Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24838640-20150120185117

I was in my teenage years, and my family had recently moved house. I didn’t want to move at first, but we had no choice when it came down to it. My parents had always been good hagglers and they managed to convince the people that we were buying the house from to leave behind all of their curtains. In my new bedroom, there were black curtains. Heavy, flowing, velvet drapes that reached from the top of the high ceiling right down to the soft, plush carpet. They were inky-black and filled nearly the entire expanse of the wall, but they always hung relatively close to the window as the house was quite old and had very shallow window ledges. This is why I didn’t react too much at first when I heard my curtains rustling in the middle of the night.

It was a fairly windy night, so I assumed it was just the wind knocking against the window and thus, rustling the curtains. I didn’t even react when I heard a tapping at my window as well as the shuffling of the curtains. It was almost a knock, only slightly gentler, slightly muffled by something. I turned in bed to face away from the window. It was either just the wind again or some ivy from the back of the house getting blown into the window. I became slightly anxious when the tapping continued after the wind had died down. My nerves grew as the both the tapping on the window and the rustling of the curtains carried on even after the wind had ceased completely.

I calmed slightly when I realised that if it was someone or something outside my window; they would’ve smashed the window or broken it earlier, not continuously tapped on it. My heart slowed slightly at this thought. As I turned over to face the window again, trying desperately to get to sleep, I realised something. My face drained and my blood turned to ice as I realised: The tapping had stopped, but the rustling of my curtains hadn’t. 