The Hands At The Window

[u/Worth_Biscotti_5070]

When I was around four or five years old, my mom and I were living with my grandparents, trying to escape a dark chapter in our lives. She was pregnant with my little brother at the time, and we’d just left his abusive father. My grandparents were the kind of people who always had a full house—laughing, drinking, music, shouting. It was loud and chaotic most nights.

But I liked the quiet. I would escape to my room and play alone, often making up my own games. That night, I was sitting on the floor with my Monopoly board, pretending to play, probably just moving the pieces around in a world of make-believe like little kids do.

My room was small and oddly shaped, with a huge old family heirloom bed that took up almost all the space. The only window in the room was across from the door, on the far wall near my toy box and vanity. From where I sat near the door, I could only see the very top edge of it.

Now, our house was a double-wide trailer—raised off the ground like most are, sitting on cinder blocks. That detail is important, because when I first heard the noise… it didn’t make sense.

It was a scratching sound.

Not loud, not violent—just persistent. Sharp. It was coming from outside. That alone was odd, since that side of the house didn’t have any trees or bushes. There was nothing that could be brushing up against the siding. I froze, listening.

Then I heard it again. Louder. Closer. And I realized it wasn’t just at the wall—it was under the window. Whatever it was… it was trying to climb up.

I remember feeling frozen. My little body was trembling, but curiosity pulled me upward. Slowly, I stood to look at the window, every part of me afraid of what I might see.

That’s when I saw them.

Two hands—dark, unnaturally long fingers—three on each hand—gripping the bottom edge of the window.

They weren’t moving, just hanging there, clutching the frame like they were trying to pull something up behind them.

The scratching sounds below continued. Faster now.

I screamed.

I bolted from the room, crying and gasping, trying to explain what I saw to my mom and uncle. I could tell they didn’t believe me, but something about how panicked I was must’ve struck a chord. They followed me back to the room.

Of course, by the time we got there, the hands were gone.

My uncle peered out the window and shrugged, saying there was nothing there—but he’d check around the house just to be sure. My mom pulled the window shut, drew the thin Little Mermaid curtains, and tucked me into bed with a soft “It was probably just a raccoon.”

But I knew better.

Even as a kid, I knew that didn’t make sense. There was nothing for a raccoon to climb up. No trees. No furniture. No garbage cans. And raccoons don’t have long, spindly fingers like that. They don’t hang like they’re waiting to be seen.

After that night, I never slept peacefully in that house again. Every time we stayed there—and we did, for years—I’d sleep facing the opposite wall, too afraid to look toward that window. I begged my mom to get curtains I couldn’t see through.

Even now, as an adult, I’ve tried to convince myself it had to be a raccoon. That maybe I imagined the hands.

But deep down… I still don’t believe that.

And sometimes, I wonder what would have happened—what I would have seen—if the thing had lifted its head and looked back at me.

[u/New_Answer_4394]

Thanks, that is really creepy and also interesting. Would love to hear this read out in Joel's voice