I named it Peekaboo. I figured if I gave it an innocuous name I might diminish the effect it had on me.
In hindsight, the juxtaposition was a bad idea. It actually made it worse, as it’s Peekaboo’s innocuous nature that makes it so unnerving.
I can’t sleep anymore. I can’t stand the idea of it watching me grapple with my nightmares; I can’t swallow the thought of its invasion being the first thing I see on waking. I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want this anymore!! I just want one minute’s respite from its goddamned eyes!!
*
It all started with my nighttime hobby. I have a masochistic tendency to stay up late and bury myself in short horror stories. I wouldn’t call it a night until I felt that chill settling in my stomach.
I was either incredibly picky or desensitized-AF because it’s a rare story that would cut me deep enough. I often stayed awake till the small hours in order to get my fix. I’d wake up for work the next morning bleary-eyed and lethargic, but I honestly wouldn’t mind; I’d got what I wanted.
The stories that affected me most were stories with an observer; when the protagonist was frequently watched by something that bumped in the night.
You see… well, I tend to like my security. I draw security from the comfort of my home: knowing, within it, I can be my true self; knowing I’m free of cavorting with the expectations of society; free of the masks I have to wear in order to do so. But, being observed doing that…? Being observed dropping the mask, revealing my vulnerabilities, and not knowing? That’s violating; a rape of my security. It sets me on edge. And if I’d discover the watcher had been at it for a while, without me noticing? The feeling is compounded. Violation with interest.
So, in effect, this was the theme I looked forward to. Here and there I’d find a gem: a story with a new spin or a fresh concept that’d set my heart racing and my imagination aflame. Oftentimes, though, I’d mostly end up disappointed by rehashed mediocrity.
At first, there was a plethora of content to choose from. The highest-rated stories on any free-to-read platform usually yielded a little gold. I made it through all the best stuff. And then most of the OK stuff. Then slogged through the newer stories… At some point I’d say about 15% of the stories I read were actually worth the time; the rest were dross. It took longer to find a story that chilled me to the bone.
I didn’t really dig the whole library-vibe, and I refused to pay for some E-book service to bilk me for what money I had. I’d scroll through feeds and pages of titles hoping for one to catch my eye, hoping for something that wasn’t just another recycled plot. I became frustrated. I wanted to feel the tingle of fear skitter across my spine. I wanted a chill. I wanted a watcher.
In retrospect, it sounds as if I were trying to feed an addiction. Maybe I was.
Third night running with no release. It was late. I was scrolling. Two hours in I angrily threw my phone at a pillow. I was fed up. I felt like I had read everything and now it all was lackadaisically-cycled through and through, again and again. I kept thinking about the observer. It was the only concept that chilled me anymore. I wanted to find one. I needed to find one. I shook my head angrily and growled in frustration. I looked out the window.
There was something watching me.
Peering around the edge of the windowframe like a child trying to spy was the top-half of a face. It only poked over enough for the eyes to be visible. The skin was ghostly pale. Strings of matted greasy black hair spilled across its forehead, not enough to obscure its eyes.
They were unblinking, milky, with tiny black pupils, bulging with intensity. The crescents of dimples could barely be seen; it was smiling maniacally. It watched me. Through my window. At 2AM. On the second floor.
I screamed and scrambled backward, right off the bed. My back hitting the floor ripped the wind from my lungs. I struggled to rise. I could barely breathe; I had to get up! I used the bed for support and, in ironic parody, peeked my eyes over it just enough to see.
It was gone. Shit.
I managed enough breath to get to my feet, trembling. Why was it watching me? Why was it up here? How was it up here?
I pattered to the window with trepidation. I peered out, looking left, right, upwards; I saw nothing. Nothing but the backyard. Nothing for that thing to climb, or hold to, either. I sat back on the edge of the bed. Did I imagine it? Am I hallucinating? Did my desperation for a frightening fix loosen some screws?
I sat there for an hour. Nothing happened. I closed the sheers and went to bed. I didn’t sleep.
*
The next morning was dreadful.
I know I stated before that I’m typically OK with a lack of sleep but God. Damn. This was another level of “tired”: I was groggy; I was cranky; I couldn’t focus on a single thing long enough to even hope to be considered coherently productive; I yelled at Stephen. I loved Stephen. We played golf, sometimes. The Boss asked me how I was feeling; he let me go home early.
Despite my dreadful state I chose to take advantage of the free time and meandered my way to my favourite coffee spot. Its atmosphere was a cross between a hipster café and a diner; edgy enough for my pretension and homey enough to make me feel secure.
I collapsed into a booth and put my head down, resting my eyes; I couldn’t get the ones from last night out of my head. The new waitress took my order, a double Shot In The Dark with cream and cane sugar. I didn’t relish the idea of going home and sleeping. I wanted to think, and needed some fuel.
My eyes roved the table. The chrome napkin dispenser reflected the window behind me. It reflected the image of a milky-eyed something staring at the back of my head.
I LEAPT out of the booth, spinning. Nothing in the window.
I’m sleep-deprived, I told myself. I can’t even think straight! There wasn’t anything there. I sat back down on the opposite side of the booth, facing the window. Watching.
*
Back at home I tried to comfort myself with my routine: I washed the dishes; I fed the chameleon; I cooked myself an amazing steak, medium rare with a husky smoked salt; I checked my emails; I brushed my teeth.
My mind began wandering as I was laying in bed.
Maybe I should cut back on this horror-stuff. There’s a good chance I’m doing this to myself.
I hope Stephen doesn’t hold a grudge.
Those eyes…
I wonder if the Boss would give me some time off…?
How the fuck did it get to my window?
I need to cool it with the horror-stuff.
I fell asleep.
*
Waking up with an urge to pee, I checked my phone. 3:03AM. Nice. Enough time to get another good sleep in before my alarm. Yawning, I closed my phone and rolled out of bed. I padded to the bathroom, trusting more to muscle memory than actually using my eyes.
I prefered to have a light plugged in the bathroom outlet rather than turn on the overheads. Kyra called it my nightlight; I called her an asshole. Either way, though, it was enough to see by, but not enough to ruin my sleep mode. Perfection.
I dug sleep from the corners of my eyes as I approached the sink. I ran the water, and splashed some on my face. I cupped some to drink, then reached for the tea towel hung close by. I towelled dry as I straightened.
In the mirror, from behind the shower curtain, I saw those eyes observing my every move. Wide, protruding, they caught the mint-green glow and radiated with illumination. They were nearly obfuscated with voyeuristic glee; the dimples of its manic smile giving away the rapture it felt from observing me.
I spun! Nothing. Throwing back the curtain revealed an empty shower. What the actual fuck?! My heart was racing. I looked back at the mirror. Nothing. My hands were shaking when I returned to my bed. Troubled, I settled in, turned on my side (I’m a side sleeper) facing the window and there it was again! Peering from the opposite side of the window this time.
I froze. Only froze. I didn’t move. Considering it the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, I made eye contact, and held it. I didn’t think it was possible but those milky eyes seemed to grow wider, the dimples creeping up as its hidden smile grew bigger. I didn’t understand how its flesh didn’t tear. A fog was slowly creeping along the glass; it was breathing, and breathing heavily. A single skeletal finger appeared and caressed the glass lovingly, leaving a streak in the fog.
Suddenly, I was angry. I was furious! I trembled, but not from terror this time. I flung back the duvet and stormed towards the window. Grabbing my bedside lamp I wrenched it free of the wall. I was going to smash this thing. I’m fucking done.
As I reached to open the window, it ducked back out of site. Swearing, I fumbled the window open and looked out. Nothing. “WHERE ARE YOU?!” I shouted at the night air. I thought I heard a giggling in the wind.
*
It would appear in windows, behind curtains, peer around doors, even once from the inside of a vending machine.
I could see it in reflections, or out of my periphery; every time I moved to confront it, it’d flash out of sight, disappearing without a trace. Oncce or twice I heard it tittering. This was when I started calling it Peekaboo.
Over time, Peekaboo became noticeably more excited. It would breathe harder, faster, like a pervert anticipating a night of reckless debauchery, frantically stroking the glass, nails scritching along the surface in a parody of desire. It wanted me. I felt it needed me. It needed to watch me. What did it want from me?! I felt sick thinking about it.
Peekaboo became more thin, more gaunt, face slowly morphing into a skull. The eyes became more animated, more lively, glowing, quivering in their sockets. Its smile became so wide I could see the corners beside its eyes, and frothy saliva began to appear. It left traces of it smeared against the windows and doors it hid behind. Peekaboo was rabid, deranged, infatuated.
I was sitting on the bus with my head against the window, just trying to keep it together. I couldn’t sleep anymore. I barely ate. Work told me to take some time off, and get some help. I couldn’t take pleasure from a single thing in my life because I knew it would be watching me. Savouring me. Relishing every moment.
I felt something caress the back of my head.
I shrieked, jumped out of my seat and bolted out the already-closing door of the bus. It was Peekaboo. I know it was. It wasn’t satisfied with watching me anymore. It was advancing. It was touching me. It wanted more of me. I began to weep.
*
Late night. Sitting in bed with the covers to my neck. My home was a prison. I couldn’t get away.
I left the window open. I’ve resigned myself to my fate. It wont leave. It’ll never leave. I’m through with living like this. No security. No safety.
I heard heavy breathing, like a pneumonia patient struggling to survive. A slithering sound, then a wet *fwump* hitting the floor. This was it. I closed my eyes as tight as I could. I couldn’t watch what was about to happen. I heard the wet-noodle sound of it crossing the floor. The gasping breath was close, closer. Motion on the mattress as it climbed up beside me.
I could feel its rancid breath on my ear as it spoke:
“Be careful what you wish for…”