The hollow Verge

The Unseen Eyes

Elias stood frozen at the window, his hands still pressed against the cold glass, but his mind was far from the village outside. The woman’s words echoed in his ears, each syllable reverberating with a haunting finality. "Graymere doesn’t let go of those it claims. You belong here."

A cold sweat trickled down his neck, but he couldn't move, couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching him. His pulse quickened as the fog outside seemed to thicken, swallowing the village in its dense embrace. It wasn’t just the physical fog that was consuming Graymere—it was something more, something that gripped his mind and wouldn’t let go.

The whispers returned.

They weren’t the same as before, when they had been faint, scattered voices in the back of his mind. These were sharper, more insistent, as if they had found their way into his very soul, gnawing at his sanity. Elias clutched the edge of the windowsill, his knuckles turning white, and tried to steady his breathing. But it was no use—the whispers were inside him now, just as the woman had said.

His reflection in the glass stared back at him, but it wasn’t the same man he had seen before. The eyes were darker, haunted, as if the very essence of Graymere had begun to stain him. A flicker of movement caught his attention, and his gaze snapped away from the reflection to the village streets below.

At first, he thought it was a trick of the fog—a shadow moving through the mist. But as he watched, the shape solidified, becoming clearer. A figure—tall and broad-shouldered—was walking down the narrow street, moving with a strange, deliberate purpose. The figure paused, and Elias’s heart skipped a beat.

It was a man, but his features were hidden, cloaked in darkness. Elias strained his eyes, trying to make out the stranger’s face, but it was as if the shadows themselves clung to him, refusing to reveal any details. There was something unnerving about the way the figure moved—no hesitation, no sign of uncertainty. Just a slow, measured walk, as if he had been here before, as if he had always belonged here.

Elias’s breath caught in his throat. The figure turned, and for the briefest of moments, their eyes met. There was a strange sense of recognition in the air, though Elias couldn’t place where it came from. The figure’s eyes—pale, unblinking—seemed to stare straight through him, into the very core of his being.

And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure vanished into the fog, swallowed up as if it had never existed.

Elias stood motionless, his thoughts racing. Who was that? Why had they looked at him like that? The sense of being watched grew even stronger now, prickling the back of his neck like a thousand unseen eyes upon him. He turned from the window, his heart pounding, and the sound of his own breath seemed to fill the room.

The air in the room had changed, too. It was heavier now, oppressive, as though the very walls were closing in on him. His fingers trembled as he reached for the door, the cold handle sending a jolt through his system. The whispers had grown louder again, more demanding, swirling in his mind like a storm of voices, all pushing him toward something.

He had to leave. He had to get out.

But where could he go?

The hall outside was silent, too quiet. As he stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the house press in on him. The walls seemed to shift, elongating, stretching toward him like the gnarled branches of the trees outside. The air was thick with a musty smell, the scent of decay—of things long forgotten. Every step he took seemed to echo in the silence, as if the very house was listening.

He moved toward the stairs, his footsteps hesitant but steady, each one a protest against the pull he felt urging him deeper into the bowels of Graymere. The house—no, the entire village—was changing him. It was reshaping his thoughts, his desires, his very being, and no matter how much he resisted, no matter how hard he fought, it was drawing him in.

When Elias reached the bottom of the stairs, he noticed something strange. The door, which had been closed before, now stood ajar, a thin sliver of darkness beyond it. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, hadn’t heard a single creak of movement. It was as though the door had opened on its own.

The whispers grew louder still, and with them, the overwhelming urge to step through the door. The unknown, the promise of something he couldn’t fully understand, called to him like a siren’s song. He felt like a moth to a flame—drawn, entranced, unable to look away.

He reached for the doorknob, his fingers shaking. As he pushed the door open, the room beyond revealed itself—a space that seemed to stretch infinitely, the walls undulating and shifting like liquid, as though the room itself were alive. The air inside was thick with an unnatural hum, a low frequency that seemed to resonate deep within his chest.

And then, from the shadows, a figure stepped forward.

The man from the street. The same pale, unblinking eyes, the same shadowed face.

Elias’s breath caught in his throat as the figure took another step forward, closing the distance between them.

"You’ve been waiting," the figure said, his voice deep and cold. "We’ve all been waiting."

Elias opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His mind was a whirlwind of questions, of confusion, of dread. Who was this man? What was happening to him? To Graymere?

The figure’s lips twisted into a faint smile, but it was a smile that offered no comfort, only a growing sense of inevitability.

"You are not alone here, Elias. Graymere remembers all of its visitors. And Graymere has never forgotten you."

Before Elias could respond, the room seemed to shift once again, and the figure was gone—vanished into the darkness. The whispers returned, louder than ever, swirling around him, drowning out all reason.

Graymere was not just a village. It was a prison. And Elias was trapped inside it, caught in its web, unable to escape.