The Glass-Eyed Woman

When Marcus and I first bought the old farmhouse at the end of Hollow Creek Road, we laughed at the stories the realtor told us. ‘Nothing but creaky floors and rattling pipes,’ she said, but we knew better. Within a week, we felt eyes on us in the upstairs hallway, and the basement stairs always felt colder than they should. So we did what any curious couple would do: we set up our cameras and microphones, determined to prove the place was just old and full of drafts.

Our first session was in the spare room at the back of the house, the one with peeling wallpaper and a window that faced the dead orchard. Marcus set the camera on a tripod, and we sat in the dark with the night vision on. At first, nothing. Then, a man’s face materialized in the corner, so clear we could see the wrinkles around his eyes. He stared at us, lips moving silently. On the audio, we heard a guttural ‘GET OUT’ – once, twice, three times, each louder than the last. We replayed the footage until we were sure it wasn’t a trick of the light. It was real, and we were thrilled.

The smaller bedroom, which we used as storage, gave us more. As we reviewed the recordings, we saw figures – men and women – darting past the camera so fast they were blurs. But when we stood in what we called the ‘hot spot’, the camera would suddenly tilt or shake, as if an invisible hand pushed it. We caught whispers that grew into growls, and once, a cold breath on the back of my neck that made me scream. We were addicted to the fear, but we didn’t know how real it was.

In the hallway, we saw something that stopped our hearts. A little girl, no older than six, floated in midair, her arms raised above her head. She turned to look at us – her face was pale and her eyes were empty – and then she sank into the wall like a ghost through a curtain. We stood there, speechless, and for the first time, I felt a true chill. But the worst was yet to come.

The cellar was our last stop. It was damp and smelled of earth and rot. As we descended, a figure emerged from the shadows at the far end. She wore a tattered robe, and a hood covered her head, but we could see her red eyes glowing from within. She held a cracked glass globe, and she stared directly at us – not through us, but at us, as if she saw every part of our souls. She looked ragged and poor, but her gaze was ancient and knowing. We ran up the stairs, slamming the cellar door behind us, and we haven’t been down there since.

That was a year ago. Now, there’s a black shadow man who follows Marcus everywhere. He stands in doorways, watches from corners, and sometimes I see him in the reflection of our television. Marcus won’t admit it, but he’s terrified. Last night, I woke to find Marcus staring at the ceiling, and when I asked what was wrong, he whispered, ‘He told me we’re not leaving. He said the cellar woman wants to keep us forever.’ I looked at the corner, and the shadow man was there, and I swear I saw him smile. We can’t leave – we’ve tried, but the road always leads us back. I think the house has claimed us, and the glass-eyed woman is waiting for us to join her in the dark.