It started with a power outage.

  That’s how these stories always start, right? But this wasn’t like a storm blowing down some power lines or a freak blackout. There wasn’t even a cloud in the sky when it happened. Just this perfect spring evening, the kind of twilight where the air still hums with the warmth of the day, and the sun lingers on the horizon like it doesn’t want to leave.

  I was alone in my apartment. Third floor, middle unit. I remember because I hated the place. The walls were too thin, and the ceiling creaked when my upstairs neighbor so much as breathed. But that evening, it was quiet. Eerily so.

  When the lights flickered and died, I didn’t think much of it. My phone still worked. I turned on the flashlight and went to check the breaker box, more out of routine than anything else. But the breakers were fine. Not tripped. Nothing seemed wrong.

  That’s when I noticed the window.

  It’s hard to explain, but there was something off about it. Even in the dimness, I could tell. See, my apartment faces west, meaning it catches every last drop of sunset. But now, it was like the window had gone completely black. Not dark. Black.

  Pitch, empty, total black.

  I remember feeling a weird jolt in my stomach, like a step down on a staircase that isn’t there. I walked over and placed my hand on the glass. It was ice-cold. Ice-cold, even though it had been nearly seventy degrees outside.

  Then I saw it.

  It wasn’t the reflection of my flashlight, and it wasn’t some shadow from outside. No. This was… something else.

  There was a shape, faint at first. Pressed up against the other side of the glass.

  Human-shaped, but wrong. Longer. Thinner. Like someone stretched a person out like putty, then flattened them against the window.

  I jerked back so fast I nearly fell over the couch. My heart thundered in my chest, and for a second, I thought, thought, I saw it move. Just a twitch.

  A smear of a hand dragging down the windowpane, leaving no mark behind.

  I told myself it was my eyes playing tricks on me. That’s what you do, isn’t it?

  You rationalize. You cling to explanations like they’re life preservers in a storm.

  But then my phone died.

  No warning. No low battery beep. Nothing. One second it was at 84%, the next it was black, like someone had snatched the power right out of it.

  That’s when I felt it: a shift in the air, like pressure changing. My ears popped. My skin prickled. And then I heard it.

  A tap.

  Just one, at first.

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  Then two more.

  Then a slow, steady rhythm, like someone knocking from the other side of the glass with a single bony finger.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I should have run. I wanted to run. But I couldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t obey. I was frozen there, locked in place like a puppet held by invisible strings.

  The tapping stopped.

  For a few precious seconds, there was nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing. Then, slowly, the thing pressed its face, if you could call it a face, against the window.

  No eyes. No mouth. Just smooth, featureless skin stretched thin over bone.

  And yet somehow, it was looking at me. I could feel its gaze like hot coals pressing against my chest.

  I forced myself to move, to crawl backward across the floor, away from the window. My back hit the far wall. I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that would help.

  When I opened them again, the window was clear.

  Just my normal, boring view of the neighboring apartment building across the lot. Warm yellow lights in the windows. A woman folding laundry. A guy on his balcony smoking a cigarette. Everything normal.

  I wanted to believe it had been my imagination.

  I wanted to believe that so badly.

  But then I saw the mark. On the inside of the glass, right at eye level, there was a perfect, oily imprint of a hand. Five long, spindly fingers, smeared across the windowpane.

  I packed a bag in under five minutes and ran out of the apartment. I drove until I ran out of gas, then filled up and kept driving. Slept in a diner parking lot with the headlights on and every door locked.

  The next morning, everything seemed fine.

  But I didn’t go back. I couldn’t.

  I moved in with my brother for a while, then got a new place three states over. Thought I’d left it behind. Thought maybe I’d lost my mind, had a stress-induced hallucination or something.

  Then came the second window.

  This time it was at work. Fourth-floor office, corner cubicle, right by the big glass window overlooking the city. I’d just finished a late meeting, everyone else had gone home.

  The power flickered.

  Not the whole building, just my floor. My section, even. My screen went dead, the overhead fluorescents fizzled out, and I was bathed in the orange glow of the sunset.

  Except there was no sunset.

  The window had gone black again.

  And this time, it wasn’t just black. It was rippling, like there was something just beneath the surface. Like liquid obsidian, undulating softly, waiting.

  I backed away slowly, heart in my throat.

  Then the surface broke.

  A hand, too long, too thin, pushed through the blackness like it was water. It pressed flat against the inside of the window, not the outside, the inside.

  Before I could even scream, the fingers began to curl, tapping softly against the glass.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I ran. Left my laptop, my bag, my keys, didn’t care. I sprinted down the stairs, out of the building, into the crowded street, gasping for breath like I’d been drowning.

  That was a month ago.

  I haven’t been near a window since.

  Day or night, curtains drawn, blinds closed, taped over for good measure.

  I smashed the windows in my house and boarded them up from the inside. People think I’ve lost it. They look at me like I’m some lunatic prepping for the end of the world.

  But I know the truth.

  It’s not about the glass.

  It’s not about the buildings.

  It’s them.

  They’re looking for me through the windows.

  The windows are just their way in.

  I’ve started seeing them in other places, too. Not just windows. Mirrors. Screens. Even reflections in puddles after it rains. They’re patient, I’ll give them that. They don’t rush. They wait until you look away, until you let your guard down.

  Last night, I caught a glimpse of one in the black screen of my turned-off TV. Just a flicker. A pale, stretched face in the dark glass.

  Tonight, I’ll get rid of the TV. Smash it, burn it, bury the pieces.

  But I know it’s only buying time.

  Because sooner or later, we all have to look at a window.

  We all have to see the darkness staring back.

  And when you do, you’ll hear it too.

  That sound.

  That awful, hollow sound.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  They’re so close now. I can hear them tapping, even when there’s no glass left to tap on.

  And the worst part?

  They’re already inside.