Lizzie was a normal woman. She was in her late thirties, moderately pretty. She was single with no children, and lived all alone in her little country house. She bought the house because it was in the middle of nowhere, and that was what she preferred. Lizzie had anthropophobia, an irrational fear of people, and as a result, she was extremely antisocial.

After moving in, Lizzie lived in the house completely normally. There was nothing strange or ominous about the house, other than the rumors that 11 out of the 14 previous owners had committed suicide in the house. But they were just stupid rumors.

After two and a half years of living there, Lizzie had a strange dream. It was not a nightmare; it was just... odd. She dreamed that she was an infant, crying. She was in the arms of her father, and he was saying comforting words to her to soothe her. As Lizzie looked up at her father's face, she saw something disturbing.

He had no eyes. He was not faceless, nor did he have dark, empty eye sockets. Where his eyes should have been, there was just skin. He continued to say comforting words and rocking her in his arms.

Lizzie woke up. She was not frightened, but slightly disturbed. She shook off the dream, however, and continued her business as usual.

Less than a month later, Lizzie had the exact same dream again, with the same reaction. Mildly disturbed, she continued her life without further thought or concern.

Four weeks later, she had the dream again. The next time only took two and a half weeks to occur. One week. Six days. Four days. Two days. Then the dream became a nightly occurrence for Lizzie. By now, she was genuinely scared. She began to dread going to sleep each night, afraid of having the dream. The dream itself was no more frightening than it originally was, but Lizzie was definitely afraid.

A week after the nightmare became daily, she began to feel like she was being watched. It started out in small increments. She would start to get that feeling, and she would look around, see nobody, and then feel at ease. But then it became constant. Everywhere Lizzie went, even out of the house, she felt like she was being watched. It got more and more intense as time went on, and the only relief she could get from the watching was when she distracted herself with reading, which was one of her favorite pastimes.

The image of her eyeless father worked its way into Lizzie's waking hours as well. Whenever she closed her eyes, even for a moment, she saw it. His unmoving face haunted her every hour of the day. She eventually just refused to blink, in fear of seeing his face again. It was nearly impossible, but she tried to keep her eyes open all of the time. She lost sleep, sometimes staying awake all night. She went broke, spending most of her money on coffee to stay awake. Still, the eyeless face continued watching.

Always watching.

One night, Lizzie was sitting at her kitchen table, desperately trying to stay awake and not blink. She began to doze off, and her eyes closed.

She saw a horrifying image of herself, with no eyes, just like the vision of her father. Her face was covered with veins of red, with blood flowing from two wounds where her eyes should have been. The rest of her face appeared calm and emotionless. Even though her vision had no eyes, Lizzie could tell that it was looking straight at her.

Lizzie screamed at the top of her lungs and tried to open her eyes, but they would not open. She panicked, pulling on her flesh, clawing at it until she could feel her own warm blood trickling down her face and hands. The vision persisted, still staring at her with absolute intent.

Lizzie shouted, "STOP IT! STOP WATCHING ME!" She started to sob uncontrollably and scream for help, even though nobody was within ten miles of her house.


Lizzie crawled to the kitchen and fumbled in her drawer for a knife. She angrily thrust the knife into her right eye. The eyeless, bloodied face of herself continued to watch her, unwavering. She slid the knife out and shoved the knife into her left eye and twisted it, hard. The face continued watching.

"STOP WATCHING ME!" screamed Lizzie. She shoved the knife into her chest and fell forward, cold, covered with blood, and finally free from the watching.

John was just a normal guy. He was in his fifties when he moved into his little country house. There was nothing strange or ominous about the house, other than the rumors that 12 out of the 15 previous owners had committed suicide in the house. But they were just stupid rumors.