I am the man who lays his head on the pillow, but I am not the man who dreams.
I am the man who smiles at the world, but I am not the man who feels joy. I am the man who knows love's touch, but I am not the man loved.
I am the man who walks in shadow, the man who waits for death.
Incubation
I first noticed the blemish while in the shower. The hot water must have disturbed it as the area of my arm where the bite was situated begun to sting. I assumed it was a bite, although I could not recall where or when it may have occurred. The lump was located on my forearm and measured approximately an inch. When I pressed my index finger into it, the red mass fanned into an arc around the tip of my finger and flushed a deeper shade of red. I decided that I would not play about with it too much, figuring if I ignored it then it would disappear of its own accord.
Whether it was the fever brought on by my rapidly soaring temperature I cannot say for sure. I awoke later that night bathed in a film of sweat and haunted by nightmarish visions that had plagued my restless slumber. My arm felt as though it was aflame and my head a maelstrom of hurt. I staggered into the bathroom though the intensity of the light only stung my eyes and helped provoke my raging headache further. I searched the medicine cabinet for ointment, anything at all that I thought might help calm the blaze that had flared around the bite on my arm. I found only a half-bottle of mouthwash and a tube of toothpaste. I was going to have to improvise.
At that moment I felt a sharp sting and my attention was drawn to the bite mark. I watched in horror as the mound of angry, red flesh began to tear itself apart as something organic and alive thrashed beneath my skin. Before I could react (though I have no idea what my reaction would have been), the skin around my forearm drew itself apart and what can only be described as a bulbous, pale worm-like creature withdrew itself from the inside of my arm. Instinctively I dangled my bleeding limb over the toilet and though blinded by searing pain, managed to shake the monstrosity from my arm into the empty bowl.
It took three flushes to be rid of the creature. It took me a further six months of therapy to be able to recount this tale.
The Watchful Eye
Who could possibly have imagined that Wayside Cottage, a building that appeared so appealing in passing, with its ivy-covered walls, quaint thatched roof and rose-filled garden, which to all intents and purposes seemed to be the quintessential English home, could harbour evil within its walls. Few ever visited this place, the oppressive atmosphere that hung in the air discouraged all but the most determined of souls from entering. The children passed stories around the playground telling of the terrible things that a friend of a friend had witnessed while stealing a peek through one of the many darkened windows. Even the birds knew to steer clear of the cottage: those that ignored their primitive instincts were often found littering the garden, rotting beneath the summer sun. All in the village knew to avoid Wayside Cottage yet few would venture an answer as to why.
Pity then Tom and Angela, who had suffered the misfortune to call Wayside cottage home. The young couple, tired of city life, had poured their life savings into securing the property. Less than a year after purchase, Wayside Cottage was reduced to rubble.
***
It was the morning of their third day in the cottage. Tom was working in the back room when he heard the sound of the front door closing, signalling the return of his wife from the village. “Hey hun, how did you find the locals? They readying the pitchforks yet?” he asked without taking his eye off the computer screen.
Angela poked her head around the door. “Oh don’t be so silly! They seem… nice.”
Tom arched his eyebrows and beckoned his wife into his new office. “Nice is good. I can live with nice. So, can you see us putting roots down here?”
His wife smiled, pulled a book on graphic design from the shelf behind her and began flicking through the pages. “I don’t know. Early days and all, y'know what I mean? I think you have to grow into a place, break it in, like a pair of slippers. “
“You don’t know? I thought this was what you wanted? Escape the rat-race, flee the city and work from home? You sold me the idea, remember?”
Angela placed the book back onto the shelf and faced her husband. Something in her expression troubled him. “Angie, what is it?”
She looked at her feet and shifted her weight from one foot to another, her oft-used and well-practised stalling technique. “It’s nothing. I just got chatting to a few of the locals in the Post Office, seems our move caused quite a stir…” She fixed her husband with an uncertain look.
“Go on.”
“Well, we both know that the house was on the market for a while right?”
“Right, sixteen months or more… why?”
“It was longer than that, turns out it has been empty for almost three years.”
Tom slammed his fist onto his desk, shaking the array of stationery that littered his work area and startling Angela. “Son of a Bitch! I knew that estate agent wasn't straight with us! I guess that explains how we managed to get it for such a steal—they were desperate to get it off their books!” Tom took a sip of water and began silently counting to himself. After a moment he spoke, his voice calm and steady. “Still, every cloud right?”
Angela bit her lip. “There’s more. You wanna hear it or not?”she said.
Tom shook his head. “If this is about dry rot I swear to God!”
Angela perched herself on the edge of her husband’s desk. “It’s not about dry rot; it’s a little more… unorthodox than that.”
“Okay, I’m ready,” said Tom, intrigued. Angela was aware of her husband’s quick temper but knew better than to hold out on him. She braced herself and began to recount her tale.
“Well, during the time that it was on the market, they found potential buyers hard to come by. No one from the village was interested in it—”
“Why?” Tom interrupted.
“You remember when you were a kid…”
“Vaguely.”
“…there was always this one house in your neighbourhood that nobody would go near. If your kite or football went into the grounds, you’d sooner leave it there than sneak in and get it back…”
Tom smirked. “Or knock and ask permission, some of us weren’t dragged up you know!”
Angela smiled. “Well, whatever—the point is every kid can remember a house that came with a scary back story. Like for instance there was a grisly murder where the victim's head was found in the toilet, or there’s a bloodstain on the floor that is forever wet and seeps up through the carpet no matter how many times you clean it up.”
“Jesus Angie, where did you grow up again? Transylvania?”
“My point is we have inadvertently brought the local ghost house.”
Tom let her words hang in the air for a moment before speaking. “We have, huh? Well, I guess that means we won’t get too many people knocking our door to sell us Jesus or double-glazing. I can already see a huge plus point to owning a haunted house!”
Angela remained silent. Something about the look on her face troubled Tom, and his tone took on a more serious note. “There’s more isn’t there?”
Angela nodded. “Seems a lot of people refused to even set foot into the place upon arrival to view. Those that did often complained of headaches or of being watched, but that’s not even the worst of it…”
“It’s not?”
“One woman was… overcome, shall we say.”
“What do you mean overcome, with joy?”
“No. She started to lash out. She attacked the estate agent; they had to drag her off him. He lost an eye.”
Tom picked up a pen and began to chew the end as he mulled over his wife’s words. Finally, he spoke. “You get all of that from one visit to the Post Office?”
Angela nodded. “Uh-huh!”
Tom leaned back into his chair and laughed. “Holy shit! Now that is some story! I bet the local
s are laughing their asses off at you, they got you good! I suppose there isn’t much to do out here, and that leaves them with plenty of time to create bullshit stories like that to scare us townies. Kudos to them, though, good effort.”
Angela got up from the desk. “You mean you don’t believe it?”
Tom regarded his wife, for a moment he could scarcely believe what she was asking. “Of course I don’t! Why the hell would I? Until I find a dead body in the garden or a pentagram in the attic, I’m going to write this off as a joke. You should too, hun.”
Angela nodded and forced a smile. Inside her stomach churned and her head swam. The story had unintentionally struck a chord within her, almost as though something that she had sensed before but had subconsciously ignored, suddenly demanded her full attention. Where once she gazed upon her new home with fondness, a silent sense of dread had begun to manifest within her.
***
While Tom threw himself into his fledgling design business, Angela struggled to adapt to life in the countryside. Each visit to the village added yet another tale of woe to the growing collection regarding the cottage and its bleak history. As the weeks and months passed, her sense of unease grew. For a long time, she argued with herself that her feelings of being watched were a by-product of the initial story that she’d been told on that first trip to the village. Suggestion was a powerful tool, as Tom had gone to great lengths to explain. For a time at least, this had eased her fears. Those unseen eyes were dismissed as the work of an overactive imagination. The snarls and growls that she heard while alone were explained away as simply the cottage adapting to the change in temperature, its wooden construction expanding and contracting at the whim of the elements. One can plead ignorance of the obvious for only a given amount of time. Sooner or later the reality of the situation will present itself to even the most unwilling of eyes.
***
The influence of Wayside Cottage had weighed heavy upon Tom and Angela, exerting its toll equally. Tom had become reclusive and seldom left his office. Angela knew that his client list had gradually withered away to nothing as news of his continual deadline slips passed around the design community. He remained locked away in his office though Angela had no idea how he was spending his time.
She had more important worries to contend with. There was the cockroach infestation that had sprung from nowhere. One morning she opened the refrigerator to find thousands of them inside. She watched in horror as they crawled over one another, fighting for food. The inside of the refrigerator looked like a heaving black carpet, a mass that whistled and chirped in unison before breaking into a million tiny pieces to retreat from the light. Within seconds, there was no sign of any of the roaches. Her kitchen was empty, and the food looked untouched. She emptied the contents of the refrigerator into the outside bin.
Her second concern was the bathroom mirror. It had begun to talk to her a few weeks earlier. Though the conversations were largely one-sided, lately she found herself holding in-depth discussions with the mirror about the plight of her marriage and her declining self-esteem. The mirror seemed to understand (and had even offered a few novel suggestions as to how to deal with her increasingly reclusive husband) but it was still only a piece of reflective glass. How could she take its ideas seriously? Besides which some of the ideas the mirror had pushed into her head were a little drastic and had led to several heated exchanges. She was now at the point when she was seriously considering calling an end to their friendship though it seemed a shame to do so because of a mere difference of opinion. She just wasn’t in the right place to agree to that particular course of action. At least not yet.
Almost on cue, she heard the mirror calling to her. Setting her cold cup of coffee aside, she made her way towards the bathroom. She regarded the mirror, her reflection looking back at her. “Hey… No, I wasn’t too busy to come up… No, that’s not true I—…Of course I trust you… Yes, I’ll be honest, ask away… Yes, I love him… No, I don’t know, I don’t think that I could… I know… Yes I know, you always talk sense but… Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme?... That’s what you heard?... He said he’d do that?” Angela began to sob. “When?...I have to tell the police!... What do you mean they won’t do anything?... I see… If you think that, I must… What do I do after, will you help me?... Okay, the cellar right? I’ll dig, I’ll dig until you tell me to stop.”
Satisfied in having played the role of both instigator and an unwilling accomplice, Angela made her way downstairs, passed the closed office door and entered the living room. “The fire poke,” called Angela “This one here?” She tested the weight of the iron poker in her hands, and the howl of delight that erupted from the bathroom mirror carried easily down the stairs.
***
The soft knocking startled Tom and he lost his train of thought. With a quick prod of his finger, he switched off the monitor screen before turning to face the door. “Yes? What is it?” His voice was weak and hoarse from a lack of use. “You know never to disturb me when I’m working.”
Angela stood motionless on the other side of the door. The fire poke hung heavy at her side.
“Are you coming in or what?” asked Tom. “I don’t have time for any more of your stupid games; I’ve a big deadline to hit today.” His voice carried a note of irritability that was entirely lost upon Angela in her current stupor.
Angela remained silent, her free hand hovered above the door knob.
“Fine. Whatever. If you’ve nothing to say, bother someone else will you!” Tom switched his monitor on and resumed his fifteenth Solitaire game of the day. “Always trying to disturb my work,” he muttered, scowling at the screen.
Angela opened the door and stepped into the cramped office. Tom didn’t turn to acknowledge her. “I thought I told you to—”
The curled end of the fire poke entered the top of Tom’s skull and embedded itself deep into his brain. Tom cried out in shock, but his words were a nonsensical mix of guttural noises. With one smooth effort, Angel wrenched him from his chair, and he fell to the floor with the fire poke still nestled deep inside the back of his head. His eyes had rolled back to reveal their whites, his legs kicked and convulsed as his body tried to process the trauma that it was now experiencing. She could hear the bathroom mirror howling with wild delight at her actions. The encouragement of the mirror gave her a sense of both comfort and strength. She was doing the right thing; she realised that now. Yes, she’d had her doubts about the plan at first but the mirror had been very convincing in its argument. Now it was pleased with her, and she felt good.
Having wrenched the poker free, Angela struck her stricken husband several more times around the head and torso until his legs stopped kicking. Standing over his bloody remains Angela registered a sense of serenity. The mirror was singing her praises, cooing over her bravery, gushing compliments as to her strength of character. Angela wiped a bloodied hand across her brow and allowed herself a brief smile.
***
Of course that was only the first part of the plan, the mirror swiftly reminded her. Angela was now waist-deep in soil and clay, having begun to dig out the basement floor as instructed. She did wonder how it could be that she could still hear the mirror so clearly this far from the bathroom, but its persistent commands allowed her little time to dwell on the matter.
She had been hard at work for several hours, and the corpse of her former husband (which lay at the edge of the pit that she was busily excavating), was beginning to smell. As the first wave of realisation started to sink in, and the first pangs of regret began to churn in her stomach, she saw it. At around a depth of eight feet, she uncovered what could only be described as the outer membrane of something organic. Yellow in colour and pulsing to a slow and definite beat, the mirror ordered her to proceed carefully. The required depth had been reached, and she was now to clear the area around the gelatinous mass.
As she removed bucket after bucket of soil and debris, she realised to her h
orror that she was standing on top of a vast eyeball, an orb that followed and focused on her every move. Her instincts pleaded with her to flee, but the insistent commands from the mirror and the piercing gaze of that eye easily overpowered any threads of free will that might have remained. Dutifully she uncovered the eye.
***
The screams emanating from Wayside Cottage had entered their fifth hour before the small police force that had been alerted to them finally had the nerve to enter the property. Having conducted a thorough search of the house, they entered the basement. All of their combined years on the force could not have prepared them for the sight that met them. The torso of Tom Silvers lay stinking at the edge of a huge pit. His arms and legs were not attached. Angela Silvers was found kneeling atop of a huge eye, which fixed upon the officers and alerted Angela to their presence as soon as they had entered the basement. A small pile of muscle and flesh sat by her side as she screamed obscenities and busied herself trying to remove her husband’s arm with a hacksaw.
Angela later explained that she had “fed” pieces to the eye (as instructed) by pushing pieces of meat beneath the upper limits of the eyelid. Asked why she had murdered her husband Angela replied that the mirror had convinced her to and that upon his death and burial, a new and happy life would be forthcoming.
***
The decision to demolish Wayside Cottage and rebury the anomaly that lay beneath it was taken quickly. Angela Silvers was declared mentally unfit to stand trial for murder and was removed to a secure institution for the mentally unstable.
***
Even now the site holds a heavy presence, and though few in the village believe or even acknowledge the events that took place on that fateful day, none shall ever tread upon the soil that covers The Watchful Eye.
Hate
I was plucked from the crowd and dragged to the front, a sudden target of hate amongst a sea of anonymity. Others like me were lined on either side and in those last quick moments I reflected on all that had been in my life. My loved ones would learn of my fate through hushed whispers and hearsay hours from now. A family is broken, our goodbyes unsaid.
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