Every evening, as Jack returns from his grueling job around 2 a.m., he consistently notices a figure at her window, signaling to him. Something about these encounters feels unsettling. His curiosity eventually leads him to investigate, unveiling a reality far more astounding than he could have predicted.
Exhaustion enveloped me as I reached my dwelling post-work.
It was the early hour of 2 a.m., following an extended night shift. Traditionally, I would park and stride towards my apartment when her presence would catch my eye once more.
Night after night, predictably, the enigmatic lady was positioned by her window, gesturing towards me. I never encountered her during daylight, nor on weekends when my schedule altered to include visits to my family’s home.
Why is she consistently there at this hour? I pondered. Though unfamiliar with her name, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.
My work hours are unconventional, typically wrapping up at 2 a.m.
This peculiar behavior of hers persisted for several weeks, sparking my curiosity as I continued towards my apartment. Was she isolated? Did her occupation also demand nocturnal hours? I endeavored to dismiss the intrigue, reminding myself it was not my concern.
We had never conversed, not even a simple exchange of greetings. It seemed she existed solely in the nocturnal hours.
Upon entering my building, my thoughts lingered on the enigmatic woman. Perhaps she had an unusual routine of observing the parking area at night, I speculated.
On a seldom day off, I chose to relax at home during the daylight, when the sun radiated strongly. Venturing outside for some air, I stumbled upon a real estate agent presenting the lady’s residence to a prospective couple. Driven by curiosity, I approached.
“Excuse me,” I interjected, capturing the real estate agent’s attention. “I see you’re showcasing this residence. Are you acquainted with the lady residing here?”
The agent responded with a puzzled expression. “A lady? Apologies, but this property has been unoccupied for several months. The prior proprietor has deceased.”
My gaze fixed on him in surprise. “Deceased? But nightly, I observe her by the window, signaling to me. Are you certain?”
“I’m positive, sir. This house has been vacant since the former owner’s passing. Perhaps you’re mistaken.”
I don’t subscribe to spectral theories or paranormal phenomena, thus I was convinced of her real presence each night. This was inexplicable.
“There must be an error,” I insisted. “Nightly at 2 a.m., she gestures to me from that window.”
The agent furrowed his brow, glancing towards the window I indicated. “I’m unsure what to convey, sir. I’ve managed this property since it was listed, and I can affirm no one resides here.”
How could this be plausible? I was certain of what I witnessed. She appeared utterly tangible, signaling to me each night. I assumed the agent was confused.
As I retreated to my apartment, a sense of unease overwhelmed me. What was transpiring? Was the apartment truly vacant?
My rational mindset rejected the notion of ghosts. There had to be a rational explanation. I resolved to remain vigilant and decipher the situation.
Yet, that evening required a visit to my mother, postponing my investigative efforts. The subsequent night, upon returning from work, I was prepared.
I parked and scrutinized the window. She was absent. Resolute in seeking answers, I approached her apartment and knocked on the window.
“I’m aware you’re inside. Open the window!” I demanded loudly.
After a brief pause, the window slid open, and the woman appeared, visibly startled.
“What… what is happening?” she queried, her voice quivering. “I apologize, did you need something?”
“So, I was accurate. Someone does inhabit this space. Yesterday, I conversed with a real estate agent who informed me the prior owner passed away months ago. Yet, I observe you here nightly. What is transpiring? Why do you signal to me each evening?”
Her eyes widened, her alarm escalating. “I… I didn’t wish to disturb you. I’m truly sorry. I gesture because… it provides solace,” she responded sorrowfully. “It’s merely… It alleviates my solitude. And I haven’t vacated. I reside here.”
“But he claimed the apartment was vacant. Others have been touring your residence.”
“I understand,” she sighed.
She glanced around anxiously as though anticipating an intrusion. “Please, enter,” she implored, her voice trembling. “Discussing this outdoors isn’t safe.”
We entered her neatly arranged apartment, as the realtor had described. We seated ourselves, and she inhaled deeply.
“What’s your name?” I inquired kindly. “I’m Jack.”
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