The Things in the Window
The year of our Lord 1455 was a year of biting cold and long shadows for the village of Rivermore. Atop the jagged cliffs sat Rivermore Castle, a fortress of gray stone that had housed the Blackster line since 1154. For three hundred years, the Blacksters had looked out from their narrow slits of glass and seen only the familiar: the rolling fog of the valley, the peasants tilling the dark earth, and the distant, jagged peaks of the Forbidden Range.
But in the winter of 1455, the North Tower window changed.
It happened during a Great Storm. Lord Alistair Blackster, a man of iron will and heavy mail, stood in the tower room to watch the lightning. He expected to see the village cowering in the rain. Instead, when the lightning flashed, the glass didn’t reflect the storm. It held a steady, terrifying light of its own.
Alistair blinked, wiping the condensation from the pane with his tunic. "By the Saints," he whispered.
The valley was gone. In its place was a landscape of black stone—smooth, flat, and etched with yellow lines. Looming where the forest should have been were towers of glass that reached higher than any cathedral in Christendom. They glowed with an unnatural, internal fire—red, blue, and a blinding white that made his eyes ache.
Then, he saw the first horror.
A beast of gleaming silver, shaped like a fat-bellied bird but possessing no feathers, roared across the sky. It had no wings that flapped, yet it glided with a terrifying, steady speed. Behind it, it left a trail of white smoke that hung in the air like a scar. Alistair fell to his knees, clutching his crucifix.
"The Great Dragon," he gasped. "The Apocalypse has come to Rivermore."
For weeks, the Blacksters kept the North Tower locked, but curiosity is a rot that eats through even the thickest oak door. Alistair’s daughter, Eleanor, found the key. Unlike her father, who saw only demons, Eleanor saw a world of impossible precision.
She spent her nights pressed against the cold glass. She watched the "metal horses"—rounded, brightly colored shells that moved without animals to pull them. They had eyes of fire that cut through the darkness. She saw people walking on the black paths. They wore clothes of strange, shimmering fabrics—blues and pinks that did not exist in the dyes of 1455.
One evening, Eleanor saw something that froze her blood. Through the window—which was showing a version of the very ground the castle stood upon—she saw four figures.
They were boys. They looked no older than her brother. One wore a strange, translucent mask over his eyes (Fox Smith’s glasses). Another held a wooden lute that lacked strings but was painted in a sunburst of orange (Michael King’s guitar). They were standing exactly where the castle’s Great Hall should have been. But the hall was gone. In its place was a crumbling ruin, overgrown with vines, surrounded by a fence of twisted wire.
Eleanor realized then that the window wasn’t showing another world. It was showing the death of her home. It was showing the future.
The family’s chaplain, Father Thomas, was brought in to exorcise the glass. He spent three days chanting in the North Tower, splashing holy water against the pane. The water simply slid off, reflecting the "strange horrors" within.
"It is a map of Hell!" Thomas screamed, pointing a trembling finger. He was looking at a "billboard"—a massive, glowing image of a woman smiling while holding a red can (a 1980s soda advertisement). To the priest, she was a giantess, a succubus meant to tempt the souls of men.
"Look at the metal birds!" he cried as a 747 descended toward a distant, invisible runway. "They carry the souls of the damned to the lake of fire! We must wall it up! We must bury the North Tower in stone!"
But as the masons arrived with their mortar and bricks, the window did something new. It hummed. A low, vibrating frequency began to rattle the teeth of everyone in the room.
Five hundred years in the future, Fox Smith tapped his foot against the mossy foundation of the Rivermore ruins.
"Do you hear that, Nathan?" Fox asked, adjusting his glasses. "The EMF meter is off the charts. It feels like the air is vibrating."
Michael King strummed a low E-string on his guitar. "Maybe the 'ghost' likes classic rock, Fox. The frequency is coming from right where that tower used to be."
Back in 1455, the Blacksters screamed. As Michael struck the chord in the 1980s, the sound erupted in the medieval tower like a thunderclap. The stained glass didn't shatter; it turned transparent.
For one brief, shimmering second, the veil thinned.
Lord Alistair saw the four boys standing in the ruins of his legacy. He saw Fox Smith looking directly at the spot where the window was. Through the "Frequency Leak," Fox felt a chill. He looked up, his eyes meeting the terrified gaze of a medieval lord.
"Nathan," Fox whispered, his voice echoing in both centuries. "I think someone is watching us from the past."
The Blacksters didn't wait. Fear of the unknown outweighed the wonder of the metal birds. Lord Alistair ordered the masons to work through the night. They piled heavy granite blocks against the window, sealing the "Things" away.
But as the last stone was set, Eleanor pressed her ear to the wall. She didn't hear the wind of the 15th century. She heard a faint, rhythmic thumping—the heartbeat of a world yet to be born. She heard the distant roar of a metal bird and the strange, electric music of Michael King’s guitar.
The Blackster family would rule for another three hundred years, but they were never the same. They knew the "Trash" of their era—their tapestries, their gold, their swords—would eventually be replaced by the glowing, metal world in the glass.
The window remained hidden behind the stone, a silent observer of time. It waited for the day the castle would fall, the day the forest would become a road, and the day four boys from Taylorville would walk across the grave of the Middle Ages, unaware that they were the "horrors" in a dead man's window.
But in the winter of 1455, the North Tower window changed.
It happened during a Great Storm. Lord Alistair Blackster, a man of iron will and heavy mail, stood in the tower room to watch the lightning. He expected to see the village cowering in the rain. Instead, when the lightning flashed, the glass didn’t reflect the storm. It held a steady, terrifying light of its own.
Alistair blinked, wiping the condensation from the pane with his tunic. "By the Saints," he whispered.
The valley was gone. In its place was a landscape of black stone—smooth, flat, and etched with yellow lines. Looming where the forest should have been were towers of glass that reached higher than any cathedral in Christendom. They glowed with an unnatural, internal fire—red, blue, and a blinding white that made his eyes ache.
Then, he saw the first horror.
A beast of gleaming silver, shaped like a fat-bellied bird but possessing no feathers, roared across the sky. It had no wings that flapped, yet it glided with a terrifying, steady speed. Behind it, it left a trail of white smoke that hung in the air like a scar. Alistair fell to his knees, clutching his crucifix.
"The Great Dragon," he gasped. "The Apocalypse has come to Rivermore."
For weeks, the Blacksters kept the North Tower locked, but curiosity is a rot that eats through even the thickest oak door. Alistair’s daughter, Eleanor, found the key. Unlike her father, who saw only demons, Eleanor saw a world of impossible precision.
She spent her nights pressed against the cold glass. She watched the "metal horses"—rounded, brightly colored shells that moved without animals to pull them. They had eyes of fire that cut through the darkness. She saw people walking on the black paths. They wore clothes of strange, shimmering fabrics—blues and pinks that did not exist in the dyes of 1455.
One evening, Eleanor saw something that froze her blood. Through the window—which was showing a version of the very ground the castle stood upon—she saw four figures.
They were boys. They looked no older than her brother. One wore a strange, translucent mask over his eyes (Fox Smith’s glasses). Another held a wooden lute that lacked strings but was painted in a sunburst of orange (Michael King’s guitar). They were standing exactly where the castle’s Great Hall should have been. But the hall was gone. In its place was a crumbling ruin, overgrown with vines, surrounded by a fence of twisted wire.
Eleanor realized then that the window wasn’t showing another world. It was showing the death of her home. It was showing the future.
The family’s chaplain, Father Thomas, was brought in to exorcise the glass. He spent three days chanting in the North Tower, splashing holy water against the pane. The water simply slid off, reflecting the "strange horrors" within.
"It is a map of Hell!" Thomas screamed, pointing a trembling finger. He was looking at a "billboard"—a massive, glowing image of a woman smiling while holding a red can (a 1980s soda advertisement). To the priest, she was a giantess, a succubus meant to tempt the souls of men.
"Look at the metal birds!" he cried as a 747 descended toward a distant, invisible runway. "They carry the souls of the damned to the lake of fire! We must wall it up! We must bury the North Tower in stone!"
But as the masons arrived with their mortar and bricks, the window did something new. It hummed. A low, vibrating frequency began to rattle the teeth of everyone in the room.
Five hundred years in the future, Fox Smith tapped his foot against the mossy foundation of the Rivermore ruins.
"Do you hear that, Nathan?" Fox asked, adjusting his glasses. "The EMF meter is off the charts. It feels like the air is vibrating."
Michael King strummed a low E-string on his guitar. "Maybe the 'ghost' likes classic rock, Fox. The frequency is coming from right where that tower used to be."
Back in 1455, the Blacksters screamed. As Michael struck the chord in the 1980s, the sound erupted in the medieval tower like a thunderclap. The stained glass didn't shatter; it turned transparent.
For one brief, shimmering second, the veil thinned.
Lord Alistair saw the four boys standing in the ruins of his legacy. He saw Fox Smith looking directly at the spot where the window was. Through the "Frequency Leak," Fox felt a chill. He looked up, his eyes meeting the terrified gaze of a medieval lord.
"Nathan," Fox whispered, his voice echoing in both centuries. "I think someone is watching us from the past."
The Blacksters didn't wait. Fear of the unknown outweighed the wonder of the metal birds. Lord Alistair ordered the masons to work through the night. They piled heavy granite blocks against the window, sealing the "Things" away.
But as the last stone was set, Eleanor pressed her ear to the wall. She didn't hear the wind of the 15th century. She heard a faint, rhythmic thumping—the heartbeat of a world yet to be born. She heard the distant roar of a metal bird and the strange, electric music of Michael King’s guitar.
The Blackster family would rule for another three hundred years, but they were never the same. They knew the "Trash" of their era—their tapestries, their gold, their swords—would eventually be replaced by the glowing, metal world in the glass.
The window remained hidden behind the stone, a silent observer of time. It waited for the day the castle would fall, the day the forest would become a road, and the day four boys from Taylorville would walk across the grave of the Middle Ages, unaware that they were the "horrors" in a dead man's window.