Creepypasta: Out the Window

A writer woke up very early one morning, and decided to write a novel.

It's a normal thing for most writers to do this, but when he opened his eyes, the writer's mind clicked into one concept: sit at your computer, and write. Nothing more. So the writer got dressed, got something to eat, and proceeded to his desk. Now, the room his computer resided (his lair, as the writer affectionately called it) was surrounded by three large windows, one in each wall. Each had a large blackout curtain, connected to a pull by his desk, so that if he wanted absolute solace, he could close the curtain, and prevent even light from entering the lair.

In his darkened lair, the writer turned on his computer, typed his password, and opened a new file for his story. And then he just sat there. He probed his mind, worked the wheels in his head, and used all his faculties, but in the end came up wanting. He couldn't think of a story to save his life. So he just sat there for an indeterminate amount of time, wondering what he was supposed to write. He began new stories over and over, but with each attempt, he became more and more disgusted with what he was putting out.

He felt like he was drowning, the air for his stories being sunk in his failing attempts. So, gasping for air in a sense, the writer opened his curtain on his left. He closed his eyes to let the light sink in, took a deep breath and stood up to open the window. And the most unusual thing met his gaze. Outside his window, the streets and homes he once knew by heart were all gone, trees of many heights having taken their places. The writer was immediately confused, but then became bewildered at the body of a giant greyish-blue beast passing by.

The writer pulled himself together at the image outside, and quickly pulled his curtain shut. He scratched his head, he rubbed his eyes, he even pinched himself, but he quickly found that he was fully awake. Whatever was out that window was real. So the writer, berating himself for possibly believing that there was something impossible out his window, stared at the pulley for the left curtain, and quickly pulled it open again.

A burst of light tore through the edges of the curtain, and smoke wafted past the window as the writer saw what lay beyond. Trenches as far as the eye could see, men popping up, firing, and then dropping down again. A vast battlefield, muddy and strewn with metal and bodies, peppered by light from artillery in the distance, as the dulled booms echoed through the closed window. The mud from the explosions splattered across the window, tinged with the blood of the many men on the field, obscuring the battle that raged before the writers' eyes. He ran to the window, and flung it open, which was stupid of him to do, because an explosion blasted near him, launching the writer across the room.

In a daze by his desk, the writer stood up in time to see a smoke begin to float across the field, and the gasps and cries of many men followed. Faintly over the waning explosions did the writer's ears pick up the garbled phrases of "Mustard gas... masks... die." And the writer realized why he heard those words: a wind had picked up, and was blowing the smoke directly at him. His legs lazily responding, he rushed to the window as the gas wafted closer, slamming the window shut, as the oddly colored gas rolled across his window.

The writer walked to his desk, collapsed into his chair, and sat with his head on the back with his eyes closed. He had been through a lot in the span of a few minutes. An explosion, a gigantic beast, mustard gas, near death, the window that can let you interact with the past...

His head popped up. A WINDOW THAT LETS YOU INTERACT WITH THE PAST! THAT WOULD BE HIS NOVEL! He turned to his computer, and in a flurry, began to write. His hands were a blur, and occasionally stopped so that he could look out of his window. He wrote of the beast that walked by his window, a possible dinosaur that lived before him. He wrote of the war that besot his view, the rampant explosions and the ever present touch of death at any given moment. And after he reached the point of where he began to write, an errant thought birthed itself in his head.

"If the left window allows me to look into the past" he thought to the only person in his head, "then what do the other windows lead to?"

He closed the window to the past, and opened it again, the sight of pillars of stone and fire before his eyes.

"Rome," he realized, as a man with a lyre walked amongst them. "And not a very accurate one either."

He left the left curtain open, and pulled the cord for the front window. All of a sudden, the subdued hues of brown and gold met his gaze of a vast desert. There were no cacti, to his displeasure, but that was quickly squelched when a military vehicle rolled past his window.

"Heh. That was stupidly obvious. Left is the past, center is the present. Which means..."

The writer grabbed the cord for the right window, and quickly pulled it open, but the writer was not ready for what he saw. Beyond the curtain lay absolute darkness, which seemed to devour the light from the other windows. He closed the curtain, reopened it, opened it partway, but no matter what he did, the window remained blackened. He scratched his head, tilted his gaze, peered deeper and deeper into it, but nothing could be seen. So he closed the curtain to the right window, and turned towards the center, in time to see a rocket propelled grenade launch a vehicle into a spin right at his window. He scrambled to close the curtain, right as the vehicle closed in on him.

*THUNK*

"...THE HELL?!", the writer exclaimed.

He flung open the curtain, and he laughed. On the other side of the window was a crowd of people, and a drunk young woman who had lifted her top, and fallen back into the window. A party was obviously raging, with the sheer amount of bottles, cans, and red plastic cups that were littered across his view. Shaking his head, and blushing slightly, the writer closed the curtain, and began to write again. Every now and again, he would reopen the curtain (a lover's quarrel here, an Operating room surgery there, and even opening the window from the other side of a Red Light window in Amsterdam, which confused not only him, but the people watching the girl in the window itself), write what he saw, and then close the curtain again.

This continued for several hours, until thirst forced the writer to leave his lair. Pouring a cup of sludge that was this morning's coffee, he stood in his kitchen, and pondered the reason the right window remained empty. The left window provided historical events (albeit, VERY loosely inspired in some instances), and the front window provided many moments of horror, thrilling events, and incredible detail. But the right window remained as dark as it was when his day began. He pondered, puzzled and thought of all the possibilities that the future could entail, and the incredible opportunity he was given. The past is a given, the present is just a sense of voyeurism beyond what anyone has experienced to date, but the FUTURE could give only him something that all other writers and thinkers could only DREAM of before today. The dream of absolute certainty.

He rinsed the remainder of his cup, and hurried back to his lair, and personally flung open the right curtain. He stood and stared at the impossible darkness that was before him. He scratched his head, he rubbed his temples, he even scratched the back of his leg with the other foot, but he did not stop staring into that impossible void. Something HAD to be there, or else he would not be able to see what was beyond this window. He could feel the frustration of being denied possibly the GREATEST opportunity in the history of existence, and he could not stand to be left unknowing.

"SHOW ME SOMETHING!", he screamed. "You can't possibly deny me this very chance to know the future, and then turn a blind eye towards my interests! GOD DAMN YOU, I DEMAND YOU SHOW ME SOMETHING, YOU FUCKING WINDOW! I COMMAND YOU TO SHOW ME! RIGHT NOW!"

But when the window did not respond with anything at all, the writer turned and slammed his fist into his desk. He stood defeated, and he believed that he would be left wanting.

He felt a presence, both impossibly great and terrifying, and quickly turned to look out the right window. And immediately knew regret for his demand. For on the other side of the window, in deep darkness, was the glowing red iris of a giant eye, peering deeply into the writer's lair. And the writer remembered the two main things that people tend to forget about windows.

The first is that windows are not mirrors, and that if you attract the attention of anything on the other side, they can see what you are doing.

And the second is that he had left the right window wide open from the previous night.