Cracks In The Window

Fictional Story




My name is Kyle. I live in a town called Pricetown. It’s a small town in the provincial area around New York City. This is my memoirs of the strange goings on recently in my life. 




My house is a fairly old cottage type house. My parents always told me that it was built during the first world war. They always took pride in saying that to me. Of course, as i got older, I cared less and less. The house was creaky. The front porch was falling apart. The only things keeping it together were the few rusty nails my father had taken his time to nail in three years ago. Many of the doors squeaked when you opened them. I often told my parents that I would one day buy them a brand new house. I love my parents and would be willing to do that for them. Life was ordinary for me. Nothing extra special ever happened. I don’t want special  things to happen anyway. I enjoy my simple life.




But that changed.




There has always been a locked door in my house. Could never be opened. But one day, a Tuesday i believe, my curiosity took over again. I was lazily walking down the hallway after school, when I saw the door again. I was never too interested in the door. But for some reason, I wanted to open it. So I wiggled the knob. And almost immediately, the door opened. 




The room was empty.




There was nothing in the room but a window. It was made of the same wood that the whole house was made of. Decrepit and creaky, uniform with the nature of every room. At first, I was very disappointed with what I found. But then I noticed something. On the window was a very distinct crack. I got closer to it, as I was very curious. It seemed ordinary. After some close looking, I came to a realization. The crack formed the letter C. I was very surprised to have realized this. But quickly, being the teenager I am, lost interest and went to do my homework.




Later in the day, I heard a strange noise. it was similar to the creaking noises the house usually makes, but different. It sounded like scratching. I followed the noise all the way to the locked room. When I entered, the scratching stopped. I was confused. My glance drifted towards the window. Now, right next to the C, were the letters R and A. I was very shocked. No one was home except for me. My parents both worked late. In my shock, I saw something. A silhouette of a man. The blurry man was standing on the hill which laid right beyond the window. He did not move. He looked very short and pudgy. Nothing strange, except he was blurred with a very dark color. It was odd as right behind the man was one of the tall lights that lit up the park on top of the hill. A few seconds later, the man slowly walked over the hill, out of my sight. 




For the rest of the night, I pondered what had happened. Every moment I swear I could see the blurred man. In my room, around the kitchen, in my dreams. I could barely sleep that night. I did not dare tell my parents, for fear that they would think I was crazy.




The next day, during math class, another “something” happened. The day was very normal. Nothing had occurred the entire day. I went into math class and the bell rang almost as soon as I had entered the room. I sat down and began the days work. During the lecture about all the new crap that we would need to know, my sleepy eyes wandered to the window. I saw him. But this time, things were different. The lights in the room started flickering. The walls started to develop mold on the walls. The floor looked like it was melting. I leaned over to the guy next to me and asked if he could see the lights flickering. He promptly said no. I felt like a lunatic. I realized all this was only happening in my head. But the man was getting closer. His dark, blurry face enveloped the window. I was terrified. Then the bell rang, and it all stopped. Everything was normal again.




But then I vomited all over the math room floor.




The rest of the story is told from the point of view as if you are inside Kyle’s head.




They sent me home. Luckily, I was able to regain control of my body quickly. I was able to walk from school back to my house. When I got home, I surveyed my house. The lights were flickering again. The hallways darkened as I got closer to the locked room. I could hear noises everywhere. The sounds of gunfire, crying, explosions, screaming. The terrors of the stories of the world war spilling from the houses past. I scrambled into the attic room. I looked at the window. Three new letters had appeared. The letters C,K, and S. I thought for a moment. The letters spelt out the word CRACKS. What does that mean? The I realized the meaning. It meant how much the world wars cracked the world, and specifically this house. The house must’ve been the home of the blurred man. The war must have crushed him. It CRACKED his very spirit. And all the trauma of his life was spilling into this moment. All his anger, sorrow, and vengeance was piling onto me. 




Then I looked up. The man was there. But this time he was getting closer. Every second  his face was closer. I was terrified. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I was frozen. The man was inches from me. Then it all ended.






Newspaper Report of the Incident:




Last night a boy by the name of Kyle disappeared. His parents came home to find that there was burn marks surrounding a room they claimed could never be opened. The room was charred to near pitch black and soaked in coals. All they could find there was a tattered piece of paper. It read: 










The paper was not burnt one bit and was covered with a speck of blood. But the blood was not the boys.


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