She stood there in the window staring down at him. He tried not to look up there, but he couldn’t. He walked by as fast as he could as he always did. Her narrow eyes glared at him. He could feel her stare in his chin as he passed, he had to hold back not to run. By the end of the road he sent her a hateful glare.
Every day it was the same. She was always there, waiting for him. Her wrinkled skin, her grey, dirty hair. Always dressed in that worn, ugly night gown. There was no other road going down to the bridge. No other way to get home.
An ambulance stood outside her house one day. He saw them drive out of the drive way, slowly down the street. There was people there, talking about something. He watched in as he walked by, made his neck long to get a better view. He couldn’t see her.
The next day she wasn’t there. For the first time he could walk by without being watched, without seeing her. He could walk home in peace.
He looked up there every day to see if she was back, but the window was always empty.
Time went by, and he stopped looking. One day he glanced up. The window was empty, as he knew it would be. The house looked abounded. The garden overgrown. The street felt lonely.
He realised he missed her. The walk home just wasn’t the same now, without her sinister stare.