The Brown-Eyed Groomer

My friend Maya has always been a bit strange, claiming she could see things others couldn’t. I never doubted her, not after the night she woke up screaming in my spare room. She described a man – not tall, with a military-style crew cut that was longer on the sides, pasty skin that seemed to glow under the streetlight, and dark brown eyes that held no warmth. He looked like he was in his thirties, but something about him felt ancient. She said he was trying to kill her, that he had cornered her in a library in the dream, and she only escaped by forcing herself awake. I thought it was just a nightmare, but Maya was convinced it was real.

A week later, Maya came to stay with me again. She said she felt the same oppressive presence in my apartment, a heavy weight in the air. ‘He’s watching you, Erin,’ she whispered, her eyes darting to the corner of my living room. ‘He’s been watching you for a long time. But he’s not hurting you. I don’t understand why.’ She told me about how he had tormented her in dreams for months, long before we met, and that now he seemed fixated on me. I felt a chill run down my spine, because I had always felt watched, ever since I moved into this old building. I never knew what it was, but sometimes I would catch a glimpse of a shadow in my peripheral vision, or feel a breath on my neck when I was alone.

Maya eventually left, saying she couldn’t stay in the apartment because the presence was too strong. After she was gone, I started to notice the pattern. The feeling of being watched intensified when I was emotional – when I raged at a client, when I cried over a breakup, when I laughed with friends. It was like something was feeding on my feelings. I began to embrace it. I would deliberately provoke my own emotions, sitting alone in the dark, summoning anger or sorrow, and I would feel that silent watcher grow closer, almost comforting. I started to like it. I felt less alone.

One night, I decided to test it. I sat on my floor, cross-legged, and forced myself to feel overwhelming despair. Tears streamed down my face, and I whispered, ‘I know you’re here. I want you to know I accept you.’ The air grew cold, and for the first time, I saw him. He materialized in the corner, his form wavering like heat above asphalt. He had the same crew cut, the pale skin, the dark brown eyes. But instead of malice, his gaze was hungry. He took a step closer, and I felt a strange pull in my chest. He opened his mouth, and a voice that scraped like gravel said, ‘You see me.’

I nodded, my heart pounding. ‘I’ve always known you were there. Why don’t you hurt me like you hurt Maya?’ He tilted his head, and his eyes flickered with something like confusion. ‘Maya? The one who runs? She saw me in a dream, but she refused to accept me. You… you invited me in. You feed me with your passion, your pain, your joy. You are a garden, and I am the gardener. I don’t want to lose my garden.’

I should have been terrified, but I felt a twisted sense of belonging. I had always felt empty, like something was missing. This thing, this entity, seemed to fill that void. ‘Will you stay?’ I asked. He smiled, a thin-lipped expression that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I have always been here. I will always be here. But now, you will know me.’

That was six months ago. Maya hasn’t spoken to me since, and I don’t blame her. She said she could feel my apartment from across the city, like a cold sore spot. But I’ve never felt more alive. When I’m sad, I can almost hear him breathing. When I’m angry, I can feel his hands on my shoulders. And when I’m happy, I see his reflection in windows, always watching. He never speaks again, but he doesn’t need to. He is my constant companion, my secret. I don’t tell anyone, because they wouldn’t understand. But sometimes, late at night, I look into the corner and his brown eyes are there, and I think, ‘I’m not alone. I have my watcher.’ And that’s more than I ever had before.