⦻Eyeless Jack⦻

The house had still smelled of fresh paint and cut timber when you first stepped inside.

Boxes were stacked like uneven towers in the living room, and the windows—tall, clean, and uncurtained—looked straight out into the tree line. The forest pressed close to the backyard, a dense wall of pine and oak that whispered constantly in the wind. It felt private. Secluded. Peaceful.

At least, during the day.

At night, it was something else entirely.

The only light on the street was a single aging streetlamp directly across from your driveway. It flickered occasionally, buzzing faintly, casting a pale yellow halo that barely pushed back the darkness. Beyond that circle of light, the world dissolved into shadow.

You didn’t notice him the first night. You were too busy unpacking, too exhausted from the move. You slept heavily despite the unfamiliar creaks of a new structure settling around you.

It was the second night when you first felt it.

That sensation—like being watched.

You were brushing your teeth when your eyes drifted toward the bathroom window. The glass reflected your own tired face back at you… but something felt off. The streetlamp’s glow filtered faintly through the trees, and for just a moment, you thought you saw a shape standing beneath it.

Still. Tall.

You blinked.

And then, nothing. Just the empty street and drifting leaves. You told yourself it was nerves. New place. New sounds. Going back to brushing your teeth and occasionally checking the window.

But on the third night, you knew. You were in your bedroom this time, folding clothes at the edge of your bed. The window faced the street directly, offering a clear view of the lamp. You hadn’t installed curtains yet—kept forgetting to buy them.

And there he was. Standing directly under the streetlamp. At first, you thought it was just a man. Maybe a neighbor. Maybe someone lost. He wore a dark hoodie with the hood pulled low over his head. His hands were buried in their pockets. His posture was unnaturally straight, unmoving.

You waited for him to shift his weight.

He didn’t.

You waited for him to check a phone.

Nothing.

He was facing your house. Facing your window.

Your stomach tightened.

You leaned closer to the glass, squinting. The light flickered once, briefly plunging him into darkness before returning. When it did, you saw what made your breath hitch in your throat.

There were no eyes.

Not closed. Not shadowed from the mysterious dark blue mask he wore. Gone.

Dark, hollow sockets stared straight at you from beneath the hood.

You stumbled backward so fast you nearly tripped over the bed. When you looked again, he was still there. Still watching.

You called the police that night.

By the time they arrived, he was gone. They found no footprints on the asphalt. No signs of trespassing. Just you, shaken, and the quiet hum of the streetlamp. “It’s probably someone messing with you,” one officer said gently. “We’ll patrol the area.” But patrols don’t last forever. And he always came back.

Every night after that, he stood beneath the lamp.

Closer. each. time.

The fourth night, he was at the edge of your driveway. The fifth, halfway up. The sixth… he wasn’t under the streetlamp at all. You couldn’t see him anywhere.

And somehow, that was worse.

You barely slept. Every creak of the house made you jump. The forest sounded louder now—branches snapping, leaves crunching as if something heavy moved through them.

Around 2:13 a.m., the power went out. The house fell into suffocating darkness. Your breath became shallow. You fumbled for your phone, turning on the flashlight. The beam trembled in your shaking hand as you moved through the bedroom.

That’s when you heard it.

A soft thud, Not outside.

Inside down the stairs.

Your pulse roared in your ears. You strained to listen.

Another sound. A slow, deliberate step.

The front door hadn’t made a sound. No breaking glass. No forced lock. He hadn’t needed to break in. You backed toward your bedroom door, heart hammering. The hallway beyond was pitch-black. Then you saw it.

At the end of the corridor, where the stairs rose from the lower floor, a shape stood in the darkness. He didn’t need light to see. You knew that instinctively. His head tilted slightly, almost curious. Thick black fluid dripped from the hollow pits where eyes should have been, staining the fabric of his hoodie and mask.