Story 1162: The Hangman’s Window

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.