The Watcher's Eyes

Ethan had always been skeptical. As a writer of supernatural thrillers, he knew all the stories—haunted houses, vengeful spirits, and cursed objects. But those were just stories, weren't they? He'd never experienced anything that couldn't be explained by logic or science. That is, until he found the house on Marlowe Street.

It was a cold, drizzly evening when Ethan first saw it. The house, hidden between two others, stood dilapidated and shrouded in thick ivy. There was something about it that caught his eye, a subtle pull that made him stop in his tracks as he passed by. He turned back and walked toward it, his curiosity getting the better of him.

The gate creaked as he pushed it open, and as he stepped onto the overgrown path, he felt a strange sensation, like a pair of unseen eyes following his every move. He shook it off—just his imagination running wild, surely. But as he got closer to the house, he noticed something even stranger.

The windows. They were all dark, except for one.

On the second floor, a faint light flickered. He couldn’t quite make it out, but it was there, an imperceptible glimmer that seemed to move with him as he approached. He stood still for a moment, studying the window. That was when he saw it.

A face.

The face was pale and gaunt, with hollow eyes that stared at him through the mist. The figure didn’t move, but its eyes… its eyes never left him. The longer he stared, the more his pulse quickened, his breath growing shallow. Then, without warning, the light went out. The window was once again dark.

Ethan felt a chill run through him, but he shook it off. It was an abandoned house, surely just an old, forgotten place. He had better things to do than waste his time on superstitions. But as he turned to leave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

Over the next few days, the house stayed on his mind. He couldn’t explain why. There was no logical reason to return, but something kept pulling him back. On the fourth day, he found himself standing in front of the house again, his heart pounding in his chest as he gazed up at the dark windows.

This time, the door was ajar.

He couldn’t resist. Without thinking, he stepped inside.

The air was thick with dust, and the floor creaked beneath his feet as he wandered through the dark, musty rooms. The house was in a state of decay, abandoned for years, yet there was an odd sense of life about it. He couldn’t explain it—something didn’t feel right.

As he ventured deeper, he found a staircase leading up to the second floor. The same window, the one he’d seen the face in, was just ahead. A flickering light shone once more.

He climbed the stairs slowly, his pulse pounding in his ears. As he reached the top, the light flickered again, and he saw it—the same gaunt face, the same hollow eyes. This time, however, it was different. The face was closer, so much closer. He could feel the gaze burning into him, could almost hear the whisper of a breath.

He turned and tried to run, but before he could reach the stairs, the door slammed shut, trapping him inside. His heart raced, and his breath came in frantic gasps as he spun around, searching for an escape. That’s when he saw it—a reflection.

In the dusty, cracked mirror on the far wall, Ethan saw his own face. But there was something wrong. His eyes were wide, his skin pale, his expression frozen in terror. And behind him, standing just a few feet away, was the figure from the window—the gaunt face, the hollow eyes.

It was smiling.

Before Ethan could scream, the figure lunged forward, its cold, skeletal fingers wrapping around his throat, tightening with a pressure that felt like ice. He gasped for air, but his vision started to blur, his limbs growing numb.

Then, everything went dark.

When the police arrived the next day, they found the house empty. No sign of Ethan. No struggle. Just the same dark, empty windows staring out onto Marlowe Street.

And if you ever happen to walk past that house at night, you might catch a glimpse of a flicker in the second-floor window. But don't look too long. Don't meet the Watcher's eyes.

Thank you for reading The Watcher's Eyes. If you found this tale chilling, please hit the like button and share it with those who love a good mystery. And remember—some eyes are never meant to be seen.