"The Eyes" by CS Jones

The Eyes

by CS Jones

 

You will think me mad for asking. But has the fog ever stared back at you?

Not in a philosophical sense. I mean this quite specifically. I ask because I have seen it do exactly that. And what's worse, I know precisely the reason why.

My name is Arthur Telson, and I have witnessed something far beyond what we, as a civilised world, can comprehend.

I was in Belgium, travelling through the Sonian Forest in a carriage driven by my valet, Hugo. I had stayed on in Brussels to complete some business while my party continued on to our next destination.

It was late into the evening, and the roads were treacherous, but Hugo was capable. As were my horses, the magnificent beasts they were.

I was studying the latest broadsheet, when there came a terrible, piercing wail from beyond the trees.

The horses screamed and the carriage shook.

Before I knew what was going on, I was flung from my seat as the carriage flipped. Wood snapped and metal groaned. I was tossed around—a helpless ragdoll, thrashing and grasping for an anchor, when my head struck the ceiling and knocked me clean out.

It was pitch black when I came to. Disoriented and unable to see, I clumsily dragged myself free, when a cluster of shrill laughter suffused the air. Childlike, it capered through the night, unnerving my muddled brain. A dark prelude of what was to come.

How I emerged without a scratch was anyone's guess, though I’d definitely had my bell rung. Once free and able to stand, I discovered a lantern concealed beneath the wreckage of the driver’s seat.

Held aloft, I explored my surroundings. Hugo was nowhere to be found, nor were my horses. What I did find, however, was a puddle of blood, with footprints leading away, into the trees.

Again, that childish laughter carried through the night, chilling my bones as I pulled the lapels of my coat up.

It was hard to pinpoint, it seemed to be all around me, closing in. Desperate to be from its unsettling aura, I followed the footprints into the woods.

Still, the laughter persisted, though it had grown distant. Determined to outrun it, I kept moving. I don't know when I changed from following the blood trail, to outright fleeing, but before I knew it, I was lost, with no sense of where I was or where I was going. The trail had long disappeared and I was alone in the wilderness, in an unfamiliar country. But at least the laughter had subsided, if only for a short time.

I stumbled along, kicking up frostbitten leaves, careful to keep my movements as light as possible. If those children were out there, I was sure I didn't want them finding me. It was ridiculous, of course, and it grows more so whenever I think back on it, but there was an awful foreboding I couldn't quite fathom that urged me to keep my distance. That they were not really children, at least not anymore. They were of the forest. A ghastly claim. A terrible, creeping secret that only reveals itself right before it strikes.

Wholly lost, I scanned the imposing trees, their long shadows taunting against the flickers of my lantern. Suddenly, my footing gave way, and I tumbled. The lantern spiralled from my grasp, almost snuffing out my only light source.

 That was when I saw it.

A dense, billowing fog, barely formed in the darkness.

As my eyes settled, it roughly took the shape of a person.

Impossible, I thought, but to this day, I would swear to God Almighty that this fog was really a person.

I recovered the lantern and raised it towards the shape. What I saw will haunt me for the rest of my life. It stared back at me. It had eyes. Honest to God, human eyes that were set into where the head should be. And what's more, I knew these eyes. They were Hugo's.

They stared back for a long time. There was no malice—at least none I sensed. Nor joy. Only sadness. Petrified, all sense of time evaporated as I struggled to comprehend what I was seeing, and before I knew it, the children's giggles were back—ebbing in to usher my leave.

They didn't urge me towards the shape, as you might expect, but to its left, deeper into the forest. The shape watched as I passed, but beyond its slow undulations, it remained still.

The laughter grew. Harried. Agitated. I picked up my pace, scrambling and clamouring through the chilly brush. The laughter was becoming vicious. Poisonous.

It hadn't occurred that these unseen children were herding me, and it was when I practically fell through the treeline, I discovered why.

Dawn was creeping through the canopy, and it took a moment for the full picture to form, but when it did, I dropped to my knees in despair.

A willow tree stood with what had to be 50 mounds of earth strewn all around. They weren't big, I’d say child-sized.

Hugo hung from the tree, his body limp. The only movement, the gentle sway of the breeze. His face was ashen, his mouth, a rictus grin. But it was his missing eyes that caused me many a sleepless night.

By all accounts, I was lucky. With the morning light, I managed to find my way back to the road, where a farmer rescued me. My Flemish isn't the best, but by my understanding, those children had been murdered many decades ago and haunt the forest. The fog is of their creation—a Deogen. With every sacrifice, the victim’s life-force restores their murderer, allowing them to enact their vengeance time and again. The farmer didn't say much more, but thinks they'd likely have done the same to me, had they not run out of time.

I don't mind telling you, a chill enveloped my entire body. I never did find my horses.