was dark except one: a front window glowing with a deep orange light, like a candle set low to the floor.

Evan’s foot hovered over the gas.

Keep going, something in him insisted.

But another thought pushed through: maybe someone needed help. Maybe an elderly homeowner was stranded without a phone. Maybe a generator fire. He could already hear his aunt’s voice—Don’t ignore people, Evan. You’ll want someone to stop for you someday.

Against his better judgment, he pulled over.

The air felt colder than it should have been. He zipped his jacket and stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The forest swallowed all sound; even his footsteps seemed muted. Only the faint glow in the window broke the stillness.

He approached the porch. The boards creaked sharply, loud in the silence. The door was slightly ajar—not enough to see inside, but enough to hint that someone had been there recently.

“Hello?” he called.

Nothing.

The house smelled of damp wood and something faintly metallic—like rust, or old blood. He pushed the door open. The hinge let out a low groan that felt too human, too pained. Inside, the air was colder still, and the silence deeper.

“Anyone here?”

His breath puffed out in front of him, visible.

The living room looked abandoned—dust-coated furniture, torn curtains, wallpaper peeling like shedding skin. Only the orange light from the window’s candle pushed back the gloom. He scanned the room, spotting no footprints in dust, no sign of someone recently present.

But the candle was fresh. The wax wasn’t even dripping yet.

Evan felt a shiver crawl under his skin.

He turned to leave.

Something moved upstairs.

A soft, deliberate step.

Evan froze. He told himself it was the old house settling, but the sound had rhythm. Weight. Intent.

He swallowed.

“Hello?” he said again, weaker this time.

For a moment, nothing.

Then another step.

He backed toward the door. He could still make it to the car. He could still pretend none of this existed.

The floorboard at the top of the stairs creaked.

Evan ran.

He sprinted across the porch, boots thudding against the wood, breath sharp in his chest. He didn’t look back. Didn’t want to see if anything followed. He reached the car, wrenched the door open—

A shape moved behind the fogged passenger-side window.

He slammed the door shut, heart pounding so violently that he saw stars. But when he leaned closer, he realized the shape was only the reflection of the house behind him. He let out a shaky, miserable laugh.

He turned the key.

The engine sputtered, coughed, then died.

He tried again.

Nothing.

A soft glow brightened the car interior. Evan slowly turned his head toward the source. The house. The front window—the one with the candle—was now blazing with light. Too bright, too strong to be a simple candle.

And then, as he stared, the light flickered violently.

Something passed across it.

A silhouette. Human-shaped, but wrong. Shoulders too narrow, arms too long, head tilting at a strange angle like it didn’t understand how a neck worked.

The silhouette paused, facing him.

Evan’s blood iced over.

His phone buzzed suddenly—one percent battery—and the sudden vibration made him jump hard enough to hit his elbow on the steering wheel. He fumbled it out, hands shaking.

NO SIGNAL.

He looked back at the house.

The light was gone.

Complete darkness swallowed the window.

For a full minute he sat there, breath shallow, listening to the hammering of his own pulse. Nothing moved. No sound came.

His rational mind finally clawed its way back: maybe he imagined it. Maybe stress and grief had twisted shadows into shapes. Maybe—

A sharp knock hit the car roof.

Evan screamed and ducked low. The knock was followed by a dragging scrape, slow and deliberate, like long fingernails tracing the metal.

Another knock, this time on the trunk.

He couldn’t breathe.

The scraping moved along the passenger side. Evan didn’t dare look, but from the corner of his eye he saw the fog swirling unnaturally against the window, curling inward like fingers.

Something brushed his door.

He snapped.

With shaking hands he tried the ignition again—once, twice, three times—

The engine roared to life.

Evan slammed the gas pedal and shot forward, the tires spitting gravel. In the rearview mirror, he saw the house vanish into darkness, swallowed by fog. He didn’t slow until he reached the far edge of town, and didn’t stop until he reached his apartment.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Or the next.

Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw that silhouette in the window.

Every night since, the image returned—vivid, uninvited. And in the weeks that followed, Evan began noticing something else.

His living room window.

The one facing the street.

Sometimes, very late, when he walked past it on the way to bed…

A faint orange glow shone from outside.

Like a candle.

Low to the ground.

Waiting.

Watching.