The Glare Behind the Screen

May 27, 2014

by Torrey

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (507 words)

"It was 3 AM in my cramped apartment, the only light a flickering blue from the television casting dancing shapes on the peeling walls. I had been dozing off to a late-night documentary, the hum of the city a distant lullaby. My door, which had been wedged open with a rubber stopper for hours, suddenly […]"

It was 3 AM in my cramped apartment, the only light a flickering blue from the television casting dancing shapes on the peeling walls. I had been dozing off to a late-night documentary, the hum of the city a distant lullaby. My door, which had been wedged open with a rubber stopper for hours, suddenly began to move. A slow, deliberate creak, as if an unseen hand was pushing it. It stopped halfway, leaving a triangular gap of darkness.

I sat up, my heart hammering. No breeze, no draft. The air was still, thick with the scent of old dust and something else, something faintly metallic. Then I saw them: two small, glowing white orbs, hovering in the darkness beyond the door, just at the edge of the TV’s light. They were fixed on me, unblinking, and I felt a cold dread seep into my bones.

I tried to move, to scream, but my body was frozen, as if the eyes had paralyzed me with their gaze. The only sound was the low murmur of the TV and my own ragged breathing. The seconds stretched into an eternity, the eyes never wavering. Finally, after what felt like minutes, they blinked out, and the paralysis lifted. I scrambled to my feet, fumbling for the light switch.

The moment the harsh fluorescent light flooded the room, a whisper curled into my ear, so close I felt the breath on my skin. It spoke my name, ‘Alex,’ in a voice that was not my own—a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves. I spun around, but no one was there. The apartment was empty, the door still ajar, the hallway dark. A cold hand pressed on my shoulder, firm and insistent, and instantly a wave of exhaustion washed over me, so powerful I could barely keep my eyes open. I stumbled back to my bed, my mind screaming, but my body obeying the silent command.

I woke to the morning sun streaming through the blinds. The memory was vivid, not like a dream. I told myself it was a sleep paralysis episode, a trick of the brain. But as I went to close the bedroom door, I noticed the rubber stopper was still in place. And on the floor where the eyes had been, there was a small, dark stain, like old oil. I tried to wipe it up, but it wouldn’t come off. It seemed to absorb the light.

That night, I didn’t watch TV. I lay in the dark, staring at the door, but nothing happened. I began to think it was over. But then, on the third night, as I was drifting off, I saw them again—those glowing white eyes, this time right beside my bed, staring at me from inches away. And in the silence, I heard that dry, rustling voice whisper, ‘Now you see me.’ The hand pressed on my shoulder again, and this time, I didn’t fight it. I let the darkness take me, and I knew I would never wake up.

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