My little brother came back last night. But he drowned three years ago.

Three years ago, my little brother Ethan drowned at summer camp. He was eight. It was nighttime, and he’d snuck away with some other boys to see the lake under the stars. They said he slipped on the dock. By the time they found him, it was too late.

I was thirteen. I didn’t go on that trip — I was home, playing video games. I remember getting the phone call, hearing my mom’s scream, my dad’s voice cracking for the first time. We buried Ethan with his favorite photo — the one of him and me standing by the lake, grinning like idiots.

We haven’t spoken about him since.

His room stayed locked. Sometimes I thought I heard things from inside — soft thuds, creaks, whispers — but I chalked it up to grief and silence. My parents stopped smiling. My mom started taking sleeping pills. My dad just stopped talking altogether.

Last night, at 3:12 AM, I heard tapping on my bedroom window.

We live on the second floor.

At first, I thought it was the wind. But the tapping didn’t stop. It was rhythmic. Slow. Careful. I turned over, annoyed… then froze.

Outside the window, in the moonlight, stood Ethan.

His face was pale. His lips were blue. His hair dripped water down his cheeks. He wore the same Spiderman pajamas he used to sleep in — soaked through and clinging to his tiny body. He didn’t look older. He looked exactly the same as the day we buried him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He just stared and tapped on the glass with one finger, over and over.

I screamed.

My parents ran in and flipped the lights. Ethan was gone. The window was closed, locked from the inside. They told me it was a nightmare.

But I know what I saw.

This morning, the carpet near my window was wet. There were small footprints — the kind Ethan used to leave when he ran barefoot after swimming. My window lock was undone.

And on the floor was the photo we buried with him.

It was torn down the middle, soaked, and smelled like lake water.

I tried to show my parents, but the footprints dried and the photo vanished. I thought I was losing my mind — until just now.

It’s 3:12 again.

The tapping is back.

But this time… the window is already open.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t want to believe it, but it’s impossible to ignore. My heart races in my chest as I sit up in bed, my hands trembling. The tapping continues, slow and deliberate, just like before. It’s maddening, the way it echoes in the dead of night.

I get up, my feet moving instinctively toward the window, though every part of me is screaming to stay away. I reach for the handle and hesitate. I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to see him again, but I know I have no choice.

With a shaky breath, I pull the window open.

The cold air rushes in, and for a moment, I wonder if this is real. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe I’m just imagining all of this.

But then I hear it—the sound of tiny, wet footsteps on the ground below. Soft, like the padding of bare feet against the grass. I lean out the window, trying to make sense of what’s happening, my heart pounding in my ears.

There he is.

Ethan.

He’s standing on the lawn, his little face still pale, his clothes soaked through. His Spiderman pajamas cling to his small frame, the fabric heavy with water. His hair hangs in wet strands around his face, and his eyes are wide, unblinking, staring up at me.

The tapping continues, his finger hitting the window with that same slow rhythm.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Ethan…” The word comes out as a whisper, choked with emotion. I don’t know what to say. How could I ever explain this? How could I tell anyone that my little brother is standing in front of me after being gone for three years?

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just keeps staring at me, tapping. Each tap seems to echo louder, like it’s pounding into my skull.

I take a step back, suddenly overwhelmed with fear and sadness. “Please…” My voice cracks. “Please, Ethan, don’t do this. Come inside. You’re… you’re scaring me.”

For a moment, I think he might leave. His head tilts slightly, like he’s considering my words. But then, he reaches up with both hands and places them against the glass.

I gasp, feeling the cold from his touch seeping through the window, even though it’s closed. He presses harder, as if trying to reach me, as if he’s begging me to understand something I can’t.

The silence stretches on, and the air feels thick with something I can’t describe—something dark and suffocating.

Then, without warning, the image of Ethan starts to blur. His form flickers, like a malfunctioning TV screen. For a split second, I see something else. Something… darker. A shadow stretching out from him, swirling around his feet, crawling up his legs.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the tapping stops.

I blink, and in that moment, Ethan is gone.

My heart stops. I rush to the window, pushing it open further, but there’s nothing. No wet footprints. No signs of him at all.

Only the cold, empty night.

I pull the window shut and turn to face my room, my hands shaking uncontrollably. What is happening to me? What’s going on with Ethan? And why won’t my parents believe me?

I glance at my clock. It’s 3:12 again.

This time, the room feels different. Like the air is heavier. My eyes wander to the corner of my room, where the dresser is. That’s when I notice it.

The photo. The one we buried with him. It’s lying on the floor in front of me.

It’s soaked.

And this time, the photo is different. It’s not the same one. It’s a new one, a picture of me and Ethan, standing by the lake, smiling. But this time, I’m holding his hand. And he’s staring directly at the camera, his eyes wide with a strange, unsettling intensity.

I’m not imagining this. I know I’m not.

I try to move, but I feel a sharp cold on the back of my neck, like fingers brushing against my skin.

I turn around.

There’s a handprint on my bedroom door.

It’s wet.

And it’s small.