Jessica Cambrook, 14 Sep '12

His eyes don’t blink. From eleven to midnight every night, he stands and stares at me. Right at me. His skin has an ethereal glow in the milky moonlight. His clothes cling to him and his hair sags like he's all wet. Though his face is inches away from the window, his breath doesn't fog the glass. When he's there, my room turns icy cold and a thick haze descends. It's been going on for weeks now.

Though he must only be about four I’ve never seen his parents. The old house they live in seems ready to crumble any day now. Everyone avoids it like a bad memory.

His hands are pressed against the dirty, chipped window. Such tiny hands. I’ve tried waving but he doesn't even flinch. I don’t know if he’s blind. I haven't the courage to wade through the jungle of a front garden to knock on the front door to find out.

One day I decide to ask a neighbour what he knows about the house. He's lived there as long as anyone can remember. I just can’t stand his staring anymore. The neighbour regards me strangely.

“The old house yonder? That be the Blue’s family house. Or it was. They been dead a long time now, so they have. Been abandoned about sixteen years, if memory serves me rightly. Never did look sturdy. Unless you want to end up like their boy you’ll keep your distance, you will.”

That night I see the little boy again. This time, he's not staring at me.

He's pointing at something behind me.