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  • Writer's pictureAmr Abbas

Window on the Third Floor

The winds were brewing in the cold winter’s night; they were not native winds, but winds that came with change. Change was all that I could think of that night when I took the long walk and sat on this particular bench. The bench overlooked a house, old, but not too old; it was withered and worn, and like all houses, it had an untold story. 

An untold story that comes with the place, with faces, with strangers who wander the dark after midnight. Midnight struck at that particular moment when I saw a raven fly by; wings fluttering as it landed upon the third floor’s window and cawed thrice. Thrice, I glanced at the raven and then looked away. Away went all thought, but one clung on as a burden. A burden of how it would look if someone opened the window to find a stranger sitting on a bench, watching them in the darkness of the night.

The night was long, it was dark. Dark as the silhouette that showed in the frame, concealed behind the blinds that slowly opened and the raven cawed again. Again, I diverted my sight, away from the window and for a moment, I was lost in thoughts. Thoughts of ravens with their majestic stature and the hue that surrounds them with mystery. Mystery of the purple glint and the blackness of their feathers. The feathers of the raven moved in the draft as the window opened, and there she stood, raven-haired like her companion with eyes of electrifying violet. Violet lines of lightning shone in the sky, but even then, there was no thunder except for the thudding of my heart. My heart skipped a beat as her eyes caught mine, and we met for a moment of silence. Silence lay heavy when she looked away. Away, the raven flew, cawing loudly in the air.

The air grew dense, and my soul was heavy with a sudden realization. A realization that there was no one in the street but me, not a soul was there. There, upon the frame that surrounded the Victorian front of the house, there was a sign. A sign that read,

Death was the story of this house.

This house was haunted

Haunted were my dreams.

Dreams of raven-hair and eyes of violet

Violet strings of lightning weaved through the sky again. Again, the raven cawed loudly. Loudly, the thunder struck and shook me to my very core, but it was not the noise that did it. It was the eyes that gleamed in the darkness of the window on the third floor.

The raven cawed in the midnight’s winter sky. The sky filled with rain that washed away my momentary terror as I got off the bench and walked away. Away from the house I walked, but I felt eyes that followed my every move. Every move I made that night was shaky, haunted by the thought of the window





Written by Amr Abbas.

Cover art by Amr Abbas.


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