The Lattice of Unseen Eyes

I first noticed something wrong with the dormitory at the University of Lublin, Poland, on the third night after my arrival in October 2008. The building was modern, all glass and steel, with a gleaming cafeteria and a gym that smelled of bleach. I had been assigned to Room 412, a single with a view of the courtyard. But it was the corridor that bothered me. It was long and sterile, lined with identical doors, and the fluorescent lights hummed a constant, low-frequency drone. I chalked my unease to culture shock, but I was wrong.

My name is Marta Kowalski, and I came to Poland from Brazil to study architecture. I had always been sensitive to the unseen – a chill behind a door, a flicker at the edge of vision – but I never saw anything clearly. In Poland, that changed. The first time I saw one was on a sleepless night, after a week of exams and too much coffee. I was in the shared bathroom, alone, when I saw a figure in the mirror’s reflection: a gaunt man in a grey suit, standing just behind my left shoulder. I spun around, but there was nothing. Yet a cold draft lingered. I began to keep a journal, documenting every incident with dates and times. I called them ‘the Lattice’ because they seemed to appear in the corners of my vision, like threads in a web.

The sightings escalated. I saw a woman in a wet dress standing by the elevator, her hair dripping onto the floor but leaving no puddle. I heard footsteps pacing in the hallway above my ceiling, though my room was on the top floor. I started sleeping with the lights on, and I became obsessed with finding a rational explanation. Then I met Professor Adamski, a folklorist with a weathered face and eyes that seemed too knowing. I had sought him out for a class, but I ended up confessing everything. He listened, his expression grave, then told me about the history of the site.

‘The university was built on the grounds of an old sanatorium,’ he said, his voice low. ‘During the war, it was used for experiments. Many people died here, and not peacefully. Their souls are stuck, still trying to finish their treatments.’ He handed me a small, brass compass with a needle that spun wildly. ‘Keep this. It will help you find the strongest disturbances. But be careful. They know you can see them now. They will try to get your attention.’ That night, the compass spun towards the basement, and I made a decision to prove to myself that the ghosts were real.

I took the service stairs down, carrying a flashlight and the compass. The basement was a labyrinth of boiler rooms and storage cells. The air was thick with dust and the smell of rust. The needle quivered, pointing to a door marked ‘Archive.’ I pushed it open, and inside, I saw something that shattered my sanity: row after row of shelves filled with jars and boxes, each containing labeled body parts – hearts, eyes, livers – pickled in yellow fluid. And in the corner, a figure in a white coat, scribbling in a ledger. He looked up at me, and his face was not a face, but a shifting mass of grey flesh with multiple eyes that blinked in a non-human rhythm.

I ran. I ran up the stairs, through the corridors, not stopping until I was locked in my room, gasping. I tried to rationalize: it was a prank, a mannequin, a hallucination. But the compass spun endlessly, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, turning me. I looked in the mirror and saw myself, but my reflection was different – my eyes were black, and behind me, the man in the grey suit was smiling. He spoke in a whisper, ‘You should not have come.’ I felt a pressure in my head, and I saw flashes of memories that were not mine: a woman screaming on an operating table, a man being force-fed pills, a child with his fingernails pulled out.

I tried to leave the dormitory, but every exit led me back to the same corridor. The windows showed a world outside, but the sky was a brass color and the trees were static, like a painting. The other residents were vacant, walking in loops, their conversations monologues about exams and rent. I realized they were trapped too, all of us unaware. The compass pointed to the professor’s office, but he was gone. In his place was a recording device that played a loop: ‘The experiment is nearly complete. Only one more subject needed.’

The final confrontation happened in the common room. I was trying to rally the residents, but they ignored me. Then the lights flickered, and the man in the grey suit appeared before me, tangible. He was holding a jar with a single beating heart. ‘Yours will complete the collection,’ he said. I noticed that the other residents were now watching, their eyes glazed, their mouths open in identical smiles. I knew I had to break the cycle. I remembered the professor’s words: ‘They are trying to finish their treatments. But a soul cannot be healed by the dead.’ I grabbed a fire axe from the wall and smashed the jar. The heart splattered, and the man screamed – a sound like grinding gears. The world flickered, and I found myself on the floor of my room, alone.

I thought it was over. I packed my bags and went to the airport, but the taxi drove to the same campus, and the driver said, ‘Room 412, as always.’ I am still here, in a loop, but now I am aware. I have started drawing the lattice patterns that I see in the corners, and I have learned to communicate with the other residents in whispers. We are planning an escape, but every night, the man in the grey suit waits by the elevator, holding a new jar, and the compass needle spins until it points at me. The worst part is, I can no longer remember what my home looks like, or the face of my mother. This dormitory is my entire world now, and the lattice is tightening, weaving me into its pattern.