The Glass Eye of the Hall

It was the summer I turned eleven, and the old house on Larkin Lane had a way of holding its breath. My room was at the top of the stairs, opposite my brother’s, with a narrow bathroom between us. I’d always been a light sleeper, but that July I began waking at odd hours, as if something was calling me out of dreams. On one such night, the clock on my nightstand glowed 2:17 AM, and my throat was as dry as dust. I crept out into the hall, the floorboards groaning beneath my bare feet.

As I passed my brother’s door, I noticed a figure standing just outside it. It was my brother, Leo, but he was standing perfectly still, facing the wall. His hair was the same, his pajamas the same, but something was off. He was too still, like a mannequin. I whispered, ‘Hey, you want some water?’ He didn’t move. I took a step closer, and that’s when he began to fade, like smoke dissipating in a draft. I blinked, and he was gone. I stood there, my heart pounding, and then I remembered: Leo was fast asleep inside his room. I’d seen his chest rise and fall through the crack in the door just moments before. The realization hit me like a cold wave, and I fled back to my bed, pulling the covers over my head. I never got my drink.

The next morning, I told my mom about what I’d seen. She laughed it off, saying it was just a dream. But I knew what I saw. Over the next few weeks, the occurrences grew more frequent. I’d catch glimpses of Leo in the hall, but always from the corner of my eye, always fading when I looked directly. Sometimes I’d see a shadow of myself in the bathroom mirror, moving a split second too late.

One night, I decided to confront it. I crept out of my room and found the figure again, standing by the bathroom door. This time, I didn’t approach. I watched. It had a face, but its features were blurred, like a photograph taken in a hurry. I noticed it had one eye that glinted like glass. It didn’t look at me, but I felt its attention. Then, it raised one arm, pointing toward the stairs. A chill ran through me. It wanted me to go down.

I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to follow. I walked down the stairs, the steps creaking in familiar rhythm. At the bottom, the hallway was dark, but I could see the kitchen light flickering. As I entered, I saw the figure standing by the table. It pointed to a drawer. My hands trembling, I opened it. Inside, among old receipts and rubber bands, was a small glass eye, blue and without a pupil. I picked it up, and it was cold.

When I turned around, the figure was gone, but I heard a faint voice, like an echo of my own: ‘Put it back.’ I dropped the eye into the drawer and slammed it shut. I ran back to my room, but I couldn’t sleep. The next morning, I went to the kitchen to get a drink, but the drawer was empty. I asked my mom about it, but she said we’d never had a glass eye in the house.

That summer, I learned to trust my instincts. I never told anyone about the glass eye, and I never went near the stairs at night again. But I still sometimes feel a pressure on my shoulder, like a hand guiding me, and I know the figure is never truly gone. It waits, with its glass eye, for the next one who wakes at the wrong hour.