Windows

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


Sometimes, voyeurism has consequences.

Submitted: March 17, 2018

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Submitted: March 17, 2018

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He hated the walk back from the train station. It was so dull. And, at the moment, so bloody cold too. At least it wasn’t raining. He only had one pair of work trousers, and he disliked getting them wet. Another positive: it was dark and everyone had their lights on. He told himself it was an invitation to look. To sneak a peek inside the lives of the homes he walked past twice a day.

His route covered the entire length of the small market town, and he peered through a variety of openings. From the single glazed, crown glass windows found on listed buildings in the older, more affluent part of town to the flaking wooden window frames and shabby PVCu of less salubrious dwellings. The window he was looking through right now was on the latter end of the scale. In fact, if truth be told, it wasn’t a particularly pleasant part of town at all. It was eerily quiet; the only noise from the passage of leaves and creaking of trees in the wind.

The window itself was a good one. For a snoop. Large and fitted with cheap, thin blinds that disappeared when you opened them. It was like an enormous canvas in a bespoke art gallery. One for voyeurs. He stopped walking to take it all in.

He was staring into a well kept living room. The furnishings were dated and worn but had been cared for. It had the feel of a pensioner’s home. On the left side there was an armchair and running along the wall on his right was a three-seater sofa. At the far end of the room, looking out of place, was a large, modern flatscreen television. He observed all of this before noticing the man sat on the sofa. He felt a touch of unease, and it grew as he took in the details in front of him. The man, dressed in a short sleeve plaid shirt and corduroy trousers, was heavy set with the muscle of a labourer or factory worker, not a gym rat. He was sat facing away from the watcher, his back and the left side of his body visible. As he moved his eyes up past the large, bear-like shoulders he gasped. The man’s complexion was odd. Shiny. Like that of a burn victim long after the injuries have healed but the scars remained. The top part of his head was missing. It was as if someone had taken a knife and sliced diagonally downward from just above the ear all the way out the back of the skull. Surely not a birth defect but the result of an operation or some terrible industrial accident, he thought.

He felt guilty as he admitted it to himself, but this man scared him. His deformity made him uncomfortable. He was mentally scolding himself when he noticed something else, and his knees weakened. The television, the one the man was staring at so intently, was powered off. Just as he began to drag his eyes away and walk on, the statue of a man moved. His head turned, and his shoulders followed. His torso twisting at the waist. As he turned his face towards his observer, he realised it wasn’t the man’s complexion that was shiny, it was a mask. A clear plastic mask. The seated man raised a hand to his face and grasped the mask with meaty fingers. He pulled it away and then lifted it up and over his head. The man’s eyelids were closed; his face betrayed no emotion. Then a sudden, predatory grin as his eyes snapped open. The voyeur gasped. Terror flooded his body. He felt as if his bones had disappeared and he went limp, ready to collapse on the floor in a messy puddle of flesh. But he didn’t fall; he froze in place while fear ran down his leg as faeces and urine. The half-headed man had locked eyes with him. But the man in the plaid shirt had no eyes. All he had were empty sockets, and looking into them caused the voyeur’s mind to fill with every negative emotion he knew, and some more he didn’t recognise or understand. Darkness crept in from the periphery of his vision until all he saw was black. Then he lost consciousness.

He awoke and opened his eyes, but the world remained black. The only light was dim, fuzzy and at the edge of his vision. He could tell he was sitting. His hands were resting on his lap, and he could feel the grooves of corduroy material on his bare forearms. He went to stand but was paralysed from the waist down. He planted his hands on the soft cushioning of his seat, but it was as if the lower half of his body was glued in place. He reached up to his face and felt his fingers slide into the holes where his eyes should be. Panic took over and he vomited. Or at least he tried to. All he could do was heave and wretch. Nothing came out and his throat and stomach burned with the effort. He told himself to calm down, to be rational. He was a logical man, he could work this out.
The light, he told himself, focus on the light.
So he did. He turned his eyeless face towards the light. It was large and rectangular. He began to concentrate and, slowly, it focused. The dimness became bright and the fuzzy shapes sharpened into images. Awful, horrific images. He could not comprehend them, could not describe them, but he felt them. It was as if someone had visualised all that was evil and he was looking at it on the screen in front of him. Then he heard it. A voice that was not a voice. It was like listening to his own thoughts being spoken to him by a stranger.
'Watch.' It said. 'This is what you wanted, isn't it? To spy on them? To see inside their lives? Well, now you see. Do you see?!' 
‘Please. No.’ He replied.
‘No? Oh, this is just the beginning. Soon you won't just see, soon you will understand, you will... recognise. The acts. The perpetrators. The victims.’ The words sent chills through him, and he began to sob. He could hear the sobbing in his mind but no tears came. ‘Please. Please. I don’t want to. I -.’
‘Oh, you will want to. Soon. Then you will need to. You will crave it. Hunger for it.’ 
’No.’
‘Yes! And then watching won’t be enough. You will want more. You will want to feel. To… experience.’
’No. That won’t happen. No.’
‘Oh but it will. You think I don’t know? You think you are the first? You think I haven’t done this a thousand times before? How did you think monsters were made?’

End


© Copyright 2020 Matt Ding. All rights reserved.

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