The Constant Gaze

My mother had been living with a man named Walter for nearly a year in his converted farmhouse on the edge of Tarrow Creek. I’d only met him twice, brief handshakes at holidays, but he seemed kind enough, if a little quiet. They’d invited me for a weekend stay, a chance to catch up away from the city’s noise. The house itself was charming in a rustic way, all exposed beams and creaking floors, but there was an undercurrent of something I couldn’t place.

After a dinner of roasted chicken and too much wine, I was exhausted from the drive. Walter showed me to my room, which they called the ‘guest room,’ though it felt more like a shrine. Every surface was covered with framed photographs of the same woman. She had dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that seemed to follow me no matter where I stood. Her smile was polite, but there was a coldness in her gaze that made the temperature in the room seem to drop. I asked Walter about her, but he just said, ‘That’s Esther. She was my late wife. She loved having guests.’ He said it with a practiced calm that didn’t match the tightness in his jaw.

Next to my room was a door that was always closed. Even during the day, with the hallway light on, that door seemed to absorb the brightness, leaving a dark void at its threshold. I asked about it, and my mom said, ‘Oh, that’s just storage. Walter’s going to clean it out eventually. We don’t use it.’ She said it with a shrug, but I noticed she avoided looking at the door.

I retired around one in the morning, my head spinning from the wine. The bed was soft, and the sheets smelled of lavender, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The photographs seemed to have shifted subtly when I entered, as if they’d all turned to face me. I chided myself for letting my imagination run wild and tried to sleep.

Just as I was drifting off, I heard it: a soft padding of footsteps in the hallway. I assumed it was my mother or Walter getting water. But the footsteps didn’t pass my door. They stopped right outside. I held my breath, listening. Then they continued, but not back toward their bedroom. They went to the dark room. I heard the door creak open, and then silence.

I told myself it was just the house settling. But then I heard steps inside that room. Slow, deliberate, like someone pacing. And then, a voice, barely a whisper, but it was there: ‘Where are you?’ I felt a chill race down my spine. The room grew cold, as if a window had been opened in winter. I pulled the covers up to my chin, but the cold seeped into my bones. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe there was a draft. But the footsteps were unmistakable. They were approaching my door.

I didn’t dare look. The footsteps stopped at my threshold. The door was ajar, and I could feel a presence just beyond, a weight in the air. I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart pounding. The silence stretched like a taut wire. And then, the footsteps faded, back into the darkness of that room. I stayed awake, rigid, until the first gray light of dawn began to filter through the curtains. I must have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion around four.

At six, I needed to use the bathroom. I crept out of my room, still unsettled. The hallway was dim, but I could see the bathroom door was at the far end. As I approached, I noticed a thin line of light under the door. I pushed it open, and the light was on, bright and harsh. It hadn’t been on when I went to sleep. I froze. I knew with certainty that no one else was awake. My mother and Walter’s door was closed, and I hadn’t heard them stir. The light felt like an accusation, like the house knew I was there.

I hurried back to my bed, shaking. The photographs on the wall seemed to have changed position. Esther’s eyes were now fixed directly on my bed, her smile crooked, almost mocking. I pulled the covers over my head and waited for a decent hour.

At breakfast, Walter was already gone to work. My mom set out toast and eggs, but I couldn’t eat. I finally voiced what I had experienced. I saw her hands tremble as she poured her coffee. She bit her lip, then sat down across from me. ‘You can hear it too,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Every night, I hear steps. I’ve never gone into that room. Walter says it’s just the house, old wood expanding, but I know it’s more. That woman in the pictures… she’s not just his late wife. He talks to her sometimes. I’ve heard him.’

I stared at her, cold dread pooling in my stomach. ‘He talks to her?’ My mom nodded, her eyes darting toward the door of that room. ‘He says goodnight to her before we go to bed. And sometimes… sometimes I hear her answer.’