Those Eyes Of His

Wendy Hallow knew there was something strange about Timmy the moment he walked into her classroom. He looked normal enough; not very tall, mousy brown hair, a little on the thin side; perhaps five or ten pounds underweight. But it wasn't that at all. It was those eyes of his. Sometimes he looked at you in a way an eight year old boy just shouldn't. Wendy always found it a little unnerving. His haunting kind of stare would always catch her stuttering during the lessons. You could even go as far as to say she was a little frightened of Timmy Parker.

The other students felt the same way about that little boy. He wasn't disliked or picked on, but he was never the popular type, never the one picked first for games or invited to lunch. They left him alone in a way quite unlike a bunch of rowdy third graders.

Timmy lived with his grandmother in a little house not far from the school. His parents had passed away when he was a baby and he was raised by his grandparents, Rose and Howard Jameason. His grandfather died of cancer when Timmy was in grade one, before Wendy had ever known he existed. She supposed for a long time that maybe his death could be the reason he was such a peculiar boy.

It was almost summer vacation at Valley Park School, and during those last few weeks it was no easy task getting thirty eight-year-olds to sit still and practice multiplication tables. They squirmed impatiently, giggled, requested to use the bathroom far more often than they needed, the usual end-of-year antics. Of course the odd few tried to pay attention; but even they got sidetracked by the sunny view outside the window. But not Timmy Parker. He sat still and silent in his seat, pencil in hand, staring at Wendy with an abnormal consistency. It seemed as though he hadn't noticed all the frolicking going on around him. As a matter of fact, Wendy had a tiny feeling that he hadn't noticed the other students at all.

Every day at three-o-clock the bell would ring and Wendy would be swept aside by a herd of very relieved children. It never took more than two minutes for the students to pack up and run out, but Timmy always lingered behind. He calmly closed his books, flicked the little scraps of paper from his desk, and said the same thing, "Have a nice night, Miss Hallow."

Everyday except for that day.

This time, Timmy remained seated in his chair staring at Wendy for what seemed like an hour after the other children had left. Wendy gulped, sat at her desk, and then courageously locked her gaze on his queer green eyes.

"Can I help you with something, Timmy?"

He just looked at her, unblinking. Wendy's stomach flipped over. Silly, wasn't it, to be so nervous around a child. Very silly.

"No."

They sat together in the emptied room, silent. All Wendy wanted was for Timmy to leave her with her wits intact and go home to his grandmother. The way he made her feel was alarming.

"Well, run along."

"Have a nice night, Miss Hallow. Sweet dreams." And with this chilling remark, little Timmy Parker smiled, picked up his books, and walked out.

Wendy couldn't move. She was frozen in her seat, repeating those awful words over and over again in her stunned mind.

Have a nice night, Miss Hallow. Sweet dreams.

Wendy didn't know how long it was before she was cuddled into her couch grading papers. It killed the moments of quiet in her small apartment where she lived with Muffin, her cat. But when she pulled Timmy's paper out of the stack, she burst into fitful tears. She couldn't help it, she couldn't stop herself… Soon she was tearing up the paper, throwing the bits and pieces onto the floor, covering her eyes with hands she couldn't control.

The next day of school filled Wendy with relief. Nothing unusual happened, Timmy was behaving no more oddly than was commonplace, and Wendy found it easier to pull the day through. By the time the bell rang she was laughing at herself for being so silly. She cheerfully stacked chairs and tidied the floor after all the children had left.

But under Timmy's chair she found something that wasn't for the recycling bin.

It was for her.

With trembling fingers she opened the notebook. Clutching her face she stared in horror at pictures gruesomely sketched by a boy with a black mind. Images of death, pain, and impossible monstrosities. And in a scrawl quite unlike a child's were phrases that threatened torture and unbelievable crimes.

First your tongue, no words for you, Wendy. Your tongue, then your lips. Those pretty lips.

Screaming, Wendy ran. She ran out of the school, down the streets full of happy children, past the cemetery and the mausoleum, up the stairs and into her empty, dark apartment.

Wendy never returned to the school. One day some doctors arrived and took her to a place far away from sane people, and locked her away to spend the rest of her life trapped in a terrifying nightmare. A nightmare that forced her to forever see those dreadful eyes.

Timmy Parker's dreadful eyes.

Not long after, Timmy and his grandmother moved away. Nobody remembers him now, the thin little boy with his strange manner and green eyes.

Except for Wendy. How could she ever forget those eyes of his?