The Night Mom's Eyes Opened

The moon hung low and heavy, casting an eerie glow on the room. In the quiet of the night, a woman stirred, her eyes fluttering open to the darkness. The room was bathed in the pale light of the moon, and for a moment, she was disoriented. She blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. Her eyes moved slowly across the room, searching for something—or someone—that wasn't there.

The bed was empty, the sheets crumpled and askew. Her heart raced, a dull, pounding sound in her ears. She sat up, her breath catching in her throat. The room was still, save for the faint rustling of the curtains as they caught the breeze. Her child was gone.

She stood, her legs weak, and stumbled to the door. She opened it slowly, her eyes scanning the hallway. There was nothing. No child, no sign of a struggle. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the last moments before the room had gone silent. She had been reading a book, her child sleeping beside her, the night a quiet lullaby. Now, the silence was oppressive, the absence of her child a physical weight on her chest.

She padded down the hallway, her footsteps echoing in the stillness. She called out, her voice trembling, "Baby, where are you?" The echo of her words hung in the air, but there was no reply. She moved down the hall, her heart aching with fear, her mind racing with possibilities.

In the living room, she found her phone, the screen dark. She fumbled with the buttons, her fingers clumsy, her mind a whirlwind of panic. She called her husband, her voice breaking. "Please, please, come home," she whispered, the words a desperate plea.

As the phone rang, she rushed back to the room, her heart in her throat. She scanned the floor, the bed, the dresser. There was nothing. She knelt down, her hands trembling, searching under the bed, behind the curtains, in the dark corners of the room. Her child was gone, and she was alone.

She heard a noise then, a faint whisper, almost imperceptible at first. "Mommy," it said, soft and tender, as if from a distance. She spun around, her heart leaping, her hands reaching out. But there was nothing. The whisper had been a trick of the wind, a figment of her imagination.

She sat down on the bed, her head in her hands, the tears flowing freely. She had a bad feeling, a dread that was almost tangible. She looked at the window, the moonlight now a silver glow on the glass. She had seen it before, that eerie glow, that presence that seemed to watch her, to follow her, to mock her.

She got up, her mind racing, her heart pounding. She moved to the window, peering out into the night. There was nothing there, no one there. But she felt watched, as if there was someone, or something, out there, just beyond her sight.

She turned back to the room, her eyes scanning the walls, the floor, the ceiling. She moved to the dresser, her fingers tracing the surface, searching for any sign of her child. Her eyes caught something, a glint of something metallic. She reached out, her fingers brushing against it, and pulled it out.

It was a locket, her child's locket, with a picture of her and her child inside. She opened it, her eyes locking on the picture, her heart breaking. But something was wrong. The picture was blurred, as if it had been taken in the dark. She flipped the locket over, and there, etched into the back, were her own eyes.

Her own eyes.

She looked at them, her breath catching in her throat. They were open, staring back at her, the whites swirling with an eerie glow. She felt a chill run down her spine, a coldness that seemed to come from within. She looked around the room, and then out the window, and saw them.

They were everywhere, those eyes, glowing in the moonlight, watching her, waiting. She felt a hand on her shoulder, a cold, clammy hand. She turned, and there, standing behind her, was a figure, a shadowy figure, its eyes glowing like the moon.

"Mommy," the voice said again, this time closer, this time not a whisper, but a scream.

She turned to run, but her feet wouldn't move. She looked down, and there, on the floor, were her own eyes, open, staring back at her, the whites swirling with an eerie glow. She felt the figure behind her, its hand reaching out, its fingers brushing against her face, its eyes locking onto hers.

And then, she saw it. Her child, not in the locket, not in the room, but outside the window, surrounded by those glowing eyes, those watching eyes, those eyes that belonged to her.

The eyes of her child.

And then, the room went dark, and the presence was gone, but the eyes remained, glowing in the moonlight, watching her, waiting.

The Night Mom's Eyes Opened.