You always felt uneasy in your room, .
Like someone was watching through the walls.
You chalked it up to anxiety… until you saw the hole.
A tiny puncture above your bed. Perfectly round. Perfectly still.
You covered it with tape. Slept fine. For one night.
The next morning, the tape was gone. Neatly removed.
You stared into the hole. For a moment… it blinked.
You fell back. Heart racing. It was dark inside, but you *knew* something was there.
You pushed your dresser in front of the hole. That night, tapping began.
Five slow taps. Pause. Five again.
You knocked back. The wall knocked too — a beat behind you.
You slept with music on. But at 3:33 AM, it shut off. The tapping returned.
You screamed into the wall. Something laughed.
The laugh wasn’t human. It sounded… dry. Brittle. Patient.
You called an exorcist. He walked into your room and walked right back out.
“No charge,” he said. “But don’t sleep here again.”
That night, you stayed in a hotel. Silence. Bliss.
Until the painting on the wall shifted… slightly.
You lifted it — behind it was a hole.
You moved cities. Bought an old flat. No neighbors.
First night: the hole was already there.
This time, three holes. Arranged like a triangle.
You checked the blueprint. No wall should be there.
You tore the drywall open. Nothing inside. Just more holes.
You set up a camera. Pointed right at them. 8 hours of footage.
At 4:02 AM, two eyes opened in sync. Just… watching.
They blinked slowly. Like they’d been asleep for decades.
At 4:07, your own sleeping face turned toward them — like you knew.
You don’t remember doing that.
You showed the footage to a friend. They refused to come back.
You uploaded it online. It was deleted within minutes.
You received an email. No sender. Just one line:
“Keep your eyes to yourself.”
You blinked — and the message disappeared.
You started seeing holes everywhere — behind picture frames, under furniture.
At work. In taxis. Even your coffee cup had one.
You sealed them. They came back. Different places.
You tried gouging the wall. Nothing stopped them.
Now your eyes itch. Constantly.
You looked in the mirror. Your pupils were smaller than usual.
Then they blinked sideways.
You screamed. Your reflection didn’t.
It just stared. And then… so did everything around you.
Walls. Screens. Even the toaster glowed slightly.
Last night, you clawed at the holes. Screaming. Begging.
This morning, no one can see you anymore.
Your room is empty. But the hole… it’s still blinking.
And deep behind it — something is smiling.