The Eye in the Gap

Have you been listening to our show and thinking; these stories are great, but I just wish there were more run-on sentences and really drawn-out exposition? In the oldest story we've aired yet by Annie you get to hear all of that!

Really though, I wrote this one in 2017 for Nosleep under an old pen name. It was probably the story I was most proud of back then, and I'm excited to share this little glimpse into the past with you guys. 

Transcript

It never quite made sense to you that we, as a species seem to have decided that the front door should go right into the living room. Rich people don’t do it that way, they have a fancy hallway or a mudroom. They’ve got the place where you’re supposed to relax out of sight from whatever might show up at your door. That’s the thing you want when you’re rich, a living room out of sight of the front door, the windows looking anywhere but the street. You’ve been waiting all day in the living room, because the minute the doorbell rings you need to answer it, and you hate it. The blinds are closed, but you know that someone peering in close enough could see in any way. You don’t do anything fun to pass the time, it’s not a day for fun. You alternate between checking your phone and staring at the clock on the wall, both counting down at a pace that seems both too slow and far too fast. You get lost in the texture of the ceiling paint, you ponder the stains on the carpet, and you look at your filthy coffee table. You could spend the time making this space less stressful, cleaning up. But the cleanliness of your house might not matter much after today. As the clocks crawl closer to your doom your heart starts racing. You’ve been nervously sweating all day, and it only gets worse. Finally, you hear steps creaking up the stairs to your porch, and you want to scream. The doorbell rings, and you try to steel your nerves. Putting on a fake smile, you open the door for: The Podcast Inside Your House.

My earliest childhood memory involved trying to explain to my mom that there was an eye that watched me everywhere I went. I rambled and babbled in whatever broken English I was speaking at that point in my development, and I told her that there was an eye that followed me around. She laughed a bit and played along. She pretended to say ‘hi’ to another one of my ‘imaginary friends’ and that was that until a few years later.

I don’t remember the first time I saw the eye, even then it was just a part of my life. It would only show up in dark places, in the cracks of barely open doors, or a gap in the bookshelf. And when you shuffled the books or opened the door, it would vanish. 

I only started to worry when I was at the age where my other imaginary friends had all gone, but the eye remained. I’d always known it was different, more real than the others, but I’d grown up with it. Certainly, everyone else had something similar to deal with. Maybe it wasn’t an eye that stared at them from the crack in their ceiling, but surely I couldn’t be alone in this.

I remember talking to friends on the playground one day and telling them about it, how the eye was watching us from the gap between the slide and the ground. I told them about how, sometimes when the shadows hit my binder just right it would watch me in class. I started to talk about how it changed colors every time I saw it, but one girl cut me off and told me to stop pretending. I was hoping for a glimmer of recognition, or maybe laughs and similar stories of the imaginary friends that wouldn’t leave them alone. But I was met with unease and silence for the rest of the day. I had unnerved them and I was determined to never mention it again.

That day I asked my mom if she still had any imaginary friends, but this time she didn’t laugh it off. “Those all go away as you get older honey.” She pulled me closer. “Do you still have any imaginary friends?” The way she asked it sent chills up my spine. It was the tone of voice she used when I’d done something bad and she was trying to coax me into admitting it. I knew if I said yes, that it would be the wrong answer.

“No I was just wondering.” I made up some excuse and left the room, only to be greeted by the eye watching me from under my bed. I jumped up as quickly as possible, for the first time feeling uncomfortable that it was there. The eye meant that I was weird, and different from the other kids.

After that day, the eye was my best-kept secret. All through elementary school I hoped it would go away if I just ignored it. I gradually became more and more aware of just how abnormal it was, but again it’s tough to find something strange when it’s been with you your whole life.

After my first day of middle school, I decided that I had had enough. I was growing up and it was time for this eye to leave me alone. I closed my closet door just enough for an eye to peek through and waited less than a minute before it showed up. It was green this time, like mine.

“What do you want?” I said it very calmly for a person talking to an imaginary eye in their closet. It just stared at me, so I tried to get a closer look. I knew from experience that it would vanish if I opened the door, but I was hoping I could maybe get close enough to see if there was any more substance to it.

It only ever showed up in gaps veiled in shadows and given how quickly it disappeared, I never really considered what else might be around it. But now, moving my own eye level with it, I felt a chill run through my body, like something else was lurking behind me.

“What do you want?” I whispered it more forcefully, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the darkness around it.

I moved my eye mere inches away from it, “Answer me dammit!” The creeping feeling behind me persisted but I wasn’t about to look away. My back started to burn from the angle I was hunched at, and it made me wonder about the height of the eye. The whole closet was dark enough for it, but it had chosen to appear as if it belonged to a person, just a little shorter than me, peering through the door.

“Let me out.” The words were playful. I flinched, involuntarily looking behind me, but there was nothing there, I knew where the voice had come from. Its voice was like the voice in my head, devoid of any inflection or pitch. It sounded like a thought spoken aloud, ambiguous enough to belong to any person. Looking back at it, I grabbed the closet door and started to creak it open. The eye stared me down until just the first few rays of light started to sneak their way in. I caught only the barest hint of something more before it vanished.

After that day the eye started to appear more and more. It followed me whenever the shadows permitted, and if I dared to make eye contact for more than a second, it asked me to let it out. It was always light-hearted, like it was just throwing out suggestions, but couldn’t care less if I actually complied. I was never really scared of it, but as the years wore on, I started to resent it.

It felt like a brand on me. The eye meant that there was something wrong with my mind, and when I entered high school I spent a considerable amount of my free time studying mental illness, trying to figure out what it might mean. I started to worry that the eye meant that I was due for a schizophrenic break. 

The way I saw it there were two options: either I was hallucinating, or I had to accept that something unnatural and unknown to science had attached itself to me. I’d known from an early age that I was adopted, so the lack of mental problems in my family just meant that these tendencies had to have come from my birth family. Because of this, I refused to entertain the idea of any paranormal explanation. The eye started to get more forceful each year, going from playful, to pleading, to demanding. Rather than being defeated by it, I used it as motivation. I was pretty sure that once the eye got ‘out’ my mind would go with it.

It didn’t matter to me that none of this lined up with the typical development of schizophrenia. It was the closest rational explanation I had and I was determined to face it. I graduated early and overloaded on college classes, desperate to make some headway in studying the hallucinations before I ended up a sad blubbering mess in some state-run facility.

I spent my college years in an overcrowded house with a bunch of other students willing to sacrifice comfort to end up in less debt. The house was in disrepair, with a massive crack in the living room wall that got worse each year. Not bad enough that the landlord would fix it of course, but bad enough that the eye could always make an appearance to check in on me. On the rare occasion we threw house parties, it would yell above the din of the crowd to be let out, and I had to pretend I couldn’t hear it. Movie nights with my roommates were out of the question. 

When I ventured outside the city, it was always waiting for me in whatever campsite or hotel I was staying at. Usually watching from the closet or the gaps in a friend's sleeping bag. It kept me up at night sometimes, pleading to be let out if I made the mistake of catching its gaze for even a second.

At night, when my own eyes adjusted to the dark, it always found somewhere to watch me sleep. In my bedroom, it liked to stay in the gap between the dresser and desk. That was fine, but it started to get louder as I neared my second year in that house. I mastered the art of avoiding it, because I couldn’t stand its incessant pleading once I caught its attention. Things were stable for a bit, until they weren’t.

It started with a new sentence as I lay in bed one night. “I know you can hear me. Just let me out.” The change in its dialogue, however small was still chilling. Until then it could only say the phrase ‘let me out’ over and over. It also had never been able to speak to me unless I’d looked at it first, and that was an even worse change. That meant I could no longer avoid its gaze for some peace and quiet.  I didn’t look around for it, fearing that attention might make it worse. I stayed as still as possible like a little kid hoping that the monster would go away if I just ignored it.

The silence was pervasive, and consuming, the kind of silence that felt heavy in the air, filled with the anticipation of something terrible. I can’t say how long I laid in bed, but eventually, my thoughts became fuzzy enough to tangle with the edge of sleep.

“Let me out.” Its voice pulled me back from the edge of rest and sent my heart racing. I tried to rationalize it. Surely I must have made eye contact with it, just for a second. It had never been able to speak to me without acknowledgment before, and there was no reason it should be able to now. It spoke to me twice more before I finally tuned it out enough to sleep that night.

The next night I closed my eyes and felt my way to my bed by touch. There was no way I could meet its gaze. I turned out the light and pulled up the covers, certain I was going to get enough rest to make up for the night before.

“Cassidy. Why won’t you let me out?” Its voice still had that toneless, inhuman quality, but it had never said my name before. I was scared for a second, but that quickly turned to rage.

This thing, whatever it was, had shaped my whole life. Forcing me to keep secrets from the people I cared about. Robbing me of essential experiences, the school trips I turned down, the sleepovers I couldn’t go to as a kid because I just didn’t have the energy to tune it out that day. Hell, even just a few weeks ago when things were getting serious with some guy at one of our parties, but I couldn’t bring myself to take him to my room, knowing that the eye would be watching. Even that wasn’t enough, now it had to deprive me of sleep.

It persisted for about an hour into the night before letting me rest, but I knew it would only get worse. That morning, when I finally dragged myself out of bed, it was waiting for me in the living room. I sat on the couch, staring at it as I ate my cereal.

“Let me out. Right here, Cassidy.” It sounded nicer than usual, like it was in a good mood and it just wanted to toy with me again. One of my roommates stumbled in and I stopped looking at it, but I started working on a plan. Spring break was coming up, so I was about to have the house to myself.

I spent the next few weeks in a stressed-out, restless slumber. Somehow making it through finals despite the steadily worsening noise in the night. I knew all of my roommates except Shelly would be gone the first day of break, so I convinced her to plan a date day with her boyfriend, heavily hinting that I would love some alone time, a rare commodity in college. I bought a sledgehammer and some spackle and mesh in preparation, and I felt a bit better.

I barely slept the night before break. I think the eye was somehow sensing what I planned to do, and it was determined to make sure I wouldn’t change my mind. It was pleading, yelling, and everything in between. When I finally heard Shelly leave, I got up. 

I didn't know what it meant by ‘let it out’ but it was time to find out. When I left my room it moved to watch me from its favorite spot, the crack in the living room wall. “Please let me out, Cassidy.” It sounded mechanical now like it was just going through the motions because it knew I was going to go through with it.

“Fuck you,” I said, landing the first swing completely on top of it. The crack buckled and bits of drywall rained onto the tarp. Once I got the first swing in, it was like I couldn’t stop. It felt so good to just keep hitting the drywall, over and over again, letting out a lifetime's worth of frustration and hate.

The wall fell in a decidedly unnatural way, the cracks spreading out like a section of the wall had already been weakened. The damage from one blow would spread out, only to the left in thin tendrils, while another hit would result in a spiderweb of new cracks. It was like the wall was showing me where I needed to hit.

Suddenly my arms gave out. Like all of the pain from lifting the hammer hit at once, and I became aware of my lungs burning from all the dust. I collapsed onto the pile of drywall and stared up at what I’d created. The hole in the wall was taller than me, with two distinct branches growing out near both the top and bottom, and one short branch at the very top. It resembled a person, but rougher. At the end of its ‘arms’ several smaller cracks branched out almost like fingertips. But they were uneven and there were too many. It was like a child’s drawn silhouette of a person roughly sketched out before their hands were capable of really capturing the most basic human form.

I knelt in the rubble, sinking further down and before I knew it I was asleep. I woke up to shadows that were significantly lower than they had been and immediately knew I had to get to work.

Fixing the wall took much longer than I thought, and it was well into the night before I had everything cleaned up. I kept expecting Shelly to burst through the door at any minute and demand to know what I was doing, but I managed to get everything done and head off to bed before she even got home. I was going to tell everyone that I’d simply fixed the crack, that I was tired of looking at it. 

That night I enjoyed the most peaceful sleep of my life. I went to bed alone and woke up alone, not the slightest hint of the eye or its voice trying to grab my attention. Shelly was still out, but that was okay, that just meant more time to myself. For the first time in my life. 

When Shelly finally came home the next night I was happier than I’d ever been. I told her we had to celebrate the end of the semester, so we spent the evening drinking and relaxing until she stumbled to bed.

I could hardly sleep, too caught up in my newfound freedom. My mind was working on overdrive imagining all of the possibilities for my future. I could have a family, a life without the constant worry of my mind slipping away and dragging the rest of me with it.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by Shelly’s door closing shut. She must have stumbled awake to get a glass of water or something. But I was bothered by the fact I hadn’t heard her door open in the first place. I started to imagine that maybe someone had broken in. I knew I was just being silly but  I decided to check on her, just to settle my thoughts.

“Shelly!” I yelled as I walked down the hall. “Shelly, you okay?”

No response.

I walked up to her door and pressed my ear to it. Nothing.

“Shelly! I’m coming in!”

I turned the knob just as a muffled scream broke the silence. I froze, there was someone in there with her. I tried to will myself to open the door but I couldn’t do it, knowing that real, life-threatening danger was waiting for me on the other side.

“Cassidy!” She screamed and I snapped out of it. But the knob wouldn’t turn. The door was locked.

“Shelly it’s locked!” I yelled just as a muffled smack echoed out of the room. I had to break down the door. I ran to the living room, ready to beat the door down with a sledgehammer if I had to.

I was greeted by an empty wall, the spackle can and sledgehammer missing. Worse still, even in the faint light I could tell that the discoloration between the old and new drywall was gone. Like the crack had never been there, like the wall had never been fixed. 

Running back to Shelly’s room I heard a crunch echo down the hall, louder this time. A sickening scream followed it, something I couldn’t imagine coming from a person, let alone Shelly. Without slowing I plowed my full weight into the door. I felt something pull in my shoulder and it didn’t even budge. A cracking sound came from the other side, and this time it was followed by a suctioning noise.

Shelly’s screams turned to gasps for air, and the cracking sounds fell in quick succession, while I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. I sputtered out that someone had broken in and we needed help, and I left the call on as I got up to run into the door.

I started hitting the wall with my fists, and soon my knuckles were bleeding but the door didn’t budge. I couldn’t hear anything from Shelly anymore. Just the cracks, and thumps, followed by increasingly loud sucking sounds.

I don’t know how many times I hit the door, but when the police found me I was lying on the ground, half-conscious, and all of the noises in Shelly’s room had stopped.

I was carted off to the hospital and later questioned skeptically about the events of that night. The police found it suspicious that someone had beaten Shelly to death with the sledgehammer I’d bought so recently. There were other things too. Her window hadn’t been opened, whoever killed her must have somehow gotten past me to get out. But, eventually, coincidences were ruled coincidences.

During the investigation, my grief was balanced by my relief that the eye seemed to be gone for good. I embraced the supernatural explanation now. I came to terms with the fact that the eye, or the creature it belonged to must have killed Shelly, and although I missed her, I tried to fight the guilt I felt about it. I mean, I couldn’t have known what would happen, and in a sick way, I was glad that it had been her and not me. It seemed that her sacrifice had freed me from the eye, maybe passed on the curse or whatever it was to someone else. I could be someone now, I had the chance to live a life not dictated by some fucked up supernatural entity.

Shelly’s funeral was closed casket, and for good reason. Her parents weren’t able to identify her, and they had to use what was left of her teeth for dental records. At her wake, me and the rest of her friends shared her more appropriate stories from college. We tried to remember all the stories of when she had made us laugh. She always hated it when people cried.

When they lowered her casket into the ground it really hit me. Everyone had told me that shock is a funny thing, and I might not be feeling anything right away, and I really hadn’t until then.  Seeing her, what was left of her, being put in the ground. To be buried in the dirt, in the dark with worms and maggots, it was just so wrong. I couldn’t stand seeing my friend, however briefly we’d known each other, reduced to an object, something cold and unrecognizable in a box.

I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my face as her family started throwing dirt on the coffin. I couldn’t stop thinking about how she always hated the cold. I watched the dirt pile up, and through my tears I saw something. I hate to admit it, but that something devastated me more than my friend's coffin. 

A single eye appeared in the shifting dirt for just a second. Then the shadows fell into turmoil and it was gone. I had almost convinced myself it was a coincidence until I got home.

It was waiting for me in the crack of the closet door. It was silent now, and observant, just like it had been in the early days of my childhood.

Until next time, you know what they say, keep your friends close, but keep their eyes closer.