The Eye

The Eye

Peter opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was almost dawn and the dim light cast his room in shades of gray and brown. He would soon be called to breakfast. He could smell the ham cooking and the hear the rattle of conversation coming from downstairs. He swung his feet off the mattress and stretched. The rag rug under his feet was rough but he barley noticed since it had been there for all of his ten years.

Peter walked to the window and picked a fleck of cracked white paint from the sash. He could just make out the derelict farm house in the distance, its aging gray siding matching the solemn hues of the early light. He turned to his desk. His defunct transistor radio sat on his desk, cracked red plastic being a witness to a fatal fall. The pieces of a plastic car model lay spread out on the wood desktop. He had been forced to do his homework sitting on his bed due to the perplexing Chevrolet Bel Air model occupying the workspace. He resolved once again to conquer the model car puzzle. His eyes wandered back to the wrecked farmhouse.

The old farmhouse had been pulling at him lately. The farm had been abandoned since the dust bowl storms had consumed it, but it still stood some thirty years later. Grandpa Yokum, who had died when he was younger, told him that a trick of the wind had spared their own farm while the one next to theirs had been buried. Peter tried to imagine the barren dunes that surrounded the old house as green fields, but the idea was too foreign.

He had been warned to stay away from the house at least once weekly for his entire life, and now he was beginning to wonder why. The history lessons of the dust bowl taught in school recounted how families were forced to leave carrying only what they could pack. It was possible there might be something interesting that had been left behind in the ramshackled old house.

His name was called from downstairs. He dressed quickly and descended the thirteen steps to the foyer. Turning into the light of the kitchen, he greeted his parents and took his seat at the worn table. Peter didn't know why they ate in the kitchen. There was a spacious dining room but they never used it.

The three of them ate in silence. When his father finished, he said that he would be working on the plow which had broken down. His father got up, put his hat on, and walked out the laundry room door. Peter's mother reminded him to water the radishes and carrots, a task that had been recently added to his list of chores. She cleared the table and began washing the dishes.

Peter went out the front door because the raised porch afforded a view of the mysterious old house that sat crumbling in the distance. His chores were not terrible. Many of his schoolmates were saddled with much heavier tasks and they resented him for it. Their envy was mixed with puzzlement over Peter being an only child. He was unique among them in that he had no siblings. He had no answers for their questions as to why that was. Peter had once asked his mother if he would ever have a brother or sister. A flat “no” was all he got in reply.

The pigs were slopped and the garden was watered. He saved the most objectionable task for last. This being Saturday, the chicken coop had to be cleaned and the straw refreshed. The smell of the coop was even worse than the pig pen. When at last he was done, he reported to his mother and was sent outside to play.

It was those times when he wished for a playmate. The closest farm, which was over a mile away, had no children his age. The only time he saw children his own age was at school or church. Those places did not afford much time for play. There were only so many games that could be played by one's self. Peter picked up a small block of wood and walked to the swing hanging from a limb of the walnut tree in the front yard. He placed the block slightly in front of the swing and began swinging. When he had gained sufficient height, he swung down and kicked the block across the yard. He stopped the swing and retrieved the block after carefully marking its position. He repeated this exercise until the block could not be kicked any further. After that, he swung lazily back and forth casting a glances at the abandoned farmhouse which was visible at the top of each arc.

His mother backed their big Desoto down the driveway, stopping halfway to tell him she was going to town and to not get in trouble. He promised he would not, but knew in his heart that this would be the day. The swing came slowly to a stop. Peter sat making his plans and calculating the risks. Finally making up his mind, he strode the shed and picked up a sack. He turned towards the old house and set out.

Peter carefully avoided the areas of fine dirt which would leave tell tale footprints. He approached the old house from the front. All the windows were gone, some broken, some evidently carefully removed. One side of the porch roof had collapsed causing the floor boards to twist and separate. The front door hung slightly ajar. The darkness within beckoned. Peter's palms were sweaty. He wiped his hands on his trousers and mounted the steps.

The old house was surprisingly sound. The floor of the entry way let out a few creaks but was firm, so he continued tentatively. He explored the downstairs, which was devoid of interest. The stairs were not to be trusted so as much as he would have liked to, he gave up on going upstairs. That left a place of supreme mystery and menace left to explore: the basement.

Peter would go into his own basement only when ordered to. It was too close, to heavy. His family had once taken shelter in the basement as a twister passed close by. Even being held by his mother and protected by his father, the basement was still a place of danger and fear. The basement of the old house promised even worse. But, if there was are treasure to be found, that would be the location. He gathered his courage and opened the door.

The aroma of damp earth rose from the darkness. He took a tenuous step. The stairs seemed firm so he took another. He descended slowly and wished he had brought a flashlight. The gaps in the siding afforded some light, enough to see. The basement was bare except for a pile against the far wall. He crept up to get a better look. It appeared to be part of an old sign with lights around the edge which read “10 Cents”. Behind it was a board carved and painted in faded red and green with gold filigree running through it. A red and white striped tarp covered the rest. Peter was about to pull the tarp back when he saw a great eye.

Peter froze in shock. The eye was the size of a tea saucer, wet and lidless. It reminded Peter of the squid he had seen at the St. Louis aquarium. He though it might be glass. Colors circled it making it look like it belonged to a reptile or bird. It was alien, irreconcilable. Then the eye moved. Peter screamed and ran up the stairs. He tripped on the top step and went sprawling, clawing at the floor trying to escape. He leaped out the front door and ran blindly.

A minute later he realized he was running away from his own house and would have to pass the old house to get home. He had peed himself. He had to get home before his mother so she wouldn't see him and start asking questions. He ran past the old house and continued on home as fast as he could manage.

Peter spent the rest of the day and into the night in his room forgoing the Saturday night radio shows. The image of the great eye would not leave him alone. He slept fitfully. He didn't hear a word of what was said in church the next day. The next week the teacher reprimanded him sharply for not paying attention several times. Nothing could supplant the memory of the eye in his mind. It had him in its grip.

Two weeks passed. Peter was distant and distracted. He didn't have an answer for his mother's questions. She finally let it drop and Peter descended further into his troubled mind. At last he decided to make a stand. He would confront the eye and expose it for what it was, whatever that might be. He pulled himself up and made his way through the next week as if nothing was wrong, but Friday night found him assembling his supplies.

This time he would take a flashlight and a sharpened stick as a weapon, just in case. He hurried through his chores and waited to see if his mother was preparing for a trip to town. When it appeared she was, he went to the swing and began swinging. His mother backed the big car down the driveway and told him to be good. He said that he would, even though he knew he would not. He picked up his sack as soon as she was out of sight.

This time he entered the old house with a purpose, steeled against whatever lay below. He descended the stairs with the flashlight in one hand and his spear in the other. When he stepped onto the basement floor, he trained his flashlight upon the eye. It was unchanged. The great bulbous fleshy eye stared at the ceiling. He approached determined to fling back the tarp. As he reached for the tarp, the eye brought its gaze directly upon him.

Peter went cold. His hands and feet were numb. The flashlight and stick were both dropped. A great sense of dread enveloped him. He felt as if he was being swallowed by something terrible. The eye held him as he was drained of all emotion, all thought. When the eye finally released him, he collapsed onto the floor. He crawled to the steps unable to stand. He dragged himself out the front door and rolled off the porch. He lay on his back staring up at the hazy sky wondering why he wasn't afraid.

Many years and miles lay between him and the great eye, but its grip was still upon him. His every waking moment was consumed by the curse. His nights brought no reprieve. He had long since stopped wondering what the thing was, or how it came to be left in the basement of the old farmhouse. A great wind had brought the house down a few years after Peter's encounter, so at least no one else would be snared as he was. Peter sat on his tenement cot and reached for the whiskey bottle wishing he could feel anything at all.