The Room That Watches

Rahim stood before the rusted gates of his grandfather’s ancestral mansion—its structure half-swallowed by creeping vines and a century’s worth of dust. The villagers had always spoken in hushed tones about this place. They warned of whispers in the night, shifting shadows, and the cursed room on the western wing.

They called it The Room That Watched.

When his grandfather died, Rahim inherited the mansion, along with one final warning in the will: “Do not enter the western corridor. Whatever you do, never open the last door. That room sees.”

He laughed it off. Old men and their superstitions, he thought.

By the third day of exploring the mansion, curiosity gnawed at him. That corridor, sealed with ancient locks and chains, felt like it breathed with anticipation. Dust covered every surface, yet the floor leading to that door was strangely clean—as though someone had walked it recently.

Rahim found the keys in his grandfather’s study.

That night, under the pale glow of a dying flashlight, he walked the forbidden corridor. The walls trembled faintly, like they were sighing. The final door was tall, wood rotting at the edges, with strange symbols scorched into it. He inserted the key, heart pounding, and turned it.

Click.

The door creaked open.

The air inside was unnaturally cold. The room was empty—at first glance. A simple stone floor. No windows. But then he looked at the walls.

They were covered—completely covered—with painted eyes.

Hundreds of them. Some open wide. Some half-closed. Some crying black tears. They weren’t just painted. They felt alive. They followed him. Watched his every step.

A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to step inside.

“Just paint,” he whispered. “Just old art.”

He unrolled his sleeping bag in the center of the room. “I’ll prove there’s nothing here,” he said aloud, though his voice trembled.

He lay down. Turned off the flashlight.

Silence.

Until… a creak.

He sat up.

The room had no doors except the one he entered. Yet, somewhere behind him, he heard soft breathing. Then a whisper.

“Don’t look back…”

He froze.

The eyes on the wall began to change. Slowly. Subtly.

They blinked.

A few began to weep. The black tears moved, dripped, and dissolved into smoke upon hitting the floor.

His chest tightened.

From the corner of the room, something began to emerge. A shape. A shadow—taller than any man, thin and distorted like smoke and nightmare stitched together. No face. Just a hollow where eyes should’ve been.

Rahim scrambled backward, heart racing.

“What... what are you?” he gasped.

The creature didn’t speak. But the room did. The eyes began to whisper. All of them, together, chanting in a soft, sickening chorus.

“He opened the door... he opened the door... he looked inside…”

The shadow extended a long, bony arm.

Rahim screamed and bolted for the exit.

The door… wouldn’t open.

No matter how hard he pulled, the handle wouldn’t budge. He turned around, breath ragged.

The room had changed.

The floor now pulsed like living flesh. The eyes grew larger, some bleeding, some laughing—yes, laughing, their pupils twisting into tiny, grinning mouths.

The shadow stepped closer.

Rahim cried, begged, slammed the door with his fists.

“Let me out! Please!”

The eyes whispered again.

“No one leaves. You saw too much. Now you must watch…”

The last thing Rahim saw was the creature reaching into his chest—not tearing flesh, but pulling out light. Memory. Soul.

The room went silent.


---

The next morning, the door to the room stood wide open.

A group of local workers entered the house, tasked with renovating the old mansion.

One of them, curious, peeked into the western corridor.

“I thought this was sealed?” he murmured, seeing the open door.

He stepped inside, flashlight flickering.

The walls stared back.

Hundreds of eyes.

And now—right in the center—was a freshly painted eye. It looked eerily like Rahim’s. The same color. The same fear.

It blinked.