Ghostly Thumps And Bangs On My Window

Ghostly Thumps And Bangs On My Window

It began with a single knock,

soft, uncertain, almost polite,

the kind you might ignore,

if not for the hour it chose.

Midnight had settled deep,

pressing against the glass,

and the world outside had long since slept,

yet something refused to rest.

Another thump came,

sharper now, demanding, I prayed

and I turned, slow, unwilling,

to face the window beside my bed.

Nothing stood there,

no figure, no wandering soul,

only darkness stretched thin,

and the faint reflection of my own unease.

Then came the bang,

loud enough to fracture thought,

as if a fist, unseen,

struck with purpose, with anger.

My breath caught,

not from fear alone,

but from the knowing,

that this was no passing sound.

Again it came,

relentless, insistent,

each strike louder than the last,

as though it wished to be let in.

I pulled the curtain back,

hands trembling despite myself,

and pressed my eyes to the night,

searching for what dared disturb me.

Nothing,

and yet everything,

for the glass trembled beneath my touch,

and a faint mark lingered there.

Not a handprint,

not quite human,

but something stretched and wrong,

as if it did not belong to this world.

The banging stopped,

as sudden as it had begun,

leaving silence behind,

thick and suffocating.

But I knew,

as I stepped away,

that it had not gone,

only chosen to wait.

And even now,

on nights too still to trust,

I hear it again,

patient, learning the sound of my fear.

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