Window Pain

Second Prize

Read the second place short story for The Nav's 2024 Prose Prize!

Content Warning: body horror, blood

Photo of a window with pink lace curtains.

Image via: Jan Van Bizar / Pixabay (@Janvanbizar)

Brendan Wanderer | Runner-up

2024
Prose Prize | Volume 56

We could push the glass….

Why would I do that?

To see how far it will bend.

I pressed the glass with my finger. It bent slightly.

How far does it stretch?

I pushed a little more and indeed, the glass stretched. Maybe I could stretch further, I wondered. Push myself. I could get over my temper. Maybe then Aunt Bethany would trust me.

Emboldened, I pressed harder—just a little more—then the glass burst.

~

Something always happened when the family got together, sparking a fiery clash of words.

“How dare you vote for that meathead!”

“You never let me get a word in edgewise!”

“There you go again, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch.”

“You’ll be the ruin of this bloody family!”

The women looked on disapprovingly while the men sauntered about sipping beer. Us children stood, wide-eyed, and the dogs barked. Sibling rivalries, politics, finances—it didn’t matter. They couldn’t communicate, especially with alcohol involved. That’s why it was so shocking when, at eleven, I was the one who was caught. Me, caught teaching my cousins to carve symbols with a pocketknife—an honest mistake.

“You were supposed to be looking out for them, Fraser,” Aunt Bethany scolded. She, Grandma, and Auntie Lily stormed out to the fence when they saw us.

“I was,” I said, looking at the grass stains on my shoes.

“That’s called leading them astray,” she said.

“And you ruined Uncle Dunstan’s fence,” Auntie Lily added.

It wasn’t even my idea to carve the fence. It was Kelly’s. We spotted her through the hedge one day while walking Grandad’s dog. She was the only kid our age we knew in town. Whenever we visited, we’d use the same excuse of walking the dog so we could meet her there by the hedge, where she’d read to us from her father’s collection of horror stories. Little did we know, we were listening to tales of ancient evils, lurking creatures, and grisly murders. According to Kelly, her father was a horror aficionado.

Looking back, maybe those stories fed our fears about our family’s old house. She said she never meant for us to have nightmares. That’s why she gave us a basketful of God’s eyes—handmade talismans she’d made at church camp. Assured us they would keep our family safe. But Aunt Bethany found those and took them all down.

That’s why she gave us a basketful of God’s eyes—handmade talismans she’d made at church camp. Assured us they would keep our family safe.

That’s why she gave us a basketful of God’s eyes—handmade talismans she’d made at church camp. Assured us they would keep our family safe.

That’s why she gave us a basketful of God’s eyes—handmade talismans she’d made at church camp. Assured us they would keep our family safe.

That’s why she gave us a basketful of God’s eyes—handmade talismans she’d made at church camp. Assured us they would keep our family safe.

“Carving also works,” Kelly had told us. “As long as your home is surrounded, evil stays away.” She’d gestured to the long fence surrounding the yard.

But I was torn. I wanted to protect the home, the family; I never meant to upset anyone. Kelly said that surrounding the home with salt also worked, but Grandma’s jar didn’t have enough for the whole yard, so reluctantly, I had resorted to this.

“But it’s Uncle Dunstan’s fence,” Nicholas said, standing guard at the edge.

“Why does everyone call it that?” Michael asked.

“Because he built it. It was the last thing he did before—”

“Before he left for Hawaii,” I said.

Nicholas looked down. “I can’t remember what he looks like.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “After all, you were still in diapers.”
Michael snickered. Nicholas frowned, but then he started laughing too.

“Just fourteen marks in the fence ought to do it,” Kelly had insisted. I followed her instructions to the letter. It might’ve even worked… if Aunt Bethany hadn’t caught us before I finished. Then it was straight to the kitchen for interrogation, the smell of cooked turkey meat wafting through the air.

We hate the smell of turkey.

“Did someone put you up to this?” Aunt Bethany asked. The boys caught my eye, sensing an easy out for us. But I shook my head.

“You wouldn’t have believed us,” I said, thumbing the hem of my sweater. “We needed to carve it to protect you.”

“From what?” Auntie Lily asked.

“I can’t say—”

“There’s a monster,” Michael blurted. “We hear it scamper around in the blue room at night.”

Grandma’s eyes filled with tears.

Aunt Bethany leaned into me. “I thought we told you to stop calling it that!”

Her scorn stung, but she wasn’t wrong. I’d been calling it that since before Uncle Dunstan left, but I’d learned to only use it around the boys. If only Michael and Nicholas had kept their mouths shut.

Auntie Lily calmed herself, looked into her son’s face and said, “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

“You can’t see it because it doesn’t want you to,” Nicholas said to her.

Hearing this, Aunt Bethany turned to me, exasperated. “Do you see what comes of your stories?”

“It’s true,” I said. “That’s why we carved protective charms—”

“Enough,” she said. “Not another word.”

If I was one of my uncles blowing his lid, they may have just rolled their eyes, said I was drunk, and that would have been that. Grown-ups get away with so much. But I could tell this was a losing battle for me. They’d never take me seriously.

“I hate this family!” I said. “I hope the monster eats all of you!”

I ran through the house. No one followed. I bolted upstairs, knocking over Grandma’s chips and disturbing Grandad’s sports game. I slammed the door to the blue room behind me.

I paced, seething. There was a strange satisfaction in knowing I couldn’t take those words back. The best part about losing your temper is getting to say whatever you want. The worst part is the cool-down.

The best part about losing your temper is getting to say whatever you want. The worst part is the cool-down.

The best part about losing your temper is getting to say whatever you want. The worst part is the cool-down.

The best part about losing your temper is getting to say whatever you want. The worst part is the cool-down.

The best part about losing your temper is getting to say whatever you want. The worst part is the cool-down.

The blue room—Uncle Dunstan’s old room—was where they sent us for timeouts. We called it that because of its blue walls. After he left, I made it my sanctuary. So timeouts weren’t so bad anymore. But then they went and painted it pink.

We hate pink.

Sometimes when I was alone, I sat on the floor and picked at the pink coat; the blue revealed itself in splinters.

I looked at the window. The frame was dry and cracked, splitting at the edges. I felt like that wood—worn and falling apart. I leaned against the glass, staring across to Kelly’s house. Her light was on, curtains billowing in the breeze, but she wasn’t there. I thought about calling out to her. In all the times she’d tell us stories, I never told her why I kept coming back. Maybe I could shout it—something dramatic like in the movies.

I tried to open the window, but it wouldn’t budge. It was sealed shut by layered coats of paint.

We could push the glass….

~

The sound was like ice shattering. I looked down at my arm, feeling relief at first. Just a scratch. But then the skin began to tear. A small opening followed by rivulets of blood. The cut stretched across my arm like a zipper.

Wait.

More skin opened, tearing wider.

How far does it rip?

The wound tore side-to-side, like a zipper being pulled open. If Kelly were watching, I could show off my calmness under pressure, cover the tear, and walk to the hospital. Later, we’d laugh about it, and she’d call me brave. Maybe she’d finally invite me over to her side of the hedge.

I glanced across the yard to her room again. Kelly was there.

Not smiling, mind you. She stood there staring—eyes wide in horror—covering her mouth with her hands. I looked at my arm again. Blood dripped.

How far does it drip?

I heard a scream. I think it was my own.

I looked back at Kelly and screamed again. I saw her turn and run from her room.

We don’t need her, the voice whispered.

The room grew darker and filled with a blue haze.

We don’t need anyone.

I turned, locking eyes with another presence.

We are…

Pink eyes, through deep sockets, stared back at me.

The haze formed a bridge between us, and I saw the monster.

Had Kelly seen it? I wondered. Was that why she ran from her window? After all, it wasn’t so scary.

We are friends.

There it was, calmly perched on its hind legs in the middle of the room. Its form shone from within. The air around it was cool, but fresh, like the pavement before a storm begins.

We love that smell.

Its skin was dark grey and blue, like the murky depths of the ocean. I was lost in it. Sharp claws curved delicately from its limbs. Its gaping maw housed teeth like razors, lips pulled back in a grin to reveal each black incisor. While unsettling, its expression was almost inviting to me.

I leaned in further. I could see the faint silhouette of its beating heart working within, its pulse a soft rattle in the quiet room.

We sized each other up then. I puffed up my chest. Despite its appearance, there was a faint loneliness. Here between us was a sense of longing that made me more curious than afraid.

For a moment, I felt seen. I paused to wonder. Had Uncle Dunstan seen it?

We are forgotten.

Then I remembered my arm. My face twisted in pain, knees buckling. I saw the blood, still dripping.

We are left behind.

The creature’s wings flapped, and I felt its feet shift, shaking the room. I could tell it wanted me to stay put. But I had to stop the bleeding, so I broke its gaze and made for the door. That’s when its eyes changed from pink to red.

That’s when its eyes changed from pink to red.

That’s when its eyes changed from pink to red.

That’s when its eyes changed from pink to red.

That’s when its eyes changed from pink to red.

Its smile disappeared. I screamed again, and the creature shook.

Don’t leave us in shadow!

But I fled the room, clutching my torn arm. Even as I ran downstairs, I could hear it scream after me: Stay away from them!

I burst into the kitchen and everyone sprang to life. Aunt Bethany grabbed a cloth to wrap my arm. Grandma called for an ambulance.

We can’t trust them.

“No time,” Aunt Bethany said. “The hospital’s close.”

They’ll never trust us.

Grandma drove, Aunt Bethany sitting in the back with me. But the voice wouldn’t stop.

They painted our sanctuary pink.

At the emergency room, the doctor stitched my arm—seven stitches in the muscle, seven for the skin. Fourteen in total.

As the doctor worked, I looked down at my arm. The stitches looked like a root.

We are rooted in our pain.

“Whose pain?” I asked aloud.

The doctor paused. “Need more anesthetic?”

“No. It’s my pain,” I said.

“Very brave,” he said, finishing the stitches.

It belongs to us, the voice insisted.

“Get out of my head,” I shouted.

For a moment the voice went silent, as did the room. The doctor paused, then scribbled on a notepad before giving it to Aunt Bethany. Grandma held my hand tighter.

~

Aunt Bethany and Grandma never asked about my outburst at the hospital. I kept my thoughts to myself. And that evening, everything felt lighter. I could sense everyone trying with me—that feeling of relief when you realize the person who hurt you had your best interests at heart, that comes right before you bury your fears and move on.

I didn’t want to move on. I needed to see Kelly. I wanted to ask her what she’d seen through the window behind me. If she saw.

But when I went to the hedge, she wasn’t there. I went around and pushed open her gate. I’d never been to her yard before, but the grass was overgrown and the cherry tree we once sat below together was crooked and hunched. I walked up the steps to her front door—as though I was walking through a different world—and knocked, but there was no answer. From below, I could see grey, weathered boards nailed to a basement window.

I decided to go home.

I waited there until Michael and Nicholas had fallen asleep. Until the familiar roar of the family gathered downstairs died down. Only when the house was quiet and still did I return to the room. Back to the place where I’d last seen her. I crept down the hallway, into the blue room turned pink, and looked across the street, through the shattered window into hers.

No. She wasn’t there.

Headshot of Brendan Wanderer, 2025

Brendan Wanderer

Brendan Wanderer is completing his final year of a BA in Creative Writing and Visual Arts at VIU. He previously attended NSCC, graduating with an Honours Diploma in Screen Arts. His short film “Leave Pizza Here” was a selection in the 2016 Atlantic Film Festival. His work was previously featured in the 2022 and 2023 issues of Portal Magazine. These days, he may be lost (and found) in his mancave, drinking chai lattes, and writing/illustrating a memoir about growing up neurodivergent in ’80s rural Alberta.

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