This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/EmmaWatsonButDumber on 2024-10-12 18:01:06+00:00.
It started with an innocent enough warning from the old man next door. He was a reclusive figure, always dressed in faded flannel and worn-out boots, with gray stubble that covered most of his face like a second layer of skin. Nobody in the neighborhood ever spoke to him much, but when he saw me locking my door one evening, he shuffled over with a strange urgency in his eyes.
“You live alone now, don’t ya?” His voice was raspy, like he hadn’t spoken to another human in days.
“Yeah,” I replied, a bit uneasy but polite. “Why?”
He leaned in close, his breath hot with the scent of whiskey. “You better count your windows twice every night before bed,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Make sure they’re all closed, all locked. If you don’t—well, let’s just say it ain’t good.”
I chuckled awkwardly, unsure if he was joking or just drunk. “Sure, I’ll do that.”
The old man’s expression didn’t change. “I’m serious, kid. Count them. Twice. Or they’ll come in.”
I watched as he shuffled back to his house, a creeping unease settling in my gut. "They’ll come in"? What did that even mean? But I shook it off as the ramblings of a lonely, old man with a little too much time and liquor on his hands.
That night, as I wandered around my house before bed, I found myself thinking about his strange warning. I stood in front of the first window in my bedroom and closed it tightly, then the one in the kitchen. After a second of hesitation, I moved through the house, checking each window carefully, just as he had suggested. One in the bathroom, two in the living room—each of them shut and locked. When I reached the last one in the hallway, I counted again in my head. Five windows. All sealed.
It felt ridiculous, but I did it anyway. Twice, just like he’d said.
Nothing happened that night, of course. But over the next few days, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I noticed subtle things—a draft even though the windows were closed, strange sounds late at night, and, most unsettling, a growing sense of being watched.
The next week, I came home late from work, exhausted, and forgot about the old man’s warning. I went straight to bed, my body too heavy with fatigue to bother checking the windows. I didn’t even think about it until the middle of the night, when I woke to a soft tapping sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
At first, I thought it was rain, but the night was dry. The tapping grew louder, more insistent. My heart began to race as I sat up in bed, listening. It was coming from the hallway window, the last one I’d always check.
I hesitated, fear gripping me, but curiosity pulled me out of bed. As I approached the hallway, the tapping stopped abruptly, leaving behind an eerie silence. My pulse pounded in my ears. The window was closed—of course, it was. But as I reached for the lock, I saw it.
A handprint on the glass. Not mine. Something else, something that shouldn’t be there.
I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat. The handprint was too large, too… distorted. It pressed against the glass from the outside, as though something had been watching me.
Frantic, I ran through the house, checking every window, counting them twice, just like the old man had warned. But the windows were all closed, all locked. Yet the feeling that something was wrong persisted, stronger than ever.
The next night, I made sure to check the windows before bed, counting each one meticulously. Five windows. Twice. Then I slept.
But the tapping came again. This time louder, faster. It wasn’t just one window, either. It was all of them. A frantic, rhythmic tapping from every room, surrounding me. I leapt out of bed, my body trembling with fear. The windows—they were all shut, yet the tapping wouldn’t stop.
I backed into the center of the living room, cold sweat trickling down my spine. And that’s when I saw it—the shadow moving just outside the glass. A figure, tall and lanky, with impossibly long limbs and a face that seemed to shift and warp under the dim moonlight.
It pressed against the window, its grotesque face turning slowly toward me. Eyes—if you could call them that—met mine, hollow and hungry. The tapping stopped, but the window began to creak.
I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen in terror, but eventually, the figure melted back into the darkness, leaving me shaken and breathless. I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
The next morning, I rushed to the old man’s house, desperate for answers. But when I knocked, there was no response. The neighbor told me he’d passed away—three days ago. Right around the time the tapping started.
Now I count my windows twice every night. I don’t forget anymore. Because I know they’re still out there, waiting. And if I slip up again, they’ll come in.