My neighbor, Mrs. Robinson, is a quiet old little woman. She spends her days in a rocking chair on the porch, drinking tea, looking down at books, and watching the city and her life pass by. However, to call her odd would be an understatement. She dresses from head to toe in solid black clothes, and the few times I’ve talked to her she seemed like a nice enough old widow ( a little sad and lonely perhaps), but no indication as to why she dresses in all the flamboyant colors of a chimney sweep.
It was the thirteenth day in January when the screaming began. 1:00 in the morning sharp a shrill scream pierces the thin wall between our apartments. As suddenly as it had started, it stopped, leaving my heart pounding and my mind fixed awake. This continues for the rest of the week, but each time I make up my mind to confront her about it, the screaming stops and I lose the nerve to knock on her door. The next day she’s out on the front porch again, dressed in her usual black attire, from black shoes, up to black socks, skirt, jacket, shirt, glasses, and finally hat. “Good morning dearie.” she coos to me as I pass. I almost stop and ask her about the past few nights, but the way she rocks back and forth on that old rocking chair, her head pointed straight ahead as she sips her tea, I’m still too weirded out to talk to her about it.
I get back that evening to see her take off in a hearse that has “Uber” on the front windshield. Now, I haven’t seen Mrs. Robinson leave her place in the few years I’ve lived next to her, but I figure this sudden departure simply means it’ll be that much easier for me to get some sleep. Unfortunately, as soon as I get settled down into bed, I hear a new noise, a noise I hadn’t noticed earlier. My bed lies against our adjoining wall, so I can hear water running in the pipes whenever she has the faucet running. As I lie there, I can hear water rushing. Two hours and no sleep later, I realize that the noise from the pipes is even more disruptive than the screaming. I figure I’ll do us both a service and shut the running faucet off. (Mostly an excuse for being nosy) So I dress, grab a few supplies, and head over to her door. I’ve lost my keys enough times to figure out how to jimmy a lock, so I shove the hook of a coat hanger into the doorknob, wiggling it up and down. Soon enough I hear that soft ‘click’ and enter Mrs. Robinson’s apartment.
The place is in shambles. Like someone had been running around knocking everything over. Books, magazines, and old newspaper obituaries litter the floor, and half the furniture has been knocked over and shoved against a wall. I head toward the sound of running water and enter Mrs. Robinson’s bathroom. Blood Everywhere. The walls are covered in blood, the shower walls have blood running down into the tub, and the sink has bits of flesh caked around the edges.
I turn off the faucet and then turn myself around to nope the fuck out of there. And that’s when the lights go out. “Pop” goes the two bulbs in the bathroom above the mirror, one after the other. “Pop, Pop.” I go absolutely ballistic and bolt right out of there. That’s when I make the mistake of looking behind me. From the gloom of the bathroom I see that there’s someone, or something, watching me, its eyes reflecting some unknown light.
I don’t really remember the next minute, but the next thing I know I’m standing in my own bathroom, in my own apartment. I take a shower to try and relax, and tell myself it’s just a hallucination. I walk into the bed room, naked, about to get dressed but as I open my chest of drawers I glance out the window. It’s fucking watching me, the same thing from Mrs. Robinson’s apartment, its eyes a-glow in the darkness outside. I scream bloody murder and cover myself up with the towel on my head. But a moment later they’re gone. I collect myself, and quickly get dressed in a pair of plaid knit pajamas. I mutter to myself “grow up you silly girl” for falling victim to my own imagination and I go to the living room. Sleep is definitely out of the question, but maybe I can kill my fear with some dreadful late-night YouTube browsing.
After a while of browsing I return to my home page. On my recommended feed, I see a video with the title “Mrs. Robinson.” Out of morbid curiosity, I click on it. An ad pops up and my TV freezes, so I can’t press the skip button. The background of the ad is black. You know how you can see your reflection on the TV when the screen is dark? Well I see mine. I also see those eyes glowing at me from the darkness behind my couch…
Frozen in place, I watch them, watch me. Never moving, never blinking, the being in the shadows has me steady in its gaze. I snap out of it suddenly, doing a barrel roll away from the couch and onto the floor, spazzing out. Of course, when I look again, they’re gone. This shit’s too crazy for me, my last bastion of defense lies in my copious alcohol collection. Practically sprinting to the kitchen, I grab the first bottle I see of something strong and fill the glass, drinking it down greedily until it’s empty. But there’s something else in the bottom of the glass, I see those fucking eyes again. I slam the glass down and catch a glimmer of light as the being takes off after me down my dark hallway. Shit. Shitshitshitshit.
Five minutes later, all the lights in the house are on and I’m decked out with a flashlight and the biggest kitchen knife I could find. Well, I should say all the lights are on but one. The hallway light died as I flipped it on, giving a soft ‘pufft’ of bulby death. At the end of the dark hallway lie two doors, a closet and the door out of my apartment.I’m going to make it there, or die trying. I creep down into the increasingly dark corridor, my flashlight and knife a foot in front of me. My damn closet door is open, did I leave it open? I don’t think so.
I see the eyes of the being again as I near the closet, but it’s just the latch on the door. I reach for the knob… Breathless, I pull the knife back and get ready to swing around and strike.
“Huh-yah!” is my battle-cry as I turn the corner. Nothing. No being and no eyes. I close the closet and continue to the front door, confident in my escape. That’s when I notice another thing wrong; the outside light usually seeps in through the crack under my door. Shit. So close and more shit happens. Playing it safe I edge up to the door and peer out the eyepiece. Two glowing eyes look back at me. I scream for the third time that night and go running back up the hallway to the light of the living room, leaving the knife and my only flashlight lying by the front door in a scurried panic.
There’s no escape. I get ready to barricade myself in a corner. I grab the coffee table the TV is sat on and began to push it toward the center of the room. It’s watching me. The space between the wall and the table. Three inches. The being’s eyes glare at me. Its gaze is neither malevolent or friendly. Just two, perfectly round, piercing orbs.
That’s it, I’m done. I collapse backwards onto the floor and back away to the wall, watching the eyes. Watching the eyes, watching me. I sit there, staring. They don’t move. Nor do I. It’s a standoff, we’re both waiting for the other to make a move. The night creeps by second after second, me caught in this horribly twisted staring contest. I just wish I knew what they wanted. If this being attacked me, if it revealed itself, I could know what I’m up against. I might even figure out how I’ll die before it kills me. No. It stays in the crack between my wall and my TV and watches with infinite patience, as if biding it’s time.
The darkness outside dissolves into a gray morning, and the eyes begin to lose their glimmer. As the sun lights my living room, the being retreats, gone into the shadow from which it came.
I pack my things. I’m going away, I don’t know where, but I’m getting at least a thousand miles between me and here before night falls again. Two shots of bourbon wish me on my way as I grab my purse and travel bag and set off for the front door.
“Knock, knock” someone is at my front door. I jump, dropping my stuff and getting ready to bolt back to the nearest corner… “knock, knock”. But reason grabs me by the heels, whispering in my ear that the night monster probably wouldn’t be courteous enough to knock before killing me. Slowly I open it. Mrs. Robinson is standing there, resplendent in her black hat, sunglasses, shirt, jacket, skirt, socks, and shoes. “Good morning, Dani.” says she.
“Hi.” says I.
“Say Dani, did you hear anything last night, or notice anyone going into my apartment while I was gone? There were footprints leading from my bathroom to my door.” Noticing, she neglects to mention what the footprints are formed of. Uhm, no Mrs. Robinson, I’ve been in my apartment all night and I hadn’t heard a peep. (If you think I’m about to admit to this old widow that she has blood all over her bathroom and a monster living in her apartment that I broke into, then you are very mistaken). “That’s good Dani, I have many fragile and sentimental belongings that could easily be destroyed or stolen by a malicious soul. You have a good day.”
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson, I began to say, as she walked away–
As she turned to leave, Mrs. Robinson spun back around to face me, smiling, “Oh and Dani,” she says, “I couldn’t help but notice the bloody footprints leading from my door to yours.” Her smile got even wider. I gulp. She leaned in, bringing her face right next to mine. She smelled like old woman perfume and death. Mrs. Robinson removed her sunglasses… Revealing two empty pits in her face… “Now, I’ll be keeping my eyes on you.”