Baby Cat saw it first. She’d been staring at one spot on the fireplace for two days, alternating between smacking it and growling at it. I didn’t think much of the whole thing until a pale lump forced its way out of the mantelpiece, crowning like a wisdom tooth through a bloodless gum. A flap of skin split itself open with a tacky pop. Underneath was a massive electric-blue eye. It blinked.
Everything changed after that. The coffee pot bubbled as I stumbled into the kitchen, a mug already waiting on the counter. The thermostat rose before I ever felt a draft. The first time I thanked it, I was standing naked in my doorframe as the hallway lights flicked on.
It kept me fed, too. A strawberry, a loaf of bread, a slice of seared steak. I had no desire for it, but it kept down uncomfortable pangs of hunger. It all tasted the same, somehow, and any flavor it contained seemed to come from memory.
After a few days, I found three more eyes. One was nestled in the grout of the shower tiles, watching the steam rise off my shoulders; another in the dark corner of the pantry, its little iris waiting to catch sight of my hands among the canned goods. The third was where my own pupil should have been in my bedroom mirror, watching me even when I turned my head away.
Then came Mom’s birthday. I was crying as I looked at my calendar. Then, the Sharpie heart I’d marked on the date started to move. It dragged itself forward two weeks, leaving a smear across the dates it abandoned.
“It’s okay, honey,” something said. “You’ve still got time.”
That was finally too much for me. I tried to cover the eye on the mantle with a Post-It, but the glue dissolved pus when it touched the surface. I wiped my hand on my jeans, but the feeling of that slime wouldn’t go away.
“Don’t go blinding the help.” Its voice was a chorus of familiar-enough folk singers.
I tried to open the front door, but the brass handle felt soft, like I was holding a firm hand. The house let out a long, rattling sigh through its vents.
“Let me do it.”
Baby Cat was screaming from the coffee table. I turned to take her, but as I reached the table my foot caught on floorboards that rippled and bunched like loose skin. I fell toward the couch. The cushions dipped and puckered, creases widening to suck on my spine.
A wet stalk grew out of the coffee table and clicked into place in front of my nose. Baby Cat’s ears were flat against her skull as she pummeled the strange growth with all her might. I, on the other hand, sank into the cushions on the couch, yielding. Sweet relief from the irksome work of thinking.
The eye on the mantle wasn’t watching me anymore.
It was reflecting me: distorted, shimmering, and finally, perfect.
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