Granny and the Winter Terrace

Granny never spoke much about her childhood. But once, by the fireplace, when the wind outside howled like an animal in pain, she told a story that left everyone silent.

She had been just thirteen then.

It was a late winter evening in her old village. The kind of evening where the sun hides too early, and shadows crawl faster than they should. Her home was a two-story red-brick house, surrounded by other homes and buildings made of the same tired stone. The bricks were old and darkened with time, and everything looked like it had once burned and decided to stay that way.

That evening, Granny—then just a girl—had gone up to the terrace to collect the dried clothes before the cold set in too deep. The air was biting, and the sky had turned the colour of ash. No stars, no moon. Only clouds, thick like smoke. 

She didn’t know why she looked toward the window of the building next door. That building had always been strange. It used to be a factory once—no one really knew what they made there anymore. People said the owners left long ago. But the window was always shut, except at night, when a faint light flickered from behind it. The kind of light that didn't look like fire, or a bulb. It pulsed. Softly. Like breathing.

Granny stopped. She stared at the window. It stared back.

She felt it first—not saw it. A feeling in her stomach like something was watching her. Her arms broke out in goosebumps even though she wore two sweaters.

Then she noticed it. The terrace pipe on the far side of the wall—where the neighbour’s roof began—it looked strange. The shape of the pipe twisted at the top, crooked and sharp, but what made her freeze was that in the dimming light, it looked like a head. A pale face. Thin and tall. Standing. Still.

She blinked.

It didn’t move.

But something about it felt wrong—like it was holding still on purpose. She felt it, in her bones, that the thing had seen her.

The wind picked up. It hissed, scraping over the red bricks, carrying something that didn’t sound like wind anymore. It sounded like a whisper. Not words. Just the sense of a whisper, like something saying her name but not using a voice.

She backed away slowly, her arms full of stiff, cold clothes.

She turned toward the staircase door.

It was closed.

It hadn’t been closed when she came up.

She dropped the clothes. Ran.

She pulled at the handle.

Nothing.

The door wouldn’t move.

Her breath came out in thick clouds. The metal of the handle bit into her skin with its cold. Her small fingers tried again and again.

Locked.

She screamed.

No one heard.

She banged the door. Kicked it. Cried.

But the village slept early in winter. Doors locked. Curtains drawn.

Behind her, something creaked. Something that hadn’t creaked before.

She turned.

The pipe was still there.

But now… now it was taller.

Or closer.

Or just not the same.

The window from the old factory lit up again. Just a flicker. A breath.

She heard it—inside her own head.

It wasn’t a voice, not really. But it said something clear:

"Stay."

The wind died.

Everything stopped.

No sound.

Not even her breathing.

She didn’t know how long she stood there.

Minutes?

Hours?

The night passed slowly, like something crawling with broken legs. She sat in a corner, her back to the wall, hugging her legs tightly, trying not to look at the pipe, or the window, or the shadows that now seemed to move even without wind.

At one point, she thought she saw a hand—thin and grey—reach from the window.

At another, she heard footsteps on the roof tiles. But when she looked, there was only the sky.

Cold gripped her. Not just her skin. But her thoughts. She began to think she would never leave. That she would become part of this place. Part of the shadow. That maybe the pipe was a person once. That maybe the window made people that way.

She pressed her eyes shut.

She whispered prayers she had half-forgotten.

She waited.

And waited.

And then—

Light.

Not the evil pulsing light from the factory window. Real light. Morning.

Her father found her, huddled and half-frozen, eyes wide open, lips too cold to speak.

He broke the lock from the inside.

There was no key. There was no reason it should have locked.

She didn’t answer when he asked what happened.

She didn’t speak for two days.

And from that day on, Granny never—never—went back to the terrace.

Even as an old woman, she would not look at it. If a ball rolled up there, she would not fetch it. If someone asked, she would just say:

“It’s better not to wake what sleeps there.”

And then she'd go quiet, staring off somewhere, like she was still listening for that whisper.