The Stare

{{Trigger warning: mental health, substance abuse.}}

It’s here again.

The eyes shine in the darkness like stars. No pupils, just twin pinpricks of light, fixed squarely in my direction. 

When I first saw them, I thought they belonged to a raccoon. They’re not uncommon around here, I often hear them screeching in what could be joy or anger while engaged in what could be a turf war or an orgy. So when I initially saw its luminous stare peek out of the woods surrounding my home, I dismissed it as a curious member of the local wildlife community. What else could it be?  

I didn’t start to really take notice of my mystery voyeur until it began to appear outside of my property. I saw no body, just the relentless stare that would appear whenever I was alone at night- outside of my office, in lonely walkways, as I walked to my car after striking out with a cute local at my favorite dive bar. It was definitely weird, but honestly I was less concerned about being in danger than I was about what it might mean about my mental state. 

Six months ago, my dad died. No one knows exactly what happened. All I know is that I saw him for our usual awkward dinner to celebrate my birthday, and three days later he was found dead in a lake a few miles out of town. Everyone assumed it was a heart attack- my dad’s food pyramid rested on a firm foundation of booze, processed meat, and fast food. But when we got the coroner’s report, there was no sign of any of the Big Ones that take 62 year old men who gamble with their health. No heart attack, no stroke, no blood clot. He’d even lost a bit of weight since his last checkup. 

With the lack of any physiological basis for his passing, the police entertained more devious causes. My dad wasn’t a beloved man, but he was a middle-class white guy in a small town, so the cops treated this as a high priority case. And since he had so few people who loved him, my mom and I became their prime suspects. 

When they informed us he had died, they separated us into two rooms to gauge our reactions and compare our stories. Now I’m not a big fan of Christmas- child of divorce and all. But you really don’t know a bad holiday until you spend it waiting to be questioned in a police station lobby, surrounded by droning Christmas muzak and a smattering of yuletide decorations that only heightened one’s awareness that if you’re here, your life is falling apart. The cartoonishly gleeful expression on a paper Rudolph which hung over the receptionist’s window seemed to mock me. 

You sorry fuck. Your dad is dead. He’s dead and they think it’s your fault. Merry fucking Christmas.  

My mom and I were eventually taken off the suspect list thanks to eyewitness accounts and evidence gathered from his cell phone, which somehow survived the same ordeal that killed him. He had been at the lake by himself, where he rented a boat and went out alone on the water. He snapped selfies, took videos of birds, and even sent a photo of himself to me that never arrived because he had no reception. He looked disheveled, as usual, but he looked happy. No murder, no suicide. Without any suspects or theories, my dad’s case cooled, and I’ve grown to accept that the circumstances of his death will likely remain unknown. 

So when the eyes started following me, I was not in the best place mentally. Despite not growing up around my dad, I’d inherited his midwestern stoicism. This meant that instead of processing my messy tangle of emotions with close friends, a creative outlet, or a mental health professional, I attempted to smother my feelings by denying their existence. By denying his existence. 

It was actually surprisingly easy. He had few friends- we didn’t have a memorial service because we couldn’t find anyone to come. He wasn’t sentimental, so there were few photos of us together. And I’d always been closer to my mom- she always joked that she got me in the divorce. It was relatively easy to go on living pretending that I’d never had a father. Or, it was easier than the reality of his death, his life, and how I felt about being his son. 

But erasing him was not without consequences. Energy doesn’t die, it just transforms. Grief is like that too. And trying to quash mine just led me to redirect that energy into less constructive coping mechanisms. 

I drank. I fucked. I smoked so much weed once that I actually thought my friends were lizard people, sent to earth to harvest my testicles for their human breeding program. People were, understandably, concerned. And when I started to notice the eyes, I finally was too. 

The watcher only appeared when I was alone. I was too terrified of the implications regarding my sanity to tell anyone about it. My only solution was to try to never be alone. Denial, as always, was my savior. 

Against my will, I became social. By day, I chatted up my coworkers, friends, and neighbors. By night, I ventured out to the most packed nightclubs I could find. The pounding bass rattled my bones, and the throng of drunks and fiends crushed my body like an empty can of Pabst. I hated it. But the eyes were gone, and I could pretend I was fine. 

Before last call, I would find a companion for the night. I’m not the most handsome man, so this is the part that worried me most. But I always found someone. Turns out I was never the only one who didn’t want to be alone. 

This is how I’ve been living for the past few months, and it’s taken its toll. I’m exhausted from lack of sleep, broke from buying drinks and eating out, and I fucking SWEAR that if I have to fake interest in Rodrigo from Accounting’s dating life or Akiko from HR’s kids’ baseball team ONE more time, I will gladly march myself to the loony bin. I need to end this. 

Earlier tonight, I left the club alone. There was a tremor in my hands as I approached the back of my house. The only source of light in the backyard is on a motion sensor, so all I could see out of the glass back door is total blackness, interrupted only by the persistent, infernal, cursed eyes. 

And that brings us back to now, where we started- me, trembling like a chihuahua, staring out into the watcher in the gloom and trying to will myself to move towards it. 

After approximately 12 minutes- or years- I finally reach a timid hand towards the door knob. I hear the click as the lock opens. The eyes have not moved. They remain fixed in my direction. It could be my imagination, but they seem brighter now, as if in anticipation. 

I step out into the night. 

Goosebumps raise on my bare arms. In my determination, I’d forgotten a jacket. Too late to turn back now. 

Moving through the darkness, my feet start to feel damp. Every step forward lands deeper in an unknown soddenness and emits a sickening squelch. I become very aware of an acrid stench filling my nostrils, causing my eyes to water. I cannot exactly place the smell, but it reminds me of a time when I found a dead seagull on the beach. The cool breeze carrying a scent of death. 

The eyes watching me do not move. I keep going. 

When I make it about 10 feet away from whatever is watching me, a blinding flash rips through the night, stunning me and causing me to stop. I realize I’ve triggered the back light. 

Damn motion sensor. 

For a moment, I’m completely vulnerable. I brace myself, wondering if the eyes’ owner will take this opportunity to kill me/steal my soul/do whatever vile thing it intends to do to me. I listen for the thundering steps of an unholy beast, but all I can hear is the sound of running water.  

As my eyes adjust, I can see that the yard is flooded. I raise my gaze to where the creature had been, and I choke on my scream. 

The eyes I’d seen so many times shine back at me, but now I can see the living nightmare they’re embedded in. It had been crouching- it must always have been crouching- because now it’s drawn itself up to its full colossal height. It must be taller than the house. 

Gray skin protrudes from its massive frame in uneven bulges. Black water weeps out of the folds between its bloated pale tissue, pouring into the yard, splashing my already soaked feet. Cloudy slime leaks from blotches of its flesh that are peeling away in patches. There are wisps of hair atop what I assume is its head, and beneath the glowing eyes sits a garish scrunched-up mouth with no lips and unmistakably human teeth. The teeth are closed in a hideous grimace, and more dirty water seeps between their gaps.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring. I’m frozen in terror and disgust. Am I crazy? Am I imagining this? How fucked up am I if I did?? 

My racing thoughts are interrupted by a gruesome gurgling sound. The thing starts to move. Each lumbering step causes more rank liquid to gush from its creases and orifices, rushing out onto the ground, covering my feet. 

I panic. Do I run? Fight? How do I fight it?? It’s gigantic. I have to run. There’s no other way. 

Rallying every ounce of nerve I have left, I turn to flee. 

Or, I try to. 

The deluge emanating from the creature has turned the dirt yard to mud. As soon as I attempt to run, my feet slip out from under me. I land hard on my back and hear a sound like breaking celery stalks. Pain shoots through my lower back. I try to get up, but agony overtakes my senses whenever I try to move. I’ve thrown my back out.

Oh, SHIT. 

I look around feverishly for a weapon, some garden implement that I can use to defend myself. The only thing within reach is a ceramic gnome that my mother had given me as a housewarming present. Its winking cherubic face looks obscene in these circumstances, and definitely less than intimidating. But the pointed tip of its little hat could make a good weapon. I grab the tchotchke and try not to think of how ridiculous I look as I’m about to die. 

The thing is standing over me now. Water from its body and mouth spill directly onto me, landing in my eyes and mouth. Somehow, it tastes worse than it smells. Slowly, it bends down until we’re face to face. Those familiar lamp-like eyes stare into mine. For a moment I freeze. We stare at each other, silent except for the bubbling sound of its rotting innards. 

I realize this is my moment. It’s this thing or me. I will myself to move. 

With every ounce of strength left in my pathetic broken body, I stab the point of the gnome’s hat into the creature’s left eye. I scream. “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCK!!!!” Thick, pitch-black ooze spews from the wound.  

I expect an unearthly cry, a thrashing, immediate retaliation. I expect it to rage and lash out. 

But nothing happens. 

The creature just stands there, one eye obscured by the gnome’s head embedded in it, the other eye staring back at me. 

I lay there, confounded. Did I stun it? 

Then, it moves. 

It ascends back to its impossible height, towering over me. I hear a low rumble. 

It bows its head towards me, and the last thing I see is its teeth parting and a rush of muddy water gushing out.  

I’m weightless, floating. I don’t know where I am or which end is up. I’m completely immersed in murky water. I’m cold, and my lungs are beginning to strain. 

This is it. This is how I die. 

This…is how he died. 

For the first time in forever, I think of my dad. This must be what he felt like, in his last moments. I’d never allowed myself to think of that before. How alone he must have felt, how scared. How he had to face his death by himself, with no one and nothing but the sound of his own heart pounding and his failing lungs trying to find air. 

Alone, and maybe…maybe not knowing that he was loved. 

We always said “I love you” when we parted. The last time we saw each other, I didn’t. I was in a rush to get to an appointment, and we’d just argued again. I’d left him with a curt “See you, dad,” and rushed off. I just wanted to get away from him. I didn’t know it would be forever. 

My body begins to convulse due to lack of oxygen. I’m getting close now. I feel cold. So cold. 

I’d been so cold to him. 

I’d never wanted him as a dad. He was a drunkard and a womanizer, a man-child that served more as a cautionary tale than a role model. His freewheeling lifestyle had briefly inspired me until I was old enough to realize that parents shouldn’t be children themselves. He left a legacy of broken promises, empty bottles, and considerable credit card debt. As a kid, he was my hero. As an adult, I was ashamed of him. 

I start to lose consciousness, and my mind drifts to things I never allow myself to think about. His daily joke texts. Camping in the bed of his beat-up old truck as a child, watching him in awe as he told me stories about the different constellations. Telling me how much he loved my shitty kid drawings, and how proud he was of me. The fact that he was, for better or worse, the one person in the world who really loved me unconditionally. One of the only people who would’ve cared if I lived or died. 

And now, I was going to die. Just like he did. 

As I begin to pass out, the creature appears before me. Its one eye looks down at me, then up. I follow its gaze. I see stars. Lifting a wretched appendage, it points to a constellation. 

Orion. 

That had been our favorite. After my parents divorced, my dad struggled. He was even homeless for a time. I never knew where he was or when I’d get to see him. So he told me that whenever I missed him, I could look at Orion in the sky and know that he was looking at it too. 

The creature and I stare at each other. But it’s not a creature. 

Gathering the last of my energy, I reach out toward its decaying flesh. Its skin is frigid and slimy. I don’t care. 

I wrap my arms around its disgusting form, and I bury my face deep in its gray mass. It lets out a low gurgle, almost like a sigh. 

“I love you, dad.” 

I feel him relax in my embrace. I feel him, the way he was. We stay like that for a long time. I hear him say something. I can’t make out the words, but I know what he means. 

Suddenly, it all melts away. Everything drains around me, and a rush of breath fills my lungs. I’m lying in the yard again, water-logged and muddy and gasping for air. The warmth of fresh tears mingles with the cool wetness on my cheeks. 

I look around, and there’s nothing there. 

I’m alone, but the eyes are gone. 

I look up, and I see Orion. Pinpricks of light, fixed squarely in my direction, watching over me in the dark. 

Always.