The Man in the Window

The Man in the Window The Watcher ~Do you ever wonder if you're the one watching, or if you're the one being watched? Evelyn poured her tea, the steam curling like ink in water. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes when you live alone. Outside, the city hummed—distant traffic, the occasional muffled laugh from pedestrians below. It was a normal night. A safe night. She had been meaning to go to bed earlier. The alarm was already set for 6 a.m., a long day ahead of her, but she never quite seemed to unwind. The news played softly on the TV, more background noise than anything. Outside, the streetlights flickered. The first time she saw the shape in the window, she almost didn’t notice it. Just a shadow, cast on the broken glass. Probably nothing. Just a trick of the dark, stretched too thin across an empty building that no longer existed. Because the Sycamore Apartments had been demolished years ago. She remembered watching the wrecking ball swing, hearing the collapse of concrete, seeing the dust swallow the sky. The city erased it. Buried it. And yet— The building was still there. The window—still there. And so was the man. She froze. The clock on her bedside table ticked toward 11:11, the sound growing louder, sharper, like a countdown pressing against her skull. She stepped back from the glass. The man did not move. But she felt it anyway—the slow, wrong sensation of being seen.

The second night, she did not look. She told herself she wouldn’t. She left the TV on, the volume loud, the curtains drawn—but the static still found her. At 11:11 p.m., the air tightened, the world tilted, the clock’s ticking skipped a beat. And she knew he was still there. Waiting. Watching. She had to look. The sixth floor. The fourth window. He was there. She grabbed her phone, her trembling fingers snapping a picture through the curtains. The screen glitched. The image bent inward. The man’s outline wavered, his body a distortion—like something shaking apart between realities. Her breath hitched. The police. She would call the police. “There's someone watching me from inside Sycamore Apartments. The sixth floor. The fourth window.” A pause. Static crackling on the other end. A voice, low and uncertain: “…Ma’am, there is no Sycamore Apartments.” Her mouth went dry. “Are you ok? We’ll send a unit.” She watched as the squad car arrived, officers spilling out, flashlights sweeping across empty pavement—where the building should have been. But there was nothing. No structure. No man. No window. Just cold air, reaching for something that should not exist. And yet— After they left she looked again. He was there. On the third night, something changed. He moved. A shift—small, deliberate. His hand lifted just a fraction. Not a wave. Not a greeting. Just enough to be noticed. For three nights, she had studied the window—stared at it so long it felt burned into the back of

her eyelids, an afterimage flickering even when she wasn’t looking. Tonight, her eyes ached. She tried not to blink. But she did. Just once. And when she opened them— He was gone. A sharp breath caught in her throat. The wrongness crept in slowly, like a draft slipping under a locked door. The air inside the apartment had changed. Not colder. Not warmer. Just… heavier. She listened. Silence. Then— A creak. Not outside. Inside. The wrongness pressed in, thick and suffocating. The air curled at the edges of the room, warping like something unseen was leaking through. She turned. The window was still empty. But its reflection—not empty. Something wavered in the glass. A distortion, like a figure standing just out of sight. Like something pressing against the other side. Her stomach lurched. She shut the curtains. She did not sleep. By the fourth night, she could not stand it. She had barely slept. She had seen him. She had studied him. And now, the thought that something was studying her was all-consuming. But tonight, the window was empty. She waited for him to appear, breath shallow, heart pounding. But he never did. Tonight, there was no man in the window. And that was worse. She needed to understand. She needed to see. At 11:10, she stepped outside. Fully expecting to see the blank lot. The ruins. The place that no longer existed. But— She stopped cold.

The Sycamore Apartments stood in the dark, its brick walls sagging, its windows hollowed out. It loomed over the street like something half-buried, half-exhumed. No. No, she reasons. This isn’t possible. She blinked. Still there. The air felt different now. The apartment not abandoned. Not empty. Waiting. She knew she shouldn’t, but she crossed the street. The air felt denser, thick like fog, pressing against her skin. Her ears rang. She should have been standing in an empty lot. She should have seen ruins. But she hadn’t blinked. She had taken no step forward. And yet— She was already inside. Inside the Sycamore Apartments. Looking for the man on the sixth floor, in the fourth window. The door behind her was gone. Her foot crunched on broken glass. The air felt thick, heavy, wrong. Time pressed too close to her skin. The sixth floor. The fourth window. She climbed the stairs. Each step creaked like something waking up. A draft curled against her skin, thick with the scent of dust, of time, of something else—a faint whisper of decay. And then— She saw herself. Standing in the window. Not a reflection. Herself. Watching. Waiting. Knowing. Her mouth opened, but the thing in the window spoke first. "I wondered when you would come." The glass shattered. The dark swallowed her whole. The next night, at exactly 11:11 p.m., a man stood in the fourth window of Sycamore Apartments. Unmoving. Featureless. A presence rather than a person.

And somewhere in the city, a woman sat in her apartment. Watching. She had never noticed the man in the window before. But now? Now she could not look away. You might have thought you were safe—sitting comfortably, reading on the other side of the window. But who are you really watching now? The Watched Time is a mirror. A reflection stretched too thin. And when you stare too long—something stares back. At first, there is only the window. The city stretches below, fractured light against a blackened sky, flickering like a dying filament. The apartment across the street is familiar. Too familiar. A room swallowed in dim light, a curtain pulled aside, a woman standing—watching. She watches every night. She does not remember why. Neither does he. Because he is not watching her. He is watching himself. It always begins the same way. He remembers walking up the stairs, the weight of his body pressing into rotted wood. He remembers the feeling of cold air curling through Sycamore Apartments, thick with the scent of dust, of time, of something else—a faint whisper of decay. He remembers opening the door. The apartment on the sixth floor. The fourth window. A figure waiting inside. A man—no, not a man. A silhouette carved out of empty space, stretched just slightly wrong, as if reality had not finished rendering him. Their eyes met. A perfect mirror. And in that moment, he understood. But understanding is not escape.

By the time he exhaled, he was already standing here. The man in the window. Watching. Waiting. At exactly 11:11 p.m., the woman across the street looks up. And the loop tightens. Her fingers tremble against the curtain. He knows this movement. He has watched it a thousand times. The hesitation. The doubt. The creeping realization that she has seen something she should not have. And yet— She never looks away. That is how it happens. That is how it always happens. Every night, at 11:11, she watches the window. And every night, she steps forward. Not by choice. Because the moment she saw him, she was already inside the loop. Tonight, something is wrong. She hesitates. A fraction of a second. A pause where there was never a pause before. She should have already stood. She should have already begun walking toward the door. But she hasn’t. The loop is not closing. He feels it immediately. A pressure in the walls. The window rattles in its frame. The apartment groans. She isn’t supposed to hesitate. She never hesitates. And yet— Somewhere deep inside him, something cracks. A memory. A whisper. A thought too loud to belong to the dead. "Do not let her in." His breath hitches. The realization is sharp, slicing through the hollow spaces of his mind. This is not the first time she has hesitated. She always hesitates. And every night, she comes anyway. Not by choice. Because she was always meant to. Footsteps. Soft. Careful.

Ascending. The window hums. The loop wants to close. It must. It always does. He feels the weight of it pressing against him, pulling at the shape of his being, stretching and contracting like lungs filling with breath. But tonight— He does not want her to. Not this time. Not again. Too late. She is outside the door. Hand on the knob. This is the part where she enters. Where she takes his place. Where he is free to leave. Except— No one ever leaves. They only move forward. They only switch places. He sees it now. Sees what he could not before. Her body flickers at the edges. Blurring. Folding into itself. Like a glitch in old film, like a memory being rewritten in real time. She is already in the loop. She always was. She always will be. His reflection ripples in the glass. He has watched this moment repeat itself so many times—the opening of the door, the intake of breath, the stepping forward. But this time, he moves first. The glass warped. The window rattled. The loop was closing. His own reflection—not his anymore—stared back at him. Warped. Hollowed. Already changing. He remembered now. He had been her once. And soon—she would be him. He reached for the door. Not to open it. To stop it. "Do not let her in." And this time— He listens. The door slams shut. The window shatters. The room screams. But something still remained. The reflection did not disappear.

It only changed. And now—Evelyn was on the other side. She was not standing in the apartment anymore. She was standing in the window. Not outside it. Inside it. Trapped. Now the woman in the window. On the sixth floor, in the fourth window. The city outside was just as it was every other night. Across the street, a woman sat up in bed. And Evelyn felt it—the loop tightening around her. She saw the moment the woman noticed. The way she stiffened, her pupils dilating. The way she felt the same pull Evelyn herself had once felt. The pull that was not her choice. It’s never a choice. It’s a curse. She knew, with a certainty that cracked inside her chest— The woman was next.The next to be drawn in the loop. Across the street, she notices Evelyn, the woman in the window, for the first time. Evelyn, the woman in the sixth floor, fourth window of Sycamore Apartments. Evelyn raises her hand. Just a fraction. Not a wave. Not a greeting. Just enough— For the woman to see. For the loop to begin. The moment you hesitate, even for a second, the loop pulls you in. You’re already part of it, whether you realize it or not. The Trapped ~The loop never breaks. It only shifts. And now, it has shifted to you. She does not move. She cannot move. Evelyn stares into the glass, into the place where her reflection should be. But there is nothing.

Not darkness. Not absence. Something worse. A hollow space—where she should have been. The glass is wrong. Not a mirror. Not a window. Something stretched over something that should not be seen. Something watching her. The surface quivers. She steps back—but the Evelyn in the glass does not. Her stomach twists. She reaches out. A mistake. The glass is soft beneath her touch. Not cold. Not smooth. It bends—like fabric stretched too tight. Like skin. Something pushes back. A voice rises from the glass. Her voice. But wrong. Distant. Delayed. "You were always too late." She flinches. Her reflection does not. And then— It smiles. No. No, no, no. She was never supposed to be here. And yet— She had always been here. She tries to turn away. She cannot. The glass stretches, pulling at her, bending reality around her bones. The city outside flickers. Not blurred. Not distant. Unreal. She is inside it. Inside the space behind the glass. She stares out from the sixth floor. The fourth window. Watching. Waiting. The next one is coming. A woman shifts in bed. She stiffens. Sees. She notices the window for the first time. Evelyn raises a hand. Not by choice. Just a fraction. Not a wave. Not a greeting. Just enough to be noticed. The woman hesitates. Good. Hesitation is all it takes. The glass shudders. The city outside pulses—like a breath. The woman across the street stands. Moves toward the door. No. No, no—don’t come here.

Evelyn presses her hands against the glass. Her mouth moves. No sound. The window was always a door. But tonight— Tonight, it is something else. Tonight, it is open. The glass does not carry sound. The woman does not hear her. She never does. She is already walking. But this time—something is different. They see you now. The glass is already shifting. You are looking at these words burned into your mind. The glass of your own window shivers in your peripheral vision. You were never reading this. You were remembering. You don’t remember when you first saw the window. But you did. You always have. And across the street— In the sixth floor, fourth window— Someone is raising their hand. Not a wave. Not a greeting. Just enough to be noticed. You are already inside.