The Glass Eye

In the autumn of 2016, my grandmother, Vera, and I shared a cramped studio apartment in the outskirts of a city that never truly slept. The building was a relic, its walls thin as paper, its pipes groaning like old bones. We had no dog, but we had a pet tortoise named Arthur, who lived in a glass terrarium near my bed. Grandma Vera believed in the old ways, kept a sprig of dried rosemary under her pillow, and often spoke of the ‘thin places’ where the veil between worlds wore thin. I, a skeptical teenager, would roll my eyes.

That night, the rain hammered against the windowpane like a furious percussionist. At 2:47 AM, Arthur, who was as lethargic as a stone, suddenly began to thrash against the glass. He was a creature of habit, and I had never seen him move with such urgency. Grandma Vera stirred, her hand instinctively reaching for the rosary beads on her nightstand. ‘The dead are walking,’ she whispered, her voice steady but her eyes wide.

The lamps flickered, and the room plunged into darkness. The streetlight outside cast grotesque, dancing shadows on the walls. I fumbled for the flashlight on my nightstand, but when I clicked it on, the beam revealed a shape in the corner—a tall, gaunt figure with hollow sockets, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. It had no mouth, but I heard a sound, a wet, slithering noise, like something crawling out of a wound.

Grandma Vera crossed herself and began to recite a prayer in a language I didn’t recognize. The creature took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked. Arthur was now hissing, a sound I never knew tortoises could make. I grabbed my phone to call for help, but the screen showed a static image of a face—my own face, but with eyes that were empty pools.

The next few minutes were a blur. Grandma Vera threw salt from a small pouch onto the floor, drawing a circle around our beds. She chanted, her voice rising above the rain. The creature stopped at the edge of the circle, its head swaying like a snake, then it spoke—not with a voice, but with a thought that burned into my mind: ‘You see me, but you do not understand. I am the one who watches from the other side.’

Just as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving only a faint, acrid smell of ozone and wet leaves. The lights flickered back on. Arthur had retreated into his shell, and Grandma Vera was panting, her hands shaking. ‘It was a Haunter,’ she said. ‘It feeds on belief. If you had not cried out, it would have taken hold.’

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. I sat on my bed, staring at the spot where the creature had stood. There, on the floor, lay a single object: a small, glass eye, milky white with a pinprick pupil. I picked it up; it was cold and heavy. Grandma Vera took it from me, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed it in a small iron box, which she buried in the potted plant by the window. ‘It was a watcher for something worse,’ she said. ‘We must not speak of it again.’

But even as I try to forget, I still feel its gaze. Sometimes, in the reflection of the window at night, I see a pale figure standing behind me—and I know it’s not my own ghost. The glass eye remains buried, but the watching never ends.