At first, he thought they were marbles. Wet, glass spheres catching the light. But then one blinked. A slow, lubricated slide of a translucent lid. Then another blinked. And another. They weren't reflections. They were eyes. Dozens of them, wedged into the drywall like trapped specimens, pupils dilating wide in the dark, all fixed on him. They didn't have bodies, just the eyes, staring with a hunger that had no mouth to express it.
In the mirror, his reflection blinked. He didn’t. the eyes horror
The silence was heavier than the noise. He swept the light over the far wall and froze. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing the damp lath underneath, but that wasn’t what made his blood run cold. It was the spaces between the tears. In the dark, rotting cavities of the wall, things were glistening. At first, he thought they were marbles
They are the silent witnesses that hide in the periphery, the glimmer in the dark pool, the reflection in the window when you are alone. They are the ultimate violation—the sensation that your privacy, your sanity, and your very soul are being weighed and measured by something that does not blink. A slow, lubricated slide of a translucent lid