The Eyes

Every night, with my face pressed close to the damp, grubby window panes, I would watch the eyes that watched me back from the tree line

I knew they were there. They were like distant stars; you couldn't see them if you looked directly at them, but out of the corner of your eyes, in the periphery of your vision, you could make them out, unblinking. If you looked away, and then looked back, they would seem to have shifted. I would stare intently at the tallest, darkest tree, and then I would see them. Just to the side. Just where they thought they were hidden.

I could see them. Papa couldn't, though. At least, he said he couldn't see them. Papa was strong, but quiet. People in the town looked up to him, and were always very kind, but none ever seemed to talk to him for very long. I wasn't sure why.

I would point out the eyes, becoming frustrated in trying to single out one pair, and describe their location in the gloaming darkness. He would seem to try, but would always tell me my eyesight must be better than his, and kiss me on my head before returning to stoke the fire. He never said they weren't there; only that he couldn't see them.

Mama was different. I had stopped telling her about them, as it upset her. She would tell me that I was seeing things. She wouldn't ever even try to look, just tell me I was a silly little girl, and then go and talk to Papa. Sometimes she would then return with a camomile tea for me. Other times, she would go up to her room, and I wouldn't see her until morning. On those occasions, Papa would always stay up until I went to bed, reading an old book.

I wasn't scared by the eyes; they didn't seem to convey malice, merely an embarrassed curiosity. I wondered at their knowledge of me, of their intentions. I wondered if they could see me looking back.

As dusk fell, Papa would lock the front door and place the key in an old jar above the fireplace. The jar had a picture of a dragon on it, and had been a gift from Grandmama. Papa only put important things into it, but it was too high for me to reach. One night, after Mama had gone to bed, Papa fell asleep in front of the fire. This was unusual, and I had briefly thought of waking him. However, that night he hadn't replaced the jar on the mantle piece. It sat invitingly on a small side table next to his armchair. I had taken the key from it, and gently unlocked the front door.

Across the other side of the field, past our modest wooden fence, and past the old wheat grinder covered in moss, and past the small overgrown pond where Father Jackson had drowned, was the forest.

There had been a damp stillness in the air, but I hadn't recalled it raining. The tree line seemed more indistinct outside than from behind the flimsy protection of the glass window in the drawing room. I took a few steps forward, the lace hem of my linen skirt collecting the early dew from the grass. I stared towards the tree line. Nothing stared back.

I shifted my gaze upwards slightly, searching for the tallest tree, trying to watch from out of the corner of my eyes, closing one, then the other, but I could make out nothing other than empty shadows. Something seemed to move from right to left, just in the undergrowth at the foot of the trees, but then a gust of wind came towards me, brushing the grass down as it advanced. It had dissipated moments before reaching me, leaving me with a gentle kiss of air which carried the faint scent of cherry blossom. Then all fell quiet again.

I had returned to the house, disappointed. Papa hadn't stirred, so I returned the key where I found it and went back to the window for one last look before bed. Sure enough, the eyes had returned, seeming to burn with increased intensity, somehow conveying urgency.

That had been weeks ago, though. Mama had not said anything about that night, and Papa had been quieter than usual. The skirt I had worn had been collected while I slept, and cleaned, removing all stains from the hem and traces of evidence that I had been outside. It was curious, though; each morning I would forget about the eyes, and go to school, or in to town with Mama, and I wouldn't spare a glance towards the forest, even as our carriage passed by the field away from our house. I'm sure that if someone had asked me during the day I would have recalled the eyes clearly, but without the reminder I remained temporary blinded about them. I would quietly chastise myself for forgetting, having promised myself on any number of occasions to explore the trees during the day. However, As each day waned, and the light retreated behind the horizon, I would begin to feel them. We had never returned home after dark - that rule was sacrosanct - but as the feeling grew I would pull the soft, padded stool up to the window in the drawing room, and stare out, locked in silent conversation with what I had started to think of as my guardians.

It was a warm clear night when cautiousness finally succumbed to curiosity. Mama had not been well, and Papa had taken to going up to their bedroom with her, early each night. He still remembered to lock the door before going upstairs, but he had allowed me to stay up later and read until the fire had died down. I waited until I could hear no more noise coming from the old floorboards upstairs. I had earlier brought down and concealed some additional outdoor clothing. I pulled a cardigan on, and a pair of thick black stockings to protect my legs from the thorn bushes which littered the field between my home and the forest. Over these, I put a pair of Papa's thick socks, and donned my walking boots. With the addition of the stockings and woollen socks, the boots were very tight, but warm and sturdy. I quietly put on my coat and gloves, and sat for a while staring at the dragon jar which contained the keys.