Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

In the oldest quarter of the city—where the fog never lifts and the lamplighters whistle only in pairs—there is a townhouse sealed with iron nails and silence. Its windows are always shuttered. Its address, erased from every registry.

But if you pass it at the stroke of midnight, and if the moon is low and full, one window on the upper floor will open on its own.

Locals call it The Hangman's Window.

No one knows who first gave it that name. Maybe it was the children who dared each other to stare too long. Maybe it was the priests, who claimed to see shadows dancing behind the glass. Or perhaps it was the vagrants who never came back from sleeping beneath it.

But one thing is agreed upon: you must never look in directly.

Merrin Holloway didn't believe in curses. She was a former journalist turned archivist, piecing together forgotten tales of the city for her book "Echoes of the Gutter." She had written about every alley ghost and sewer specter—but the Hangman's Window had no origin, no incident, no written record.

That made it dangerous.

That made it irresistible.

So, on the 13th night of the frost month, Merrin climbed the rusted fire escape opposite the townhouse and sat with her back to the window, facing a mirror.

Midnight struck.

The shutters creaked open.

Merrin saw it in the glass—slow, deliberate. The curtains stirred without wind. A dim glow emerged, like candlelight seen through smoke. She lifted her camera, careful not to turn her head.

Through the mirror, she saw him.

A figure hung from the ceiling beam, neck cocked at a sickening angle. His suit was old and water-stained. His shoes dangled inches above the floor. And yet—he moved.

Not with gravity. With intent.

His eyes rolled in their sockets until they found her in the mirror.

Then he smiled.

Merrin's breath hitched. She raised the camera, hand trembling. She took the shot.

The flash went off—too bright, too loud. It shattered the moment.

She looked up.

The window was closed.

No light. No shadow. Just an empty pane.

She checked her camera screen.

Nothing.

No photo. No error. Just static—white and hissing.

That night, she dreamed of the noose. Of rope cutting into her skin. Of breath stolen, inch by inch.

When she awoke, a cord hung across her mirror. Her neck ached. Her bed was damp with cold sweat—or was it something colder?

She tore down the mirror and buried it in the alley.

But every midnight since, wherever she went, a window opened nearby.

Sometimes in houses.

Sometimes in dreams.

Always with him behind the glass.

Watching.

Waiting.

And smiling.

The Hangman sees all.

Do not meet his gaze.

Do not give him your reflection.