She Never Closed Her Eyes

When I first moved into the old boarding house on Oak Hollow Road, the landlady only gave me one warning:

"Don’t stare too long at Room 3."

She said it casually, almost as if it were a joke, and I laughed awkwardly, assuming it was some weird local superstition.

Room 3 was directly across the hall from mine. Its door was shut tight, dust gathered around its frame, and the air near it was always colder. I never saw anyone go in. I never saw anyone come out.

But the first night I couldn’t sleep, I noticed something strange.

From the tiny crack beneath the door of Room 3, a dim glow seeped out—a soft, pale blue light, like a dying TV screen. It flickered slowly. Not constantly—more like it pulsed, like breathing.

Curiosity got the better of me. I knelt by the door and pressed my ear to the wood.

Silence.

Then—a whisper. So faint it could’ve been my imagination.

"You’re awake."

I backed away and slammed my door shut.

The next morning, I asked the landlady who stayed in Room 3.

She stiffened, her face pale.

"Nobody. Not anymore."

"But there’s light in there," I pressed. "And I heard something."

She looked at me then, her voice cold. "That room belonged to a girl named Elara. She lived here ten years ago. Sweet thing. Quiet. But something was… off. She never slept. Said if she did, she'd never wake up."

"What happened to her?"

"She died. In that room. Eyes wide open."

That night, I did everything to avoid looking at Room 3. But just as I turned to enter my room, something caught my eye.

Her.

Through the fogged glass window of Room 3, a face stared back at me. A girl—barely twenty. Long black hair hanging wet across her cheeks, eyes wide open, bloodshot and bulging, like she hadn't blinked in years.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just… stared.

I shut my door and bolted it.

At 3:17 a.m., I awoke with a jolt. My lamp was flickering. The room was freezing.

Then came the whisper again.

"You saw me."

The sound was coming from my closet.

My hands trembled as I approached. Slowly, I opened the door.

Nothing. Just clothes. Darkness.

I exhaled, shaking.

Then, from behind me—a breath.

I turned sharply.

She was standing inches from my bed. Her limbs twitching, her eyes impossibly wide, veins stretching from her lids like spider legs.

And still—she never blinked.

“You can’t sleep now,” she whispered. “You saw me.”

I tried to scream, but my voice was gone.

I passed out from the sheer terror.

I begged the landlady to let me move. She shook her head. “You saw her. That’s how it starts. That’s why I warned you.”

She showed me an old photo: Elara sitting in that same hallway, blank-faced, staring into the camera. Even in the photo, her eyes were open—haunting, unblinking.

"They say she made a deal," the landlady whispered. "Something in that room promised her power. Immortality. But the price was sleep. She couldn’t close her eyes—not once. Or she’d lose her soul."

"And now?"

"Now she makes sure others don’t sleep either."

Every night since, she comes.

I see her in reflections—behind me when I brush my teeth. In the window, when I turn off the lights. In my dreams—though I’m never sure I’m really dreaming.

And each time, she whispers closer, her breath colder:

"Don’t close your eyes."

It’s been twenty-four days.

I haven't slept. I can't.

Because every time I doze off, I feel her fingers graze my eyelids, pulling them open.

I'm losing my mind.

But that’s not the worst part.

Tonight, I saw something new in the hallway mirror.

Me.

Standing still. Pale. Eyes bloodshot. Unblinking.

I never closed my eyes.

Now I understand why she couldn’t.

Because once you see her, once you acknowledge her existence, you become part of her curse.

And now... I’m the one watching Room 3.

Waiting.

For the next fool...

...who doesn’t blink.