The Hollow Gaze

The night my world tilted, I was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of cold coffee, when the dog—a mutt named Biscuit—began to growl low in her throat. Her hackles rose as she stared at the sliding glass door that led to the back deck. It was past 2 a.m., and the house had settled into that creaking silence that makes you feel like you’re not alone. My son, Leo, was still up, lying on the living room floor with his tablet, his face glowing in the dark. When Biscuit started barking, not the sharp bark of a squirrel or a deer, but a deep, primal bark that shook her whole body, we both froze. She ran to the door, her claws skittering on the laminate, and launched herself at the glass, her teeth bared, her eyes wild. I had never seen her like that. She was frantic, desperate, as if something beyond the glass was personally threatening her. I had to calm her down, but she wouldn’t stop. She was snarling, snapping at the air, her paws leaving smudges on the glass. Give me a second, I told Leo, trying to sound calm. We both walked to the door, and I flicked the switch for the porch light. Nothing. The bulb must have burned out. Great, I muttered, and leaned close to the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes to block out the kitchen’s reflection. At first, I saw nothing but the dark outline of the deck and the trees beyond. Then, I saw a light—a yellow glow, low to the ground, near the steps. I thought maybe it was a reflection from a neighbor’s security light, but it was too steady, too deliberate. I moved to the other window pane, the one without the screen, and that’s when I saw them: two round, glowing orbs, like eyes, but not human. They were fixed on me now, not on Biscuit. The dog had gone quiet, her tail between her legs, whimpering. The eyes were attached to something that was crouched on the deck, a shape that was larger than a dog but lower to the ground, like a big cat poised to strike. It was still, and the eyes held me with an intelligence that made my blood chill. I tried to look away, but couldn’t. It was like the eyes were pulling me in, daring me to open the door. I realized I was reaching for the handle, my hand moving on its own. Leo grabbed my wrist. Mom, don’t, he whispered. His voice broke the spell. I yanked my hand back, and the eyes blinked—if a light can blink—and then they vanished. Just like that, they were gone, as if they had never been there. The porch light flickered on. ‘It’s just a raccoon,’ I said, trying to convince myself, but my voice was shaky. Biscuit was still hiding behind my legs, trembling. We both stood there, staring at the empty deck, the silence heavy with what we had just seen. I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the living room, watching the door, but nothing moved. The next morning, I checked the deck for footprints or fur, but there was nothing. The only evidence was Biscuit’s refusal to go outside. She would squat on the threshold and whine, her eyes darting to the tree line. But that wasn’t the end. Three nights later, I was alone. Leo was at a sleepover, and I was reading on the couch when Biscuit started barking again. This time, she was at the front door, pawing at the wood, her bark frantic. I flipped on the porch light, and there it was on the welcome mat: a small, dead rabbit, its neck twisted, its body still warm. And standing at the edge of the yard, under the streetlight, was that same crouched shape. The eyes were not yellow now, but a sickly amber, and they were looking at me. I screamed and slammed the door, but I saw it smile. It had a mouth full of needles, and it was smiling. The next day, I called the police, but they found nothing. They said it was probably a coyote, but I knew better. I started sleeping with the lights on, but it didn’t help. I saw the eyes in my dreams, and when I woke, I could feel them on me, even in the day. Leo started having nightmares too, but he couldn’t remember what they were about. He would just cry and say, ‘It’s watching us, Mom.’ I tried to move, to go to my sister’s house in the city, but the car wouldn’t start. The battery was dead, even though it had been fine the night before. We were trapped. That was three weeks ago. Tonight, the lights flickered, and I looked out the window. It was standing in the middle of the front yard, no longer crouching, but upright, like a man, but not. Its eyes were bright, intense, and they seemed to be pulsing with a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. I ran to the door to keep Leo safe, but when I got there, the door was locked from the outside. I tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I looked out the peephole, and there it was, filling the entire lens. Its eye was pressed against the glass, and I could see every detail of its iris—a spiral of yellow and black, like a whirlpool. It said, in a voice that was like dead leaves rubbing together, ‘I see you, mother. And I see the boy. You carry my gaze now. You will carry it forever.’ I backed away, and the peephole went dark. I don’t know where it goes during the day, but I know where it is at night. It is at the window, watching. It is always watching, and I know it is only a matter of time before it finds a way in.