About halfway between Providence and New London you could find my holmey cottage nestled beneath the shade of old, knotty red pines. A man I know well mentioned to me the surrounding area was previously farm land, and before that it was believed to be a paleolithic hunting camp. He said they found caches of ancient flakes and tools leading all the way up to the bog behind my back fence.
That is where I saw the eyes, just beyond those weathered pickets, tucked within the mess of gnarled briars.
I lied awake staring at the swirls in the ceiling illuminated by my beside candle. Following the pattern across the room until the mundane thoughts of the day dissipated, allowing me to slip into a comfortable slumber.
I could hear the slight wobble of the ceiling fan as it spun overhead, and the cycling of the refrigerator compressor a few rooms away, but it was something outside my window which caused my head to jerk and skin to prickle.
There was rustling in the leaves, not from a small creature by any means. It’s strides sounded familiar, almost bipedal, and were advancing quickly. It became louder and more chilling as it approached the divide between the wilderness and my declared plot.
I grabbed the flashlight from the bed table and exhaled a trebling breath which halfheartedly extinguished the candle’s flame. I crept up to the window and bent my ear closely, in efforts to sate my curiosity.
Again, it stirred the forrest floor and I rested my elbow on the windowsill and aimed my unlit flashlight with diligence, right where I heard the sound, with the button loaded ready to release at movement.
It does, so I cast the beam through the prickly vines and pickets and to much surprise it reflects back at me through the gaze of two round spheres with a prominent glossed, milky haze. It’s body remained hidden behind the vegetation, so no other features could be discerned.
Although my hand trembled I did not waiver the light, neither did the eyes, they didn’t blink or drift. This lasted for what felt like an hour, two statues locked in an ethereal stare, fully succumbed to fear and curiosity alike.
The battery in my flashlight gave up and immediately the rustling began again. Frantically I crawled across the carpet of the pitch black room to find batteries in the bed table drawer but by the time I made the swap it was too late.
I panned the treeline with the cone of light, desperate for a hint of something, anything that would provide answers for the inexplicable carcophany and hellish gaze.
The eyes haven’t appeared again in the woods, but they did elsewhere.
They plague my thoughts, almost every moment. The empty, lifeless stare populates my consciousness like a plague of rats, biting and taring away at the pieces which remain loosely teathered.
Now I lie awake for a different reason, for everytime I begin to drift away, I see those dead, hungry eyes.