I Sleep With My Window Closed Now
I sleep with my window closed now. Not out of habit, out of fear. There are monsters in the world, real ones. Serial killers, rapists, the kinds of things we can name and lock up. But the supernatural? That’s different. It’s older. Quieter. Easier to keep secret. It hides in the cracks we pretend aren’t there, just outside the corner of your eye, or curled up inside a dream you’ll never remember. Ghosts. Demons. Vampires. We treat them like stories but I don’t think they ever were. I’ve never really been a skeptic. I was raised to keep an open mind, about people, the world, and everything in between. Still, the supernatural was always just a bit of fun to me. I had a good job for a couple of years. Boring, no passion involved but the money was nice. I had a beautiful fiancée too. Her name is Michelle. This journey of life is a funny thing. It has a strange way of not spoiling you. Like if too many good things happen, the universe needs to correct this… imbalance. Joy as a debt to be paid. Michelle had complained about her car making odd noises for a couple of weeks and she kept insisting she’d get it fixed, eventually. One night my debt was paid in full. Three years ago she was driving home to me. We just had an argument over the phone. Nothing serious. As she was driving at a high speed on the motorway, her car had a wheel bearing failure. The report said she tried to brake, she lost control, hit a tree and she died. They said it happened so fast, she didn’t feel a thing. They said she likely didn’t experience any fear. As if that was supposed to comfort me. The irony is that Michelle lost both her parents in a car crash around seven years prior. She was in the backseat but by some miracle she made it out with just a broken collarbone. I wouldn’t really call it lucky. This is the tragedy that had come back to claim her—the one that got away. Her family came from Ireland and she had no relatives in the country. No grandparents, no aunts or uncles even came to the funeral. It was just me, my family and some of her close friends. She was loved. I hope she knew that. Her absent family meant that I had to identify her body. I’ll never forget that day for as long as I live. Walking into the icy, sterile room was the most painful experience of my life. I’ve had tragedy before. My father passed when I was very young. Cancer. But nothing could compare to the biblical levels of agony I felt that day. Grief—real grief, it isn’t just a feeling. It’s an affliction. The way it manifests is physical. You feel it in every pulsing throb, your body mechanically churns it through your system. It radiates from you, infecting others. You feel it in the nerves. Deep, inescapable. No refuge to be found in booze or medication. It feeds and grows until it cannot be contained in the flesh any longer. Then it manifests outside of your suffering. In one way or another. It changes you. I entered the room with a coroner’s hand on my shoulder. I didn’t know what to expect. I just wanted to see her face one last time. Under a sickly white light on a cold steel table, impressive in its shine, lay a pale blue sheet draped over the figure of a woman. My woman. The love of my life. “Are you ready Paul?” The coroner’s voice a low—raspy breath. His face sagged and stiff by years of death and mourning. “I need to see her,” I cried, “I need to see my wife,” my breath shallow and weak. I wasn’t ready. The sheet was ripped back, violently revealing what my beautiful Michelle had become. Her jaw smashed open. Her eyes absent yet demanding my gaze. My fiancée. Limbs twisted and deformed. Gore engulfed what was once pure and angelic. Her wet black hair now a mess of tendrils and cobwebs. She looked… inhuman. The sight of her seared into my brain like an infection. No one to blame except myself. If I had pushed her a bit more maybe she would have gotten it fixed and we’d be married by now. Maybe we’d have the kids we always talked about. Such a simple thing. That’s not how things went. I’ve since learned there’s nothing much to gain from thinking about what could have been… regardless of the pathetic piece of comfort that fantasy brings to me, she’s gone. I have to accept that. After Michelle died I completely unraveled. My job didn’t last long after she passed. We were together for nine years and for those nine years we were joint at the hip. Soul mates in the truest sense of the word. My twin flame. I don’t have anyone in my life anymore. I’ve become a shut-in. Even just the sight of other people sends nauseating waves through my body, a sickening pulse compelling me to retreat from human interaction. I neglected those relationships and they were right to abandon me. I don’t blame them. They tried to pull me out of this pit I’ve dug for myself. But they have lives to live and I… I have nothing to offer anyone anymore. I just bide my time, until I can see her again. I live with my mother now. She’s been amazing. I don’t see her much though. As a retired woman she travels a lot with my step-dad. I think they’re in Italy right now. I sleep in a tiny box room on the second floor. Just enough space for a single bed pushed up against the radiator and a small locker for some clothes. Just above the bed, the window. Outside my window is the front garden. Twenty feet from the house is the road. Across from that a row of houses identical to mine. The road below is warm, soaked in a haze of orange streetlights, illuminating the way for the occasional passing stray. Just over a month ago I was laying on my bed, room nice and cool. Bathing in the depressive light from my phone. Something loud passed by my window. It was the sound of a car except something was wrong, it sounded like it was dying. A deep mechanical groan. I looked out my window… Nothing. I shrugged and passed it off as a neighbor just driving by. Then I heard it again. And again. And again. Every so often. An hour. Twenty minutes. I kept hearing it night after night. I tried to catch a peek but when I looked it was just my plain old empty street. No car. Hearing this sound sent me spiraling into a brutal frustration. A visceral attack of emotions I couldn’t control. Like I was trapped in some machine, completely at the mercy of whatever mental torture was destined for me. Self-inflicted or otherwise. I couldn’t stop seeing her face. Not how she looked in life but in death. The morgue. Crushed. Twisted. A mask of pain where beauty used to live. A face that screamed with no sound. That’s not how I wanted to remember her. The walls of my room are covered with her pictures. Her eyes follow me. She watches me sleep. Following the strange sounds of a damaged car that didn’t seem to exist I kept having these dreams. Horrible, vivid dreams. The kind that trick your brain into believing they’re real. I’d be shopping, then look down and see the store tiles fall away from me as I sway from a rope tied tightly around my neck. Dreams of falling, burning, drowning. Dying. The worst ones were of her. In dreams I’d see her. Standing on the edge of total darkness. Close enough to know it’s her but shrouded in enough deep shadow that I couldn’t make out any of the horrific details. She’d extend her arms and reach for me. But I… as always, had to look away. I prayed and prayed I could fall asleep and just dream of her… before. Instead my nightly routine was to be tortured by visions of her death. Visions of what remained after the accident. This went on for weeks. I never thought about suicide until she died. I was that kind of asshole to see someone as weak for ending it. I now find myself considering it on a weekly basis. After weeks of miserable sleep I sat at the dinner table for hours just thinking. About her, about our life together. About what could be different. God, I miss her. I decided that I can’t keep living like this. I had to actively try to get better. I love her, I always will. Maybe it’ll never get easier and maybe I’m not supposed to move on but there was happiness I thought I could find. Moments of joy in between the decades of despair that wait for me. I was wrong. After I got into bed. Window open. I heard someone walk past my house. It was around 2am. Saturday. Drunk people coming home? I hear voices, people talking, laughing, footsteps. I’ve heard these sounds a thousand times. This time, the steps didn’t sound normal. They came in a strange rhythm—one-two, pause… one-two. Like a child hopping down the street in the dark. Heavier. Then they stopped. Right outside. My mind caught this before I did. Like it was so used to the regular sounds of passersby and this one just stood out. I paused my phone to listen. I was sure it was right outside. I was sure I could hear something. A voice… a whisper. Nothing I could distinguish from the wind. I sat there for thirty minutes, just… listening. I almost jumped out of my bed when I heard a woman’s voice. Loud as hell coming from down the street. Her voice shattered the silence like a shotgun in a church. It was my neighbor laughing with her boyfriend as they stumbled home from a night of drinking. At least they have each other. I laughed and called myself an idiot. Laying down to fall asleep and I swear I heard someone jump into a full sprint. Steps wide and heavy. Then a strange sweet smell lingered after. More drunks, I figured. I listened as the steps trailed off, becoming echoes. The next day I had almost forgotten about the strange sounds until I decided to walk to the shops. Out my front door, through my garden and around the wooden fence. I felt something. A smell. Something familiar. Sweet and overpowering. Honestly I didn’t know what it was but it made my mind conjure images of the past. Like a dirty window I could hardly see through. On the ground something caught my eye. Light reflecting on silver reminded me of the table where I’d last seen her. It was a ring. I recognized it immediately. It was identical to my ring. The one I wore on my finger every day since I asked Michelle to be my wife. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe it was here. Confused and disoriented, I spun my head around the estate like I was being watched by ghosts. A neighbor working his garden waved to me. I didn’t react, I just turned around, walked back inside and closed the door. I kept her engagement ring in my hand all day. Later that night, same as every night, In bed, bathed in the loathsome glow of Reddit or some other shitty website. I heard it again. This time it was around 1am Hopping up the street. The sound of shoes crunching on stones. A strange wet splat accompanying each odd step. Again just like last time. It stopped right outside my window. I just listened. Something about the sound got under my skin, I was almost afraid to look. I fought back against the oppressive emotion as I reached for the curtain. Just to pull it open. Before I heard a voice. It was a woman’s voice. A whisper. Soft yet sounded like it was coming from all around me. The sound resonating in my body. Then it stopped. My skin began to tighten. By the time the initial confusion had passed I began trying to rationalize the situation. Surely it was just a neighbor talking to someone. I forced a smile and lay back down, closed my eyes. Then it spoke again. “Hey.” “Paul.” The words fell out of the whisperer’s mouth and came and went like rain drops. Gentle. Like Silk. My face and body tensed at the sound of my own name. The words were soft. You could almost miss it. “Let me in Paul.” Then all was silent. I never answered and I never heard them leave. I didn’t get much sleep that night… or any night after to be honest. The following day I felt crippling fatigue. As if my body was lacking the means to carry my own weight. Forcing myself to do some chores around the house wasn’t easy. I was perfectly content to let everything fall apart, sit down, drink… and rot. As I was doing my tasks, walking around the house—passing windows. I was frequently distracted. Any sign of movement outside pulled me away from what I was doing like a hidden hand. It’s strange, I half expected to see her walking in the driveway of my mother’s home to visit me. She never did. The day carried on as normal. Misery. As I was laying in my bed later that night—staring at the impossible ring, now hanging from a hook on my wall. I heard the sound again. That strange hopping sound. Wet. Heavy. It was approaching from down the street. Louder and louder with each step until its climax was right outside. I heard a slow, long, deep breath. Then it spoke to me. “I need to come inside.”“Open the curtain.”“Paul please, let me inside. Paul please.”“I just need to see you.”“Open the curtain.”“Paul, please it’s me. I need to come inside.”“Open the curtain.” It was her. A strange smell permeated the room. Sweet and overpowering. I know it’s impossible. Michelle is dead. I identified her body, I was at her funeral. I knew she was dead. Yet she spoke. I didn’t answer. I just cried. She spoke for hours. Just repeating herself. The love of my life. Mangled, buried and dead. Calling to me from the night right outside my bedroom window. I wished I had the courage to look. What would I see? Some kids playing a sick joke on me? Some kind of monster using her voice? My beautiful wife to be the way… she was in the morgue? I just lay there, scared and crying. Until the sun came up and with it the voice drifted away. Like she was a radio losing signal. It took me hours to finally sit up and get out of bed. I didn’t look out the window. Every pane of glass injected fear into my veins. Peripheral beings danced at the corners of my eyes. Footsteps behind me coming from nothing or no one. I closed all of the curtains on every window of the house. It stayed that way for days. The neighbor who had waved at me called over. He said he was just checking on me. He obviously saw the curtains drawn for awhile and grew concerned. I know I looked insane. I hadn’t really slept in weeks. The dreams were too much. Not like my nightly visitor would let me get much sleep anyways. I told him I was okay, I know he didn’t believe me. His face recoiled on itself, like he smelled something awful. I didn’t care. I closed the door on him. The next night I was terrified. I thought maybe if I sleep early I’ll just sleep through it and it will be like it never happened. So that’s what I did, or should I say tried to do. I don’t know what woke me, maybe another horrible nightmare? I couldn’t remember. I jumped up in a cold sweat, I could immediately smell her perfume. There was no doubt now, that’s what I was smelling. I could hear her. Outside my window. Whispering loudly. It took a moment for the sounds to involve words. “Paul, I need to come in.”“It’s me.”“Open the curtain Paul.”“Paul please it’s me. I love you”“Let me in. I love you. I love you. Let me come in, please.”“I know you found my ring.” I felt my room shrink, closing in around like suffocating darkness. Each word sending me deeper and deeper into the depths of despair. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Go away!” I screamed in a coward’s yell. “Paul, you have to let me in. So we can be together.”“Paul it’s me, please.”“Don’t leave me out here. We can be together.” My heart punched at my ribs as rage clawed at my throat. I wanted to scream and cry and throw up, all at once. “You’re not Michelle, fuck off.” “Just open the curtain, you’ll see. It’s me Paul. I love you.” The voice changed tone, it sounded enthused by my response. That night I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I sat on my bed with my back against the wall, watching the curtain as it fluttered in the breeze. And she whispered. For hours. It wasn’t begging anymore. It was… softer now. Confident. Almost soothing. Like she knew I was listening. “I know you want to see me, Paul.”“I know you’re tired.”“I can make the pain stop.”“I miss you.”“Please Paul, Let me come in.” I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t cry. I just listened. And then she said something I’ll never forget. She said, “You’re already halfway gone. You just need a little push.” I swear to God, I heard a smile in her voice when she said it. Then her laugh. Her beautiful laugh. It echoed for hours. I sleep with my window closed now. No more breeze. No more sound. No more Michelle. Still, she comes. Muffled through the glass I can hear her. Tapping at my windows. I live with my curtains drawn. Day or night, it’s all the same to me now. She hasn’t stopped. Her temptations are constant. I haven’t eaten, haven’t slept in days. I don’t think my body even wants to anymore. She tells me I’ve suffered enough. That peace is just on the other side of the curtain. Just take a peek. She says that I was never meant to stay here without her. I still hear her. Whispering my name. Whispering things. Sometimes, she says stuff I don’t understand. Like she’s speaking in a way that doesn’t fit inside a mouth. But then she comes back to Michelle. Back to “I love you.” Back to “Let me in.” Her ring is always in my hand. The tapping on my window persists. Every window. Steady. Delicate. Too slow to be impatient. I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember walking to the curtain. But I’m there now. Her perfume wraps around my throat like a noose. The same scent she wore the first night we said “forever.” I reach for the curtain. My hand is trembling like it’s trying to pull itself back. She’s whispering. “Paul.”“Please.”“You miss me.”“I’m cold.”“You were never supposed to see what was left of me.” I freeze. The room groans and tilts like a sinking ship. My name keeps spilling from her mouth like it’s stuck in her teeth. “PaulPaulPaulPaul” I pull the curtain open. I am not afraid. She’s there. Standing on the edge of total darkness, beneath the glow of the orange streetlight. It’s flickering behind her. Her eyes are full though she hasn’t blinked once. Her hair is falling across her face like it used to, and she’s wearing the black hoodie she stole from me the day we moved in together. She looks… alive. Warm. Real. Not broken. Not dead. Not buried. She raises her hands to reach for me. This time I don’t look away. Her fingers are too long. She smiles at me, her eyes grow wider and she says, “There you are.” Her mouth doesn’t move. I unlock the window. I let her in. A hand gently rests on my shoulder. She’s home. Credit: PitifulScream97 CPWiki Reddit Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.