The cracked windowpane offered a hazy view of the night beyond my cramped bedroom. The apartment I shared with two other students was a study in neglect: peeling paint, stubborn odors, and the kind of silence that pressed against your ears. From my perch on the threadbare windowsill, I saw the faintest movement in the neighbor’s yard—a shadow tangled against the gnarled limbs of the ancient cottonwood tree.
At first, I convinced myself it was nothing—a stray animal caught in some barbed wire or maybe a pile of discarded branches blown askew. But the shape clung unnervingly still, unnaturally still. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and leaned closer, trying to pierce the gloom.
The figure was unmistakably humanoid, but wrong in every way. Too thin, too elongated, as if some artist had stretched the limbs beyond human proportions. The pale moonlight caught on something taut—ropes, maybe—binding the figure to the tree. The image sent a prickling chill crawling down my spine.
I fought the urge to look away, but my gaze remained locked. My breath caught in my throat, shallow and quick. The mind, desperate to reason, whispered that it must be some cruel prank, or my eyes playing tricks after too many sleepless nights studying psychology theories and grading papers.
“No one chains a person to a tree,” I muttered to myself, trying to convince my pounding heart. But the quiet dread nested deep inside me grew stronger. I thought of Mr. Albu, the neighbor so shrouded in mystery it felt like he belonged to another century. His mansion was a fortress, surrounded by towering brick walls and dense, thorny bushes that seemed to swallow the streetlight’s glow.
Reports of occult ceremonies had slithered through our neighborhood like a poisonous rumor. A man too old to be robust, too sharp-eyed to be innocent. Every time I caught a glimpse of his cold gaze, I felt a tingle of warning.
Yet here I was, unable to disregard the scene unfolding beneath the cottonwood. Should I call the police? Should I wake my flatmates? But Lucas would scoff, dismissing my concerns as paranoia. Worse, I feared what involvement might cost me: my fragile stability, my already stretched-thin finances, my precarious grip on normal life.
But what if it was real? What if someone was out there, bound and desperate while I sat safely behind this cracked window?
The night seemed to press in closer, the cold glass biting my forehead as I rested it against the windowpane. My fingers curled tightly around the chipped wood frame, knuckles whitening with tension. The figure did not move. Its presence was a silent accusation, dragging me into a reckoning I hadn’t asked for.
I fought the urge to look away, yet every instinct screamed for me to flee. My heart thudded hard enough to drown out rational thought. Was this a hallucination born from exhaustion? Or was it a terrifying reality demanding action?
“Maybe binoculars,” I whispered to the empty room, a ridiculous plan born in panic. I could get a better look, confirm it was nothing—but what then? Could I live with the truth if it wasn’t? The risk of becoming entangled in some dark nightmare paralyzed me almost as much as the fear of ignoring it.
Sleep was supposed to be my refuge. I shut the window softly, trying to seal away the night’s secrets. But as my eyelids fluttered shut, dread gnawed at my chest, curling tight and cold.
Suddenly, I was ripped awake, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. My body lay rigid beneath a crushing weight. A gaunt, skeletal figure loomed over me, its sunken eyes fixing me with a hollow, sinister smile. Bony fingers squeezed around my throat, suffocating, relentless.
I bolted upright, sweat slick against my skin, hands clawing at my neck where nothing was. Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare.
Desperate to shake the lingering fear, I stumbled to the window and yanked it open. The backyard lay quiet and empty, save for the cottonwood tree’s branches swaying gently in the cold morning breeze. The orchid vines draped like tangled hair, casting eerie shadows that should have been innocent.
But the bindings were gone. The figure vanished. Had I imagined the whole thing?
The chilling thought settled into my gut like a stone. The house behind the yard was dark and brooding, a hulking shape too large for one person to inhabit comfortably. Mr. Albu’s fortress was full of secrets—secrets I feared to uncover but couldn’t ignore.
Clothing myself hurriedly, I slipped on a worn cotton t-shirt and pajama pants, barely noticing the scuffed sneakers I grabbed on impulse. The morning air bit at my skin as I stepped outside, my breath puffing faint clouds in the cool dawn.
“You’re up early,” Lucas’s voice floated from the kitchen, calm but curious, a spoon clinking against a bowl.
I forced a steady tone. “I’ve got to check something out.” Before he could protest, I was already moving toward the neighbor’s yard, heart slamming against my ribs like a frantic drum.
The overgrown hedges near the back of Mr. Albu’s property hid me from view. The brick wall, rough and weathered, loomed ahead—a silent sentinel guarding whatever lay within.
Growing up, I’d climbed plenty of trees, but scaling a vertical brick wall was a different beast. My first attempt slipped; the rough surface bit into my palms and scraped my elbow raw. Determined, I tried again and again, muscles burning, until finally, my hands found purchase.
I hauled myself up, limbs trembling, and peered over the edge. The silhouette of a person was nestled amid the thick branches of the cottonwood—a figure unmistakably human, chained tightly to the gnarled wood. The eyes that met mine were impossible: luminous grey, haunting and penetrating, filled with a strange mix of fear and defiance.
Startled, I lost my grip, tumbling backward onto the rough earth. Pain flared along my arm as I scrambled up, heart pounding wildly. The sight was burned into my mind—too vivid to deny.
There was no turning back now. I sprinted toward the police station, breath ragged, clothes dirtied and disheveled. The sterile fluorescent lights inside were a jarring contrast to the dark mystery I’d just witnessed.
“I need to report something,” I blurted out to the officer behind the counter, struggling to steady my voice. “It’s about my neighbor, Mr. Albu. Last night—I saw someone tied up in his backyard. I saw them again just now.”
The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Mr. Albu? The old man with the big house?”
“Yes. Please,” I pressed, desperation bleeding into my tone. “That person had the most unusual grey eyes. I’m not imagining it.”
The officer sighed, but stood, gesturing for me to follow. “Alright. Let’s have a look.”
As we made our way back under the weakening dawn sky, the tension coiled tighter in my chest. The streets were still sleepy, the neighborhood quiet, but the shadow beneath that cottonwood was no longer just mine to bear.