The Magic Window

This is what I liked doing. Exploring. Whether it was walking, checking places out, I

liked having adventures all by myself. To me everything is an adventure; there’s always

something interesting to find and explore. I’ll be leisurely walking and I’ll find something that needs my attention, and it goes from there.

Today I was encapsulated by this abandoned house, it’s walls and roofing charred, the

glass of the windows blacked with soot. Unlike most abandoned houses, this one was a lot newer. There was a fire that ravaged it’s interior a few years back, and the owners decided to move elsewhere. The house wasn’t a disturbance to the surrounding neighbours, and neither was it a hazard, so it stands, collecting dust and critters that had nowhere else to go.

The fire first happened when I was in middle school, and just like middle schoolers do, we spread a disproportionate rumor around about it, like we did about everything. This rumor had it that the house held magic. What kind of magic? Our twelve-year-old minds weren’t advanced enough to come up with detail to that extent, so we just left it at that: the formerly livable, modern-style manor was left in ruins, not only leaving the house with scorched innards and unintentional gothic take in its wake, but harbouring within it some sort of fantastical magic that left adults indifferent, but children fascinated and wondering.

By the time the premises lost it’s police-tape bordering, the rumors had died down and our middle school selves went off to spew out whatever we could about the next event. Everyone except immediate neighbours forgot about the whole fire. There wasn’t any reason to keep it in mind, really, no one was hurt; the only true casualty was the house’s interior, nothing more, nothing less. The only thing keeping the neighbours from forgetting was the house in their line of vision, but it never sparked tears or an annual wake of what the house could have been. It would have been nothing—it’s just a house. It was going to deteriorate anyway.

So here I was, standing on the sidewalk in front of the almost foreboding house, lost to the prime of its lifetime. This house had caught my attention in middle school, but did not leave me like it did most kids when the story got old. It was still attractive to me, or to my adventurous nature, anyway.

I approached the front door and looked through the translucent window beside it. It was all black shapes that I couldn’t identify through the glass, frosted with ash. Fully expecting no response, I rang the doorbell. The bell was hollow and sad, low-pitched and ghoulish, and I wondered if it sounded the same before it was wrecked.

I firmly grasped the door’s handle and opened it up. When I did, the door moved its twin along with it, until it let up. The doors were old and were reaching the end of their usefulness, which was a little sad to me for some reason. Regardless, I entered the house’s foyer and shut the doors behind me.

I was standing in the aftermath. It looked like people still lived here, only because of the items that the previous owners left behind. The furniture hadn’t been moved since before the fire, but things had been knocked over, or had handprints on them. The ground was covered in debris from the ceiling and light fixtures, with footprints from both humans and animals trailed throughout the grit. I carefully stepped through, trying not to kick up any dust, until I reached the back door and looked out.

The backyard was large—or larger than mine, anyway—There were patches of grass on the lawn that had shriveled up and died, yellow and black. In the centre of the yard there was a pool, half full with rainwater, with foliage and rodent carcasses floating on top. Gosh, I had always wanted a pool.

I shook my head and turned back around, only to spot a door facing me. It led to the

basement, no doubt. I carefully stepped over to it and opened the door, it’s sound echoing down the stairs. Adrenaline rushing through me, I cautiously crept down the ten steps, feeling my way through the dark and trying to maintain balance.

The basement was dark and destroyed. Something straight out of a horror movie. The

only light source was from the small rectangular windows; I couldn’t find any bulbs or switches. Something caught my eye; against the darkness and dull shadows was a flashing reflection on the wall. I was all by myself, and it was deathly still. When I got a closer look at the flashing I noticed that it was from glass.

An equilateral pane of glass on the wall. Given it’s placement, I thought it was a mirror, but it was a pristine window. I reached out and touched it, then cried out and recoiled. The glass was burning hot. But there was nothing there. I touched it again and it was still hot. I couldn’t see if there was anything behind it. Curious, I picked up a piece of piping (effectively staining my hands) and carefully prodded the centre of the glass until it made a star. I was about to keep prodding, but then another star appeared. And another, and another, tiny little stars like a damaged windshield. I stepped back and looked at the window, riddled with stars appearing out of nowhere, cracking and pushing themselves to their limit. It was silent for a moment, and I thought the window was done messing with me, but the glass burst. I turned away and shielded my face, feeling shards of glass pelt me. The pane was gone; only the sealing was left. What the hell kind of magic is this?

Disappointed, I dropped the piping and wiped my hands on my pants. This was stupid; why did I trust middle schoolers?

Then I heard something. Not here, but all around the upper floors. It wasn’t people, not footsteps, not animals or the house settling. Sort of a swishing sound, it was unreal but I decided that that was the magical component of this window: that it would assault you then make a cool noise to comfort you.

Then it was silent, and I felt even more gullible. I stomped up the stairs and marched

down the hall, losing my balance multiple times but not caring. I was so hyped up, for no reason. I opened the weak front door and closed it behind me. My anger stayed in the house; now I was just deflated. I stepped out onto the porch and was about to step down the stairs, down the driveway, and away back home, but there were people on the sidewalk. A group of them, standing together, facing the house, staring with wide, wide eyes.

“What . . . did you do?” asked one woman.

I panicked. Was this private property? “I’m sorry, I was just looking around, I thought

this was public property,” I babbled, “I’ll leave now, I’m really sorry.” I touched my hair out of nervousness, and a few glass shards fell out.

“Don’t,” she replied quietly, still looking at the house’s front face. God, I was in trouble.

“How’d you do it?” asked a man in the back, who’d been quietly chatting with the others.

“Do what?” I asked. Then I took it upon myself to join the group and look at the house

myself. I didn’t see why, seeing that the house was irreversibly damaged. Were these people finding out now?

But I was wrong. Way wrong. The house stood, staring at me, large and proud, in its

former glory. The unstained white, the chic, minimalistic black had been restored, while I was in it!

“I didn’t . . .” What am I supposed to say? In a second I was back in front of the doors.

They were shiny and new, and the formerly sooty glass now black frosted. The doorbell remained low and ghoulish, but it fit for some reason. The doors opened without resistance, the twin locked door staying in place. The house was beautiful. Spotless and stylish, from the wall paint to the tiles, the stairs to the furniture, it all matched and looked just built. I headed over to the back door, where I was greeted with a vert green lawn. The pool was filled with water, free of any leaves or branches or animals, and had a pool cover.

The window?

I hurried down the basement stairs and hit the light switch. A fully furnished, finished

basement. Scratchless hardwood flooring. I looked around for the window. I checked out the area, but there was no window to be found. In its place was a painting hung on the wall. I lifted the painting, cool against my fingers, and checked behind it. A small, safe door. I pulled on it, and it opened, code-free.

I was hit with a minor heatwave. Sitting in the centre of the safe was a single black

candle, lit. The tiny flame was unbothered. So this was the magic.

I leaned in and blew the candle out. The flame snuffed and disappeared, leaving no

smoke in its wake. I closed the safe door and repositioned the painting over it. The painting was of the house as I had just seen it, pristine and magical, staring into my eyes. It went straight through to my bewilderment, and though it was just a painting, I could see it taunting me.