The Unblinking Carp

We’d barely unpacked the last cardboard box when I noticed the fish pond. It was a kidney-shaped concrete basin at the edge of the lawn, choked with lily pads and murky water, and it was home to a single, enormous carp. The previous owners had left it, along with a bag of food and a note that said ‘Please feed Boris.’ I was twelve, and I thought it was the coolest thing about the new house. I’d sit on the stone edge and watch him glide beneath the surface, his scales flashing like copper coins in the afternoon light.

But the house itself felt wrong. My room was at the end of a long hallway, and it had a door that connected to my parents’ bedroom. They’d explained that it was for ‘easy access’ when I was younger, but now it was just a relic, always locked from their side. I never opened it, but I felt its presence, a constant, silent reminder that I wasn’t truly alone in my space. Within a week, I started feeling watched. Not in a paranoid way, but a deep, primal certainty that thousand eyes were fixed on me from every shadow, every corner of my vision. I’d be doing homework and feel a prickle on the back of my neck, whip around to find nothing. I’d lie in bed, the room dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight through the curtains, and I’d be too afraid to move, because I knew if I turned my head, I’d see something staring back.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was just the new environment. Maybe I was reading too many creepy-pasta stories. But the feeling was relentless. I’d wake up at 3:00 AM for no reason, my heart pounding, and I’d lie frozen under the covers, listening for any sound, any breath other than my own. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional gurgle from the fish pond outside my window. I started to hate the sound. It was like the water was swallowing something. One night, I finally worked up the courage to peek out from under the blanket. The room was empty, of course. But my eyes caught the door to my parents’ room. It was slightly ajar. A sliver of light from the hallway cut across the carpet. I could have sworn I’d locked it earlier. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I asked my mom if she’d come into my room during the night. She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and concern. ‘No, sweetie,’ she said. ‘I never left our room after we went to bed. Are you okay? You look pale.’ I told her about the door, about the feeling of being watched. She laughed it off, telling me I was just adjusting to the new house and that my imagination was playing tricks on me. She suggested I might be having nightmares. But I knew what I saw. And I knew what I felt. It was real.

After that, the feeling intensified. It wasn’t just being watched anymore; it was being studied. As if something was learning me, memorizing my habits. I started spending more time by the pond, because it was the only place where I felt a strange sort of calm. I’d feed Boris, and he’d swim up to the surface, his mouth opening and closing, his round, unblinking eyes fixed on me. Sometimes I’d talk to him, telling him about my day, about the creeping dread in my bedroom. And he’d just float there, listening, his gills fluttering. I began to wonder if he was the one watching me. But that was crazy. He was just a fish.

One afternoon, I was sitting on the edge of the pond, dangling my feet in the water, when I felt a strange sensation. I looked down and saw Boris swimming circles around my legs, faster and faster. The water felt ice cold, even though the sun was warm. A low hum started in my ears, so faint I thought I was imagining it. Then, quite clearly, I heard a voice. It wasn’t a human voice, but a wet, gurgling sound that formed words in my mind. ‘Let me out.’ I yanked my feet out of the water, my heart racing. The hum stopped. Boris was still, floating in the center, his eye on me. I backed away, stumbling over the lawn, and ran inside.

I didn’t go near the pond for a week. But the feeling of being watched only grew. It was worse in my room now, so bad that I started sleeping on the floor in the living room, claiming I wanted to watch TV. My parents worried, but they let me. But even there, I felt it. I’d look out the window and see the pond, glinting in the moonlight, and I’d know that Boris was staring at the house, waiting. I couldn’t escape him. I couldn’t escape the house.

One evening, I woke up on the couch with a start. The house was silent. My parents were asleep in their room. I could see their door from where I lay; it was closed. I decided I needed to face the fear, so I went to my room, determined to sleep in my own bed. I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was cold, colder than the rest of the house. The window was open, and the curtain billowed in the breeze, casting dancing shadows on the wall. I crossed to close it, and that’s when I saw the fish pond. The water was glassy, still. And Boris was floating on the surface, belly-up. He was dead.

I screamed. My parents came rushing, and they saw the fish, and they tried to calm me down, saying it was just a fish, it probably died of old age. But I knew. I knew it was connected to the feeling, the watching. That night, I locked my door, pushed a chair against it, and sat in the corner, hugging my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible. The hum returned, louder this time. It wasn’t coming from the pond; it was coming from inside the house. From the walls. From the floor. It vibrated through my bones, and I felt a pressure building behind my eyes. And then, in my mind, I heard the voice again, but it wasn’t gurgling anymore. It was clear, and it sounded like my own, but wrong. It said, ‘Your turn.’

I don’t remember much after that. I woke up the next morning on my floor, my face wet with tears. My parents found me and took me to a doctor, who prescribed medication for anxiety. But nothing cured it. The feeling never left. I told my parents I wanted to move, but they said we’d only just bought the house, we couldn’t afford to move again. So I stayed. I stay. I’ve learned to live with the constant presence, the feeling of being watched. And sometimes, when I pass by the pond, I see the water ripple, and a flash of copper scales, and I hear the faint hum. And I know that whatever was in Boris found a new home. It’s in me now. And it’s waiting.