"Eyes That Never Blink"

Rain chewed through the night like teeth gnawing at the bones of the town. The sound of the downpour masked everything—footsteps, whispers, even screams. Leah Carter sat alone in her apartment above the antique bookstore she managed. It was nearly midnight when she heard the tap against her window. Not a knock. Not the rain. A deliberate tap. She turned—nothing. The window overlooked a narrow alley between her building and the long-abandoned theater. It was pitch black. No streetlights. No movement. She chalked it up to wind, nerves, maybe the wind chattering some loose cable or branch. But when she checked her mail the next morning, her fingers froze. Inside the mailbox was a single envelope. No stamp. No return address. Just her name, written in red ink. Inside: a photograph. A blurry, grainy image, taken from what looked like a considerable distance. But it was unmistakably her—standing in front of the bedroom window last night. Her silhouette, backlit, against the drawn curtains. It was timestamped. 11:42 p.m. Leah stared at it for a long time. Then she flipped it over. Written on the back, also in red ink: "Close your blinds tonight, Leah. I prefer the surprise." Her stomach turned to ice. Her breathing slowed, shallow. Her first instinct was to call the police—but then what? There was no threat, technically. No break-in. Just a photograph. Just a message. Just a promise. She threw on a coat and ran straight to her best friend, Maddie, who worked late shifts at the diner two blocks away. But when she arrived, Maddie wasn’t there. A pale, acne-ridden waiter blinked at her from behind the counter and said, “Maddie? She didn’t show up tonight. No call, either.” Leah’s throat tightened. She pulled out her phone and called Maddie. Straight to voicemail. Again. Again. She returned home an hour later. The photo was gone from the table. In its place, another envelope. She opened it, trembling. Inside: a second photograph. This one was of Maddie. Bound. Gagged. Her eyes wide with horror. The background looked industrial—concrete walls, a hanging lightbulb above, and graffiti in Cyrillic characters. On the back of the photo, the same handwriting: "She was nosy. Like you. Don’t be like her." Leah dropped the photo and took a shaky step back. The room swayed. She hadn’t locked the door when she came back in. And now… The door behind her creaked. Then closed.