The Blind’s Lunge

In the sweltering July of 2006, my cousin Damon and I were entrenched in a marathon session of Oblivion at our aunt’s farmhouse in rural Kansas. The house was a relic, creaking under the weight of old wood and the heat that never seemed to break. Aunt Clara was away, helping her brother move from one naval station to another, leaving us in charge of her two Rottweilers, Brutus and Xena. Brutus, the older, was snoring at my feet, his heavy breaths punctuating the eerie silence. Xena, however, had been standing by the sliding glass door for what felt like an eternity, her nose pressed against the glass, her tail stiff.

I nudged Damon and whispered, ‘Hey, look at Xena. She’s been staring out there for twenty minutes.’ He glanced over and shrugged, ‘Probably a raccoon or something.’ But just as he said that, the blinds—which were closed—violently snapped outward as if caught by a gust of wind, though the night was still. Xena whirled around, her teeth bared at the air, a low growl rumbling from her chest. My heart hammered as we both scrambled to our feet. Brutus woke with a start, his eyes fixed on the same spot.

‘Did you see that?’ Damon asked, his voice tight. I shook my head, my mind racing. The blinds hung crooked, one slat bent. I thought of Stella, our aunt’s friend who was staying with us with her two kids and her mutt, Rex. I suggested it might have been Rex, but Damon shook his head, ‘No, Rex is with Stella in the living room. She’s on the phone.’ We exchanged a glance and moved toward the hallway that led to the main bedroom where Stella was.

As we approached, the hallway seemed to stretch, the shadows pooling darker than they should. Xena padded behind us, her nails clicking on the hardwood, but she stopped at the threshold of the bedroom, refusing to enter. We knocked on the door, and Stella’s voice came through, muffled and annoyed, ‘What is it? I’m on the phone.’ I started to explain the incident, but the words caught in my throat as I saw the doorknob slowly turn—from the inside. The door creaked open a crack, and a sliver of light spilled out. I pushed it wider, expecting to see Stella, but the room was empty. The phone receiver lay off the hook, swinging gently.

Damon whispered, ‘Stella?’ No answer. We inched inside, the air cold and heavy. The window was open, screen pushed out, and the curtains fluttered. Brutus, who had followed us, started barking at the closet door. Xena remained in the hallway, growling. I reached for the closet, my hand shaking, and yanked it open. Inside was a pile of old coats, and among them, a child’s doll with a porcelain face, its painted eyes seeming to follow us. But that wasn’t what made my blood freeze. On the floor, written in what looked like dried mud, was a single word: ‘LEAVE.’

We backed out, our hearts pounding. Stella was gone, and so were her kids. The phone line was dead. We called out, but the house was as silent as a grave. Then, from the kitchen, we heard a thud. We rushed in to find every cabinet door flung open, pots and pans scattered, and the back door wide open. Brutus and Xena were now at the door, both barking into the darkness. I grabbed a flashlight, and we stepped outside. The farm stretched endlessly, fields of corn whispering secrets. The dogs bolted toward the old barn, and we followed, our feet pounding on the dry earth.

The barn door was half-open, and we slipped inside. The smell of hay and decay filled our nostrils. The dogs were circling a spot in the center, where a trapdoor lay slightly ajar. Damon pulled it open, revealing a ladder descending into blackness. We hesitated, but the dogs whined, and we knew we had to go down. The ladder creaked beneath us, and at the bottom, we found a cellar lit by a single hanging bulb. There, in the corner, were Stella and her kids, huddled and shaking. But they weren’t alone. In the shadows behind them, a figure stood—tall, gaunt, with arms that hung too long. It turned its head, and its eyes were voids, sucking in the light.

I grabbed the kids and Stella, and we scrambled back up the ladder, the dogs snapping at the figure’s heels. We burst out of the barn, running for the house, not daring to look back. As we reached the porch, the door slammed shut behind us, and the windows rattled. Inside, the house was torn apart—furniture overturned, glass shattered. The word ‘LEAVE’ was scrawled across the walls in that same mud. Stella was sobbing, trying to calm her kids, but she kept her eyes on the hallway, where the closet door stood open, and the doll was now sitting on the floor, facing us.

We spent the rest of the night huddled in the living room, the dogs alert, the silence oppressive. At dawn, we called the police, but they found nothing out of the ordinary—no tracks, no forced entry, just a family spooked by a bad storm, they said. But we knew. The blinds moved. The air bit. And that word—’LEAVE’—it wasn’t a warning. It was a command. And as we drove away, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview, I saw a silhouette in the upstairs window, and I knew it wasn’t done with us. It would follow, a whisper in the wind, a chill on the skin, until we obeyed. And I never did. I still don’t. But it’s waiting. It’s always waiting.