The Photograph in the Hallway
My brother saw something he wasn't supposed to see at our grandfather's funeral. Three nights of nightmares followed. The dreams stopped only after our mother made a desperate plea to the dead.
My brother has always been braver than me. Always running headfirst into things I would never dare touch. When our grandfather passed away, I was five. My mother wept the entire bus ride to the funeral home, and my brother—seven at the time—told me it was because "Daddy was leaving." I believed him, even though I knew our grandfather was his grandfather too. We were kids. We didn't understand death the way adults did.
The afternoon before the burial, the adults did something I still can't explain. They opened the casket. I don't know why. Some ritual, maybe. Some goodbye that required seeing. My brother, curious as ever, slipped away from the group and snuck a look. I watched him run in. I watched a grown-up pull him back out. He was only there for seconds, but seconds were enough.
I stayed where I was. I was too scared. And honestly, I didn't want to see.
That night, my brother got up to use the bathroom. He grabbed my arm, told me to come with him. I was groggy, half-asleep, but I followed. The hallway was dark except for a single lamp near the stairs. As we walked back, we passed the room where the casket sat open for visitors.
My brother stopped.
He was staring at the photograph of our grandfather propped on an easel beside the flowers. Just a simple portrait—our grandfather smiling, wearing that brown cardigan he always wore.
"Do you see it?" my brother whispered.
"See what?"
"His face. It's... it's not right. It's so scary."
I looked at the photo. Our grandfather was smiling warmly, the same way he always did when he visited. Nothing scary about it.
"You're imagining things," I said. "Come on."
But he wouldn't move. Then he turned to me, and I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before. Real terror. He started crying.
I dragged him back to bed. He insisted on sleeping against the wall on the inside of the mattress. I let him. There was a window there, just above his pillow.
I don't know how long we slept. But sometime before dawn, my brother screamed.
I sat up. Our parents came running. My brother was sobbing, clutching his blanket, eyes wide and glassy.
"Grandpa," he gasped. "He was there. At the window. He was pressing his face against the glass. He was trying to tell me something but I couldn't hear him."
Our parents exchanged looks. They assumed it was just a nightmare. Kids see things at funerals, they said. He'd been scared. His mind invented something terrifying to cope.
But the dreams didn't stop.
The next three nights, my brother woke up at the exact same hour, screaming the exact same words. He saw our grandfather at the window. He saw that face pressing against the glass. He saw the mouth moving, trying to speak, but the sounds never reached him.
He stopped sleeping properly. He stopped eating. When he closed his eyes, his body would twitch and shiver, as if he were watching something terrible unfold behind his eyelids.
Finally, my mother took him to the shrine where our grandfather's name was inscribed. She knelt with him in front of the stone tablet, murmured prayers I couldn't hear, and asked our grandfather to leave her son alone. To find peace. To stop haunting the living.
That night, my brother slept without screaming. And every night after that.
Years later, I asked him what he remembered about those dreams. He told me the truth without hesitation: the grandpa in those nightmares wasn't the grandpa who used to give us candy and tell us stories. This grandpa was different. His face was wrong. Distorted. And he wasn't smiling. He was screaming silently, pressing against the window as if he were trapped on the other side of it.
I still think about what my brother saw in that casket room. The seconds he spent looking at our grandfather's body before someone pulled him away. I wonder what he witnessed that our young minds couldn't process, something that cracked open a door that should have stayed closed.
Some nights, when I walk past a window in the dark, I still glance at the glass. Just in case.
Just in case something is pressing its face against the other side, trying to tell me something I can't quite hear.
The afternoon before the burial, the adults did something I still can't explain. They opened the casket. I don't know why. Some ritual, maybe. Some goodbye that required seeing. My brother, curious as ever, slipped away from the group and snuck a look. I watched him run in. I watched a grown-up pull him back out. He was only there for seconds, but seconds were enough.
I stayed where I was. I was too scared. And honestly, I didn't want to see.
That night, my brother got up to use the bathroom. He grabbed my arm, told me to come with him. I was groggy, half-asleep, but I followed. The hallway was dark except for a single lamp near the stairs. As we walked back, we passed the room where the casket sat open for visitors.
My brother stopped.
He was staring at the photograph of our grandfather propped on an easel beside the flowers. Just a simple portrait—our grandfather smiling, wearing that brown cardigan he always wore.
"Do you see it?" my brother whispered.
"See what?"
"His face. It's... it's not right. It's so scary."
I looked at the photo. Our grandfather was smiling warmly, the same way he always did when he visited. Nothing scary about it.
"You're imagining things," I said. "Come on."
But he wouldn't move. Then he turned to me, and I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before. Real terror. He started crying.
I dragged him back to bed. He insisted on sleeping against the wall on the inside of the mattress. I let him. There was a window there, just above his pillow.
I don't know how long we slept. But sometime before dawn, my brother screamed.
I sat up. Our parents came running. My brother was sobbing, clutching his blanket, eyes wide and glassy.
"Grandpa," he gasped. "He was there. At the window. He was pressing his face against the glass. He was trying to tell me something but I couldn't hear him."
Our parents exchanged looks. They assumed it was just a nightmare. Kids see things at funerals, they said. He'd been scared. His mind invented something terrifying to cope.
But the dreams didn't stop.
The next three nights, my brother woke up at the exact same hour, screaming the exact same words. He saw our grandfather at the window. He saw that face pressing against the glass. He saw the mouth moving, trying to speak, but the sounds never reached him.
He stopped sleeping properly. He stopped eating. When he closed his eyes, his body would twitch and shiver, as if he were watching something terrible unfold behind his eyelids.
Finally, my mother took him to the shrine where our grandfather's name was inscribed. She knelt with him in front of the stone tablet, murmured prayers I couldn't hear, and asked our grandfather to leave her son alone. To find peace. To stop haunting the living.
That night, my brother slept without screaming. And every night after that.
Years later, I asked him what he remembered about those dreams. He told me the truth without hesitation: the grandpa in those nightmares wasn't the grandpa who used to give us candy and tell us stories. This grandpa was different. His face was wrong. Distorted. And he wasn't smiling. He was screaming silently, pressing against the window as if he were trapped on the other side of it.
I still think about what my brother saw in that casket room. The seconds he spent looking at our grandfather's body before someone pulled him away. I wonder what he witnessed that our young minds couldn't process, something that cracked open a door that should have stayed closed.
Some nights, when I walk past a window in the dark, I still glance at the glass. Just in case.
Just in case something is pressing its face against the other side, trying to tell me something I can't quite hear.