Watch

By Nixosia

One Shot


Note: I'm not entirely sure where this came from, but it was a brain baby way back when (when I was first writing Said the Spider...) and I only recently got around to finishing it. Maybe it's a little jumpy, but constructive criticism is always welcome. I like to know what people think. It's short, but a story is a story. R&R?


They were black. Practically at the very least. It's hard to call eyes - even those eyes - black because eyes don't come in that color - everyone knows that. Eyes aren't black. They were just very dark brown. So dark that you couldn't tell the difference between the pupil and the iris unless you were a centimeter away. Who would want to be that close anyway? Those eyes were evil incarnate. But not everyone knew that.

And they were watching.

Watching, watching, watching. Always watching. Never a moment of peace because those eyes were always there. Always watching. Black, bloodshot eyes. Practically black at the very least. One wouldn't have been able to tell if one didn't know better. And no one knew better because they always closed when someone was trying to look into them. Like it was planned.

But they were always there.

They never left.

And no one knew what they were attached to.

No one saw it.

It could be assumed, however, that the owner of the almost black, bloodshot eyes was a hideous thing - as there was an immeasurable amount of fear where the eyes were concerned. A sort of terrified paralysis set in when they were noticed. The lifeless stare was gained, and, eventually the screaming started. Everyone agreed that the screaming was, by far, the worst part.

Because it wasn't just shrieks of fear, or pain.

The voices begged and pleaded for freedom. For the eyes to close and go away. For whatever the creature was the leave. There was fear, there was anxiety. Something was going to happen, but no one knew what, or when. And no one truly cared to find out. Everyone knew the story. How could they not know the story? Why should they care?

The eyes were a like a disease. They spread like one as well. First one person saw them, then the next person, then the next and so on until there were constant cries, and screams. Begging. So much begging. But no one understood, because no one saw. Those that did see, all seemed to see something different. All reacted differently. The one constant thing was the screaming.

Everyone screamed.

No one knew what to do to help.

What would help.

What questions to ask.

Any number of questions got the same answer. That the eyes were black - so black; unbearably black; unnaturally black. The eyes were bloodshot - no sleep; never sleeping; never blinking. They were always there - make them go away; they never go away; why don't they go away? There was never anything more than that, and begging. "There's gotta be something you can do!" Or, "Please, I'll do anything!"

But there was nothing to be done.

Because no one saw the eyes.

Then the others started getting scared, because - who knew? - maybe they were next. Maybe they'd see the eyes, and they'd end up going mad with it. They'd lose it, and lose themselves, and there'd be nothing anyone could do about it because they couldn't see the eyes.

Maybe, many often reasoned, the eyes weren't even real. They were a desperate cry for attention. Like when a naughty kid gets into fights at school. Or throws their toys on the floor. Maybe the first set of eyes had actually existed, and when the others saw the attention that was given to that first case, they decided they should try it as well.

Maybe they were forcing themselves to see the eyes.

Maybe they were just acting like small children who didn't know any better, because they could.

Because they wanted to.

Because they had nothing better to do.

Nothing helped. Various doctors couldn't tell what was wrong. Multiple prescriptions didn't lessen the fear. Perhaps it even made the fear, the screaming, the pleading worse. Far worse than should have been possible. They refused to sleep. Refused to step into certain rooms, near beds and closets. Stopped blinking. Stopped eating. The eyes would go away if they did. They seemed so, so sure.

But they didn't go away.

The screaming got worse.

They got violent.

The eyes made them that way.

It was the fact that something that couldn't possibly be real could be so effective, that was so effective. Terror became a disease much like the eyes were in the first place, because that's what they were, a disease. And then speculation became as much a disease as terror, and the eyes. Then distrust. Then dismay. And then the eyes all over again. It was becoming a sickening cycle that no one could break.

No one wanted to break?

Maybe.

But all anyone knew was it started with the eyes. The eyes that were so close to black the night sky was tricked into submission. Eyes so bloodshot people wanted to help them, but wanted to make them go away. Make them sleep. Make them go away and sleep. The eyes were so black. So black. But no one could see them, and it was distressing, and they were just the beginning of a dangerous spiral into God knows what. God knew what the eyes were capable of. What the eyes were.

Speculation.

The eyes were those of death some were sure, crying out that they'd die. That they didn't want to. They weren't ready to. And everyone started to get scared. Of course no one wanted to die. Maybe that's what made everyone else think they were okay. They weren't entirely mad. Only sane people care about life, right? But that was an even more frightening thought. More frightening than death because, if they weren't complete loons, then there was some validity to their fears. The possibility that maybe these eyes weren't just a bunch of hoopla! Maybe there really were eyes of the darkest color that never slept, and never seemed to fade away. Maybe they were real.

Then, before any of them knew what was what, they were being watched.