Another short story.


All of a sudden, it stops. I don’t hear a darn thing. Upon entry, I am blinded by the powerful yellow light that opens completely up as I swing the door wide. It hotly coats my face, touching my eyelids like a hesitant finger and I can’t open them. Then I realize it is only at maximum brightness because I was previously in maximum darkness.

I squint to test the scene and it’s safe, so I lift my eyelids all the way. From what my eyes can gather, I’ve just entered an enormous circular room, about fifty plain wooden doors lining the whole round wall. I walk to every door, and they are all locked. I silently “hallelujah”  that I left the door I came through halfway open, otherwise I would not know where I came through, or if I could ever leave. Finally, I look for what I came for.

The center of the circle holds a mysterious heap covered in a white sheet. Ominous. I, with paranoia sinking in my middle, grab something from the Dark Room and prop open My Door. Just in case. Then, I walk soundlessly to the sheet-covered heap and ponder what the underneath contains.

My palms sweat, unlike the anxiousness of the unknown when opening the door to this room before, and I make my mind quiet down before I tentatively pinch the sheet. My eyes open wide when I whip it to the side. It drops from my fingers into a pale, secret-less pile on my right as I wonder who the heck decided to plant an antique phonograph here.

I admire its glorious, bronze-colored horn-shaped part, when something strikes me. My brain whirs back to thinking as goose-bumps run up and down my spine, from my scalp to my ankles. There’s no way it was a coincidence that the old record player shut off the exact moment I entered this room. Why is there a sheet covering it? Why did it sound so lifelike, like weeping? I shiver, and my pupils widen as I take a quick scan of my surroundings. Empty. I look back to the phonograph and notice, at last, that it’s missing a vital part – one that most likely prevents it from making sound with it missing.

A record.

Someone else is here.


One thought on “Eyes

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