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Eye
Jeremy went to sleep as he did every night. The day behind him and the morning just a future thought, he slept peacefully. He didn't have nightmares and never remembered his dreams. He just slept. His wife, Claire, was always in her cocoon of blankets and pillows. Her slight but distinct snoring was the background noise Jeremy needed for his slumber.
Until he opened his eyes one night.
Their apartment was spacious and the bedroom equally so. A large floor to ceiling window dominated the wall on the right hand side. During the day it provided a magnificent view of Bay Harbor. The sun reflecting off the water cast a mesmorizing rainbow.
Jeremy opened his eyes and saw the curtain that hung from the beautiful window was parted. His groggy eyes swung to the clock by his side of the bed. 2:32 a.m.
He immediately woke up, full attention, at what he was seeing. It couldn't be. Impossible. Although the crack in the curtain was only less than three centimeters in length, to him it might have well been wide open.
Close, double close, overlap twice, double check
This was his nightly ritual. The curtains had to be closed completely. Zero breaches. His breath quickened and his first instinct was to put the blankets over his head so the thing didn't see him. He stared at the crack in the curtain, the comforter providing no shelter from what stared back.
An eye. Brown with a cloudy white substance dripping from its iris. Their pupils caught sight of each other and Jeremy started sweating. The eye didn't move nor did it blink. It just…looked. He looked back but tears in his eyes gave away his fear. As if in recognition, the eye slowly dropped an extraordinarily slow eyelid. And then it opened again and just gazed as Jeremy gazed back. Fear won the day and he screamed.
"Jeremy, honey what's wrong"?, Claire was clutching her husband, remants of the nights sleep still buzzing in her conscious. His screams were primal. And much too loud for any enquiring neighbors. She felt his body quake as her arms tried desperately to bring him back to her.
"The window…" he pointed, "It was…" what? As his eyes adjusted he only saw heavy thick curtains. No cracks or breaches. Most importantly, no eye.
A nightmare, surely.
He didn't suffer from nightmares though. No dreams, no nightmares, no insomnia. He performed his ritual (Close, double close, overlap twice, double check) and was asleep ten minutes after. Always. Until tonight. The curtains slightly apart, the eye staring in at him.
Claire wrapped her arms tightly around him, her head snuggling into the crook of his neck, "I'm here", she whispered, "I'm here for you".
2
Jeremy walked down the stairs and slunk into the stool that served as a seat in the kitchen. The fresh smell of coffee and sizzling bacon awoke his hunger.
He hadn't slept all night and he was famished. " Smells like heaven", he said, "just like my angel to cook it for me".
Claire gave him a side eye and pushed her hair out her face. "You're being way too nice for morning. Have some coffee and then give me compliments" She put a cup in front of him. The steam rising like a geyser from a volcano and the smell of caffeine hitting Jeremy in his pleasure center. She rubbed his shoulder lightly and concentrated on finishing breakfast.
"Was it bad?", she asked while flipping the bacon strips.
"It just felt so real", he said, "like it actually saw me somehow. That hasn't happened in almost two years and I…" he trailed off because the words didn't want to form in his mouth. I was scared. I was terrified. I was dying. Claire knew about the eye at the window, how it had started and why it frightened him so much. He was almost two years removed from the nightmares it brought and thought that, just maybe, they could have a life without the constant vigilance and nightly ritual. But last night had drudged it back to the forefront of their lives as claws of a monster digging through earth finding its way to its prey.
He took a drink of coffee, wincing from the burn but feeling it course through the fog of his memories. "Blow on it first, it's hot", Claire reminded him too late.
He forced a smile. "If it's any consolation, you're still my angel. But maybe we can go upstairs and get a bit devilish before I go to work". He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"What", Claire said, sweeping her arms around the kitchen, "and miss the pleasure of cleaning all this? Besides, after you eat you'll have to hurry so you're not late. It's half past eight already".
Jeremy shot out of his chair. "Shit…sorry…shoot…I need a shower. I'll take this to go. My apologies to the chef".
Claire shoo'd him away as he bound up the stairs.
3
He had slept later than he wanted. Not really slept though, no, more of a twisting turning half consciousness after he had dreamt about an eye behind their window. It was just a dream after all…right? The complete and utter terror he had felt was real enough but there had been no break of the curtain. Surely a trick of the light from his subconscious.
As he sped along the streets to his job desperately hoping he wasn't too late, all he could think about was why now? After all this time, all that therapy, all of the pills, why was he dreaming again about that? These questions ran through his head as he pulled up to the office building. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard. 9:13 a.m. Grabbing his keys from the ignition and his thermos of coffee, he half ran to the front door and then the elevators hoping his boss, James Peterson, didn't notice his tardiness.
The elevator opened its doors on the fifth floor and Jeremy almost ran into his boss on the way out. James stared at his watch and slowly raised his head to look at Jeremy.
"Fifteen minutes late", James said, "Get yourself set up and come see me in my office". He turned his back and walked away. Jeremy scrunched up his face in anger. I've only been late once before. What an asshole he thought as he made his way to the cubicle that he called home for eight to twelve hours a day. He was an editor for a publishing group and he was good at his job. It was drudgery for the most part but that's why he liked it. He rarely cared about the books he was responsible for. The seemingly endless hours he put in were more due to the fact that he could shut off any other thoughts and concentrate on the work at hand more than the actual books themselves. He could focus on the words and make changes, suggestions, and fix grammatical errors better than most. But he was late and now had Mr. Patterson to deal with.
He set his coffee on his desk and slumped in his chair. Opening the computer, he checked his work....
Until he opened his eyes one night.
Their apartment was spacious and the bedroom equally so. A large floor to ceiling window dominated the wall on the right hand side. During the day it provided a magnificent view of Bay Harbor. The sun reflecting off the water cast a mesmorizing rainbow.
Jeremy opened his eyes and saw the curtain that hung from the beautiful window was parted. His groggy eyes swung to the clock by his side of the bed. 2:32 a.m.
He immediately woke up, full attention, at what he was seeing. It couldn't be. Impossible. Although the crack in the curtain was only less than three centimeters in length, to him it might have well been wide open.
Close, double close, overlap twice, double check
This was his nightly ritual. The curtains had to be closed completely. Zero breaches. His breath quickened and his first instinct was to put the blankets over his head so the thing didn't see him. He stared at the crack in the curtain, the comforter providing no shelter from what stared back.
An eye. Brown with a cloudy white substance dripping from its iris. Their pupils caught sight of each other and Jeremy started sweating. The eye didn't move nor did it blink. It just…looked. He looked back but tears in his eyes gave away his fear. As if in recognition, the eye slowly dropped an extraordinarily slow eyelid. And then it opened again and just gazed as Jeremy gazed back. Fear won the day and he screamed.
"Jeremy, honey what's wrong"?, Claire was clutching her husband, remants of the nights sleep still buzzing in her conscious. His screams were primal. And much too loud for any enquiring neighbors. She felt his body quake as her arms tried desperately to bring him back to her.
"The window…" he pointed, "It was…" what? As his eyes adjusted he only saw heavy thick curtains. No cracks or breaches. Most importantly, no eye.
A nightmare, surely.
He didn't suffer from nightmares though. No dreams, no nightmares, no insomnia. He performed his ritual (Close, double close, overlap twice, double check) and was asleep ten minutes after. Always. Until tonight. The curtains slightly apart, the eye staring in at him.
Claire wrapped her arms tightly around him, her head snuggling into the crook of his neck, "I'm here", she whispered, "I'm here for you".
2
Jeremy walked down the stairs and slunk into the stool that served as a seat in the kitchen. The fresh smell of coffee and sizzling bacon awoke his hunger.
He hadn't slept all night and he was famished. " Smells like heaven", he said, "just like my angel to cook it for me".
Claire gave him a side eye and pushed her hair out her face. "You're being way too nice for morning. Have some coffee and then give me compliments" She put a cup in front of him. The steam rising like a geyser from a volcano and the smell of caffeine hitting Jeremy in his pleasure center. She rubbed his shoulder lightly and concentrated on finishing breakfast.
"Was it bad?", she asked while flipping the bacon strips.
"It just felt so real", he said, "like it actually saw me somehow. That hasn't happened in almost two years and I…" he trailed off because the words didn't want to form in his mouth. I was scared. I was terrified. I was dying. Claire knew about the eye at the window, how it had started and why it frightened him so much. He was almost two years removed from the nightmares it brought and thought that, just maybe, they could have a life without the constant vigilance and nightly ritual. But last night had drudged it back to the forefront of their lives as claws of a monster digging through earth finding its way to its prey.
He took a drink of coffee, wincing from the burn but feeling it course through the fog of his memories. "Blow on it first, it's hot", Claire reminded him too late.
He forced a smile. "If it's any consolation, you're still my angel. But maybe we can go upstairs and get a bit devilish before I go to work". He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"What", Claire said, sweeping her arms around the kitchen, "and miss the pleasure of cleaning all this? Besides, after you eat you'll have to hurry so you're not late. It's half past eight already".
Jeremy shot out of his chair. "Shit…sorry…shoot…I need a shower. I'll take this to go. My apologies to the chef".
Claire shoo'd him away as he bound up the stairs.
3
He had slept later than he wanted. Not really slept though, no, more of a twisting turning half consciousness after he had dreamt about an eye behind their window. It was just a dream after all…right? The complete and utter terror he had felt was real enough but there had been no break of the curtain. Surely a trick of the light from his subconscious.
As he sped along the streets to his job desperately hoping he wasn't too late, all he could think about was why now? After all this time, all that therapy, all of the pills, why was he dreaming again about that? These questions ran through his head as he pulled up to the office building. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard. 9:13 a.m. Grabbing his keys from the ignition and his thermos of coffee, he half ran to the front door and then the elevators hoping his boss, James Peterson, didn't notice his tardiness.
The elevator opened its doors on the fifth floor and Jeremy almost ran into his boss on the way out. James stared at his watch and slowly raised his head to look at Jeremy.
"Fifteen minutes late", James said, "Get yourself set up and come see me in my office". He turned his back and walked away. Jeremy scrunched up his face in anger. I've only been late once before. What an asshole he thought as he made his way to the cubicle that he called home for eight to twelve hours a day. He was an editor for a publishing group and he was good at his job. It was drudgery for the most part but that's why he liked it. He rarely cared about the books he was responsible for. The seemingly endless hours he put in were more due to the fact that he could shut off any other thoughts and concentrate on the work at hand more than the actual books themselves. He could focus on the words and make changes, suggestions, and fix grammatical errors better than most. But he was late and now had Mr. Patterson to deal with.
He set his coffee on his desk and slumped in his chair. Opening the computer, he checked his work....
