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The Thing at The Window

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Alright, my first story sucked. But this one is better.Well, teletubbies are better than what i wrote back then but hell. The title says enough - it's a horror story. It took me a good part of the evening to finish it, and i suggest you read it at night.



THE THING AT THE WINDOW




Little Billy O’Connel was a good boy. His mother always told him that.
Little Billy lived in a nice, warm house on a top of a small hill. Little Billy didn’t have any friends, as he and his mother were the only people living on the hill. The nearest house to his was 12 miles away.

The nearest inhabited house that is. There was an old, abandoned house of wood right across Billy’s. It sat there alone, eaten by mice, like an old lady in her chair, creaky, tiny and stooped. Little Billy’s mom didn’t like him going there, she said that a plank might fall on his head and hurt him. He did not want this to happen, so he never came near the house.

Little Billy didn’t sleep like all the other children. He used to stay awake all night, until dawn, waking up his tired mother by making creaky noises when he walked on the creaky floor of his home, glancing at the moon from his window and looking through his color books. Billy’s mother didn’t like him being awake so late, so she told him all kinds of spooky stories to make him go to sleep like all other children. Bad stories, stories with ghosts, witches and mean people that liked to visit lonely children that do not sleep at night. Little Billy stayed awake anyway.

One night, so chilly and unsettling for a warm summer, little Billy couldn’t sleep as usual. After reading a book he had just gotten for his birthday, he opened his window and gazed at the moon and the cold, dark sky sprinkled with shiny stars. He gazed for a long time, when he noticed something disturbing. From the window of the lonely, gloomy house across his, someone was looking at him. Someone little, a child, small and lonely, just like Billy. A girl.
Little Billy had never seen a little girl before in his whole life. He stared at the opposite window. “Are all girls supposed to be so creepy?” little Billy thought. “Are all girls supposed to be so white?”

And white she was, indeed. White like flour that Billy’s mom used in her cookies. Her hair was white, her face was white, her tiny little dress was white. Little Billy was very uncomfortable. He quickly looked away, closed his window, cutting off the cold numbness of the night, and pulled his curtains so he wouldn’t look at the little girl anymore.

He did not sleep well that night. He had dreams – bad dreams, nightmares, of him being all alone in that dark rotten house, with wood creaking over his head, and voices of ghosts whispering in his ear.

When little Billy told his mother about what he saw, she though he was just imagining it. She thought this was a good way to make little Billy go to sleep like all other good children do. She told him that it was a bad little girl that couldn’t sleep at night, just like Billy, and that she does mean things to other children that stay awake at those dark, late hours.

Little Billy was scared. He ran around the house all day, helped him mother feed the chickens, and did his best to get tired so he can fall asleep before midnight – so the mean little girl doesn’t harm him.

Days withered away, and he was slowly forgetting about the white little girl and the window. One night, little Billy caught himself unable to sleep – again.
He thought about asking his mother to go to the town and buy him a dog or a cat. He was very lonely, the only child within 12 miles, and he wanted someone to play with.

It was hot that night. His pajamas were all sticky from his sweat, and he felt uncomfortable and itchy. So he pulled away the colorful curtains, and opened the window to get some fresh air.

What he had forgotten so fast came back to him even more quickly – the white little girl was there, staring at him, not moving, lifeless like a picture but much more dark and foreboding, the creaky old house it’s frame. Little Billy almost screamed. He quickly turned his head away, and not even closing the window, rushed straight to his bed, burying his face in his fluffy pillow. He tried to sleep. He tried. But he couldn’t. The image of that mean, horrible little girl was still fresh in his mind, its scariness bolstered by his mother’s stories. He stayed awake the whole night, and closed his window only after the cocks announced dawn.

He was afraid to tell his mother what he saw. He didn’t want her to know that he was up the whole night. He just gave her empty smiles, empty looks, and promised to himself that he will never, ever, ever stay awake after midnight in his life.

Little Billy kept his promise for months. He was in bed as soon as his teddy bear clock announced 9:00, and was firmly asleep only minutes after that. He managed to convince his mother into buying him a dog. He named him Spot, and was very fond of him.

All was well. Summer went in a flash; Autumn stayed for a while, painting green in yellow, and after sending down few rains, it made room for winter, cold, heavy, and white. Little Billy used to love winter, used to love to make snowmen, but the numbing whiteness of it made him remember the white little girl, made him remember her glare, made him remember the dark, creaky window of the dark, creaky house.

One night little Billy had bad dreams. He dreamed of an evil snowman that tried to eat him. Little Billy woke up from his slumber in the middle of the cold, winter night and left the comfort of his bedsheets to get some water. Little Billy noticed the snow storm that was pounding mercilessly outside his window. Little Billy forgot about the white little girl, all he thought about were mean snowmen. He opened the window to be sure that the one he made that day is outside, and is not inside his house, trying
to eat him.

The snowman was outside, looking as innocent as a snowman can look. But something else caught little Billy’s attention, something he had forgotten – again. Something bad, something that had cut him like a cold scythe cuts down wheat at harvest.

It was hard to see at first – all that snow and it’s dazzling flakes were making anything of the same color practically invisible. But there she was, standing, the white little girl in the dark old house, looking at little Billy, staring at him, lifeless, motionless.

He strongly shut his eyelids, hoping that, when he opens them, the mean thing would go away. But when he did open his eyes, it did not go away. In fact, it was closer. So close to little Billy that their faces were barely touching. Little Billy wasn’t wrong. It was a small girl. It was white. Even its eyes were white, white, white, with no pupils, eyebrows or anything that human eyes would have. It’s face was blank like a white piece of paper; it wasn’t happy, it wasn’t sad, it wasn’t smiling, it wasn’t crying. It was staring. Every inch of that dead face was staring, right into Billy’s frightened eyes.

Little Billy screamed.

Little Billy was dead.



When you can’t sleep at night, remember little Billy and the white little girl. You might even see her outside your window, so motionless, so lifeless, staring.

She can’t sleep either.

She never sleeps.
 
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