Beware The Window

Alone, tired, and drained of emotions, Jacob Jones dropped into the oversized leather rocking chair on the second floor of his townhome. He closed his eyes and inhaled the soft scent emanating from the Himalayan salt lamp glowing on the coffee table.

Another day lost, a dollar gained, for what? The privilege of viewing the same bullshit propaganda on television? A microwave dinner? Cleaning the litter box of that damn cat who would chew my toes off if given the chance.

Exhaling with force, he surrendered to his mundane existence. In sync with the rhythm of the rocker, he searched the television channels for a show to numb his mind.

Unsolicited, the hairs on his neck rose in a primitive alarm of one being hunted. Pyloric acid gurgled in his stomach, climbing into his throat from unabated fear. Tinges of sour reflux entered his mouth, negating the sweet remnants of peach cobbler he had last eaten. Jacob muted the television and held his breath to listen. The exercise yielded no sounds, but the eerie feeling of being watched overwhelmed him.

Searching the second-floor apartment, he confirmed Fabian, the toe eater, slept in the corner of the room. The front door was secure, and he was alone. Am I? Jacob jerked open the hall closet door, but nothing. Failing to assuage his paranoia, he opened cabinet doors to no avail. Slamming them shut, his eyes were drawn to the window behind the recliner. His heart pounded like a brass door knocker as he approached the small square portal.

Its size made it useless for escape or illicit entry. The window rendered light with a limited view of the outside world. Yet, the white framed glass demanded more attention than the latest sitcom flashing silently on the television screen. Peering closer, Jacob observed movement. A man's face, which was not his reflection, stared back at him. He tripped and stumbled backward into the island counter.

"What the hell?" he yelled, propelled by the onerous thumping of his heart like a jackhammer.

Jacob's fear transitioned to embarrassment, then anger. Enraged, he caught his breath and charged toward the window. The man in the window reacted with alarm and retreated like a laser beam across the night sky. Jacob tracked the shrinking beam as it traversed the six-lane expressway behind his apartment, over a security fence, and diminished to a pinpoint of light in another window. A blacked-out third-story window of the S.C. Correctional Prison six hundred yards away. The remaining point of light in the window exploded like a flashbulb and disappeared into darkness.

Jacob gasped for air as claxons in his mind warned his body of oxygen deprivation. He had stopped breathing. Collapsing into the recliner, he hugged and rocked himself, comforted by the reality of the dank sweat that soaked his armpits.

"Impossible," he said to no one. "Am I losing my mind?"

His mouth was as dry and bitter as the bottom of Fabian's litter box. Only a cold beer could wash it away. Heading toward the kitchen, he passed the window, and his need for answers betrayed him. He stopped. A brief mental war ensued, but the curiosity of his mind won. Leaning close with his nose to the glass, twin red beams of light flashed from his eyes and zoomed across the expressway. Passing over the security fence, the laser beam locked on the third-floor window of the prison. Statuesque, shivering with fear, Jacob stared through the prison bars at the man who had retreated just moments earlier.

The man wore a yellow prison suit, sported a shaved head and lay on a bunk. He read a magazine. A full tray of uneaten food was at his feet. Interrupted, he sensed Jacob and glanced up. He sprang towards the window. They were face to face in a split second, only separated by iron bars and reinforced glass. Grinning, he displayed gapped and rotted teeth. The barriers spared Jacob the stench of his breath. Yet, a rancid stench of internal decay, like a rotting corpse on the side of the road, overwhelmed Jacobs's senses. Now, face to face; he gagged and choked as the evil of this man attacked his spirit. The digits on the prison uniform were one hundred and nine. The prisoner smiled at Jacobs recognition of the number.

"You live in apartment one hundred and nine," he rasped through the glass, "Let me in, Jacob. We will be friends for a very long time. I promise."

Unadulterated fear forced Jacob to close his eyes, and the twin beams burst into a flashbulb of light. His body collapsed back against the island counter. Heaving for air, his vision returned. Wary of the window, he chugged three beers longing for the mundane to return. Struggling to the closet, he retrieved a beach towel, hammer, and nails. He lunged for the window and cloaked the apartment from the outside world. You’re too late, kept echoing in his mind.

The following morning Jacob awoke to the earthy aroma of his automated coffee brewing. Seeking escape from the nightmare the night before, he sought the mundane. He opened his IPad to the daily news, where a photo of the man in the window stared back at him from the front page story.

John Jacobs, Prisoner 109, was executed at 6:05 a.m. for the Peeping Tom murders that claimed seven lives. Jacobs's claims in court that 'windows lured him to his victims' were discounted as a feeble attempt to plead insanity.

Just before the execution, the convicted felon changed his story and argued they had the wrong man, that his name was not John Jacobs but Jacob Jones. The prison warden said, "Desperate is as desperate does. We got the right man, and this evil has ended."

Jacob smiled.

***

Jacob searched for a new apartment far from the prison. After work, he walked potential neighborhoods and toured several. On his third tour, he stood at the bedroom window and observed a potential neighbor next door. Their bathroom window called to him like a Siren from the western sea of Homer's Odyssey. His eyes lit like twin lasers, shot across the landscape between the two buildings, and he leered through the window at a young woman stepping into her bath. Jacob felt the pleasure of evil rise within him, a rabid desire to kill, and he knew he soon would.

The property manager asked, "Do you like it, sir?

"Yes! Yes, I will take it. This is really nice, and I've grown tired of the mundane." Jacob said.

"What name should I list on the application?"

"John. John Jacobs," He said.

*** *** ***

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, that’s my name too.

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